Well, the two nouns, "shrimp" and "art" should give you fair warning about the goings on there. And there are pirates there too--arrrgh!
Fernandina Beach (FB) is the first beach town coming into Florida on the Atlantic. Old historic, been under five flags, this town swells to hundreds of thousands during this festival.
There is the Shrimp part, parades,fireworks, shrimp boat parades, live music on a big stage--and lots of historically-dressed pirates.
On the art/craft side, you have 250-plus exhibitors. Most are on the main drag--Center Street. Some, ones who jury scores are not high enough according to the art show committee standards, are placed on about four side streets. Usually, their sales are not nearly as good as out on Center.
Also on the side streets you have antique dealers, plate sellers, plants, junk, you name it, it is all there.
So there is a lot of competition for the tourist dollar. And most don't care one rat's ass about art.
First, let me give you a historic perspective from me. I have done this show at least twenty five times since 1980.
ONCE UPON A TIME IN FERNANDINA
In the early days, the wealthy nearby Amelia Island Plantation community was just a glee of an idea in a shrimper's eye.
But, it was after Easter, a lot of the seasonal money had left town. So they thought--why not have an art show with shrimpers and pirates--and we won't tell Howard Alan about it.
So they did.
In those days the pirates rode down Center street with jail-cages and imprisoned lovely local lasses who had to be bailed out for a fee--heck, a shot of Jack would set them free.
Center Street was not as tony as it is now. No nice brick-lined streets with colorful planters. No tall shade trees growing along the curb. Very few retail or eateries to choose from.
But the people came by the hundreds, and hundreds.
An artist couple invited me to camp in their back yard for my first festival in 1982.
I was sound asleep in my tent,on my air mattress, dreaming of great sales to come the next day. All of a sudden I was scarily awoken by these high-pitched screeching noises from across the water--it was the paper mill furnaces being shut down in the middle of the night. Very scary.
Frankly, in the 80's I had better sales at the show than I do now. It was innocent times. There was less competition from other photographers. People were receptive to new, fresh work, especially if there was a little humor attached to it.
I had one guy, who owned a seafood restaurant in Savannah on the river, he and I bartered every year for a long time. I always looked forward to eating good there.
I was not alone. Lots of good artists with fresh work thrived there. We all made good moola.
FERNANDINA NOW
The crowds are larger. Noisey, sometimes rowdy, most are not interested in what is in the booths.
Consequently, a lot of old regulars don't do this show anymore. They have been replaced with more mediocre, commercial work. Thank God, the committee had the balls to throw out a couple of buy/sells this year. Way to go! FB committee.
Some people do very well with sales better than $5k like my neighbor next to me with paintings. She sold solidly all day long.
Really good artists put on the side streets struggle for decent sales.
The committee for this show goes for very tried and true traditional work, nothing too fancy, exotic or ground-breaking.
When they jury artists and tally their scores. Ones with the higher scores get placed on Center, the rest get put in the boondocks.
Last year I juried with work that got me into the likes of St. Louis and Ft. Worth. It got me on the side street. It rained real hard and I cancelled.
This year, I took note, and juried with more traditional work, and voila! I was put on Center Street.
Artists have booths with backs against the curb. There is generous room on the sides and ample room in the rear for inventory.
There are very decent awards given out, and the committee listens to the exhibitors.
The main reason I do this show is because I get to stay at Aileen Moore's historic house with five other artists. She puts us up, we bring the food. I cooked Saturday night's dinner--Quinoa with black beans, shredded chicken laden with cilantro, a touch of jalepeno, and finished off with blue corn chips and a zippy salsa. Yum!
The day Aileen stops doing the show, and putting us up, is the day I quit coming. Most of us have stayed at her places there and at the beach for more than 20 years. We have had riotous times at the Irish Pub on Sunday nights (it is now gone, drat!). We have shared many an artist tale over a warm fire in the back yard. And, watching the fireworks from Aileen's upstairs, sloping porch is a fond tradition that I look forward to every year.
This year the rains escaped us on Friday night setup, but, then hammered us most of the day, Saturday.
We awoke to crisp sunny skies Sunday morn and waited for the show to heat up. And, it did.
Most of us made good moola on that day. We all had happy grins on our faces Sunday night.
Come Monday morn, I headed home to Tampa. I took the scenic route rather than the interstate, back to Tampa. Route 301.
You pass by little towns with speed traps--but, you know that, and don't speed. You pass ancient fruit stands, the northern most in Florida. You go by old fish camps on giant freshwater lakes. You go thru rolling hills with horse farms near Ocala. You go thru old southern hamlets like McIntosh and Micanopy. Reluctantly, above Ocala you rejoin the interstate 75 and roar home with the rest of the migrating fish--looking for staties with radar everywhere.
When I hit Ybor around 1PM, I know the beautiful blonde will be waiting to greet me. I take her to Bernini's for pizza--and life is wonderful.
Than you get up on Tuesday and prepare to do it all over again. An artist's life is never slow, never dull, most of the time we wish for more hours in a day.
We gladly settle for a sound night's sleep.
Been doing it 39 years--successfully.
This is an outdoor event that has the reputation of being an outstanding art fair. Always held the 3rd weekend of September, the peak of our fall colors tourist season. 
