Why Saint Lucie Farm Preserve Felt Like Summer Camp for Adults

April 24–26, 2026 | Port St. Lucie, Florida

Some places entertain you for a few hours. Others quietly rearrange something inside of you.

Saint Lucie Farm Preserve felt like one of those places.

I arrived on April 24, the day before the crawfish festival hosted by my friend Sam Bryce, founder of Raptor Marketing. The festival was created in celebration of her birthday, which falls on Earth Day, and somehow that detail felt perfectly aligned with the spirit of the weekend from the very beginning. Everything about the experience centered around nature, music, food, community, and the simple joy of gathering outdoors together.

Setup day moved slowly.

Signs were placed along the roads leading toward the property while benches shifted across open grass beneath wide Florida skies. Tents went up. Posters were hung. Coolers were unpacked. Sam carried the natural stress that comes with hosting something meaningful on a 240-acre property where every moving piece matters, but even before the festival officially began, I had a strange sense that everything was going to unfold exactly as it was supposed to.

The quietness of setup day gave me time to wander the property before crowds arrived.

There were hidden corners of the farm that felt almost secretive. One path led toward a secluded swing tucked beneath the trees, one of those places you only find if you allow yourself enough time to roam without direction. Later that night, I walked the pond beneath moonlight and stars while the water reflected the sky back toward me. The full loop around the pond takes several minutes, but time felt unusually irrelevant there.

The next morning, the farm transformed.

By afternoon, hundreds of pounds of crawfish were steaming beneath open air while music drifted through the property from every direction. Families wandered through the grass with their dogs while children ran between picnic tables and blankets scattered near the stage. Ducklings drifted through the property while goats, ponies, and other animals quietly stole everyone’s attention nearby. The atmosphere felt deeply alive without ever feeling chaotic.

At one point, a saxophone echoed through the trees. Later came guitars, washboards, harmonicas, banjos, drums, and even a melodica played beneath the sunset. Some musicians played their guitars over their heads while barefoot strangers danced near the stage without a trace of self-consciousness.

Nothing about the festival felt performative.

It felt lived.

Earlier in the day, Mama Tarra and I helped prepare food for the boil. We shucked corn, sliced lemons, cut potatoes, and tossed garlic cloves into giant pots while stories drifted around the kitchen.

The crawfish itself was prepared by Joe, a Creole man from Eunice, Louisiana, whose curled white mustache, cowboy hat, starched jeans, and warm personality made him unforgettable almost immediately. Joe creates his own crawfish seasoning back home in Louisiana, and after one bite, everyone understood why.

I loved sitting with him throughout the day hearing stories about Louisiana culture, crawfish boils, and family traditions while sharing my own roots connected to Church Point and Opelousas. At one point, I caught myself thinking how much my dad would have loved this entire experience. Later, when I told him about the festival, his immediate response was that next year he wanted to come help Joe with the boil himself.

That felt strangely emotional to me.

The festival was feeding people, but it was also connecting them.

As evening settled across the property, the atmosphere shifted again.

A massive bonfire was lit near the woods while smoke drifted upward into the dark sky and harmonicas threaded through the night air so clearly that even now, if I close my eyes long enough, I can still hear them.

At one point, a howl echoed somewhere beyond the firelight. Maybe it was a husky in the distance. Maybe it was something else entirely. But within seconds, all of us were howling together toward the trees like a tribe rediscovering some sort of ritual we forgot we carried.

It felt like relief.

Like exhaling something heavy you did not realize you were holding.

People danced barefoot beside the flames while others sat quietly watching sparks disappear into the darkness overhead. Then somehow, as if the night had not already given enough, a pony wandered toward the fire and wrapped its head against me in a moment so unexpectedly tender that my heart nearly exploded right there beside the flames.

I remember realizing in real time that I did not want the night to end.

That feeling stayed with me when everyone slowly began leaving the bonfire to head back toward camp. Sam and Tony had spent the entire day hosting and were exhausted. Most people were ready for sleep. But because we were staying on the property itself, leaving the bonfire did not mean leaving the farm. We simply disappeared deeper into another corner of the 240 acres beneath complete darkness and stars.

Still, as we walked away from the fire, I remember thinking how painful it felt knowing moments like this never fully return once they end.

Later that night, Mama Tarra, Mike, Abby, and I laid beneath the stars talking quietly about life while the farm settled into silence around us. Abby curled nearby while the night air cooled and conversation drifted slowly between us. I remember wondering if music was still playing back at the bonfire somewhere in the distance. I could still hear the harmonicas and banjos replaying in my mind even after we had left.

Then suddenly, sometime after 1 a.m., Wayland appeared out of the darkness carrying his banjo.

It honestly felt unreal.

Without announcement or performance, he simply sat down beneath the night sky and began playing again while we stared upward into the stars. The music moved softly through the dark while everything around us felt suspended outside of time for a little while longer.

I do not think I will ever fully forget that moment.

The following morning arrived gently.

Sunlight filtered through lush greenery while people gathered around picnic tables one final time before packing up camp. Eggs smoked slowly over the grill while guitars resurfaced beside morning conversation. The energy of the festival had softened into something quieter now. More reflective. More intimate.

That morning, I spent time with David, a local coconut palm artist raised by missionary grandparents whose spirit left a permanent imprint on my heart.

David climbs coconut trees himself to gather the palm leaves he later transforms into woven baskets, hats, fish, and handmade pieces of art. He does not sell his work online. You experience it through meeting him, speaking with him, and sharing space with him directly. During our conversations, he spoke about faith, life, survival, pain, healing, and the beauty of continuing to move through the world with gentleness even after experiencing hardship.

There are people you meet who feel impossible to forget afterward.

David was one of them.

By the end of the weekend, I realized St. Lucie Farm Preserve had reminded me of something adulthood quietly steals from many of us. Community without performance. Music without distraction. Conversations without urgency. The freedom of staying outside too long because nobody wanted the night to end.

It felt like summer camp for adults.

Except instead of becoming someone new, the entire weekend felt like returning to yourself.