With the pool area leveled but its main building still standing, the Magic Beach Motel remains a semi-ruin in Vilano Beach—despite expectations of prompt demolition under an active county permit.
Residents and visitors stroll past the doomed structure, now a graveyard of gravel piles, idle bulldozers and chain-link fencing. It’s quiet.
That’s not the case for the development next door. Trucks and vans pull up throughout the day as crews advance construction on an upcoming residential project.
A worker told The Citizen that crews were ordered to prioritize the new construction site. Based on what he’s been told, the motel property may not be fully demolished until next year.
The Citizen has checked in on the site in recent weeks. Each time, people stop by the chained-up building to take photos — digital keepsakes of what once was.
For many, the demolition signals the end of an era. The motel, which opened in 1951, is one of Vilano Beach’s oldest landmarks.
Mike Riley and Marie Battel walked past the motel in early November and said the regret they feel is shared widely in the community. Battel, born and raised in St. Augustine, said the area’s rapid growth has paved over its bygone charms.
“It’s just sad to see how gentrified, and there’s no sense of history on certain things in the county being preserved,” she said. Learning the motel would soon be gone, she added, “broke my heart.”
Mitch Johnston, walking his German shepherd, Draco, also paused at the motel. Gesturing to the tall palms framing the building, he asked what would happen to them. “We can’t just kill all these trees. They’re beautiful,” he said.
He said he tried to buy the iconic art deco Magic Beach Motel sign — not to own it, he said, but to keep it from being destroyed, calling the situation “heartbreaking.” The property’s owners have pledged that some architectural elements — including the sign — will be preserved in some form or another.
Others, like Linda LaCerva, owner of Metal Artz across the street, understand why the demolition is moving forward. She said the motel is too small to be profitable and too expensive to renovate. A recent nor’easter sent heavy rain and wind through the building, collapsing the roof. The ceiling fell into the Beachside Caffe by YAMO, which was operating inside at the time.
For LaCerva, the damage confirmed the building’s brittle condition. If a thunderstorm could cause that much destruction, she said, a hurricane would be far worse.
And so the motel lingers—half-standing, half-ghost—while passersby pause to take its final portraits.
