Lost Paradise: Tiki Island Pensacola Beach, Where a Lifelong Love of Waterparks Was Born

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A full view of the waterslides from the original Pensacola Beach Pier

Okay, let me take you back to a time when waterslides were as mysterious to me as the far side of the moon. It was the first of two summers my parents, bless their working-parent hearts, shipped me off to day camp during their working hours to keep me out of trouble. And that's when I first laid eyes on it: Tiki Island Waterpark, shimmering under the Pensacola Beach sun. There was something so raw and enchanting about the place, like a forgotten beach oasis.

Tiki Island shortly before the tower and slides were demolished.

I remember this quirky mix of attractions – a miniature golf course that looked perpetually closed, a silent rollercoaster hinting at after-dark adventures and a cluster of vibrant carnival rides and go-karts, all patiently waiting for the evening crowds. It always struck me as utterly bizarre that waterparks called it a day in the late afternoon when the sun was still high. Seriously, wouldn't a moonlit waterslide session be epic? Just me? Okay. There was also the classic arcade, buzzing with electronic energy and a snack bar promising the sugary fuel every kid needs. But let's be honest, the real magic lay in those four towering waterslides, beckoning us to conquer their heights one stair at a time.

Now, being smack-dab on the beach, you'd naturally assume you could just hop over the fence for a refreshing dip in the Gulf. Nope. Fenced off tighter than a drum. No in-and-out privileges. Talk about a cruel tease!

The imfamously hot splash pool.

Most of the kids, clutching their inflatable tubes and thin mats like precious treasures, made a beeline for the two twisty slides halfway up the tower. You know the drill – a few exhilarating turns before you were unceremoniously dumped into this ridiculously shallow, maybe three-foot-deep splash pool. It wasn't for lounging, that's for sure. A lifeguard's whistle and screams were your cue to get moving.

But me? Well, me and a few of the other self-proclaimed "badass" older kids (we were probably all of eleven, twelve or thirteen, bless our naive hearts) were drawn to the summit. We climbed those seemingly endless flights of stairs, our anticipation building with each step, all for the thrill of those two colossal, 78-foot freefall slides. Tiki Island, in its wonderfully understated way, had a simple sign pointing upwards: "Speed Slides." Just the name sent a jolt of pure excitement through me.

I'll never forget my first time. The lifeguard, a tanned teenage guy who probably saw hundreds of terrified kids a day, gave me a gentle but firm push. Suddenly, I was plummeting towards the earth. Panic flared. My arms shot up instinctively, grasping for something that wasn't there and my legs, in their infinite wisdom, decided to uncross. Let's just say gravity combined with my rookie mistake resulted in a truly epic wedgie and an…unforgettable…internal experience. But you know what? After surviving that initial plunge, a strange sense of invincibility washed over me. In my young mind, if I could handle that, I could handle anything. To this day, I think of that cute lifeguard and I associate the rush I get everytime I slide down similar slides with him and that gentle push he gave me.

The funny thing is, every single time I climbed those stairs again – and trust me, there were countless ascents – the lifeguard would remind me to cross my arms over my chest. And every single time, the moment I went over the edge, not out of fear anymore but this incredible, rollercoaster-like rush, my arms would instinctively shoot back up. It's a weird little quirk that's stayed with me on every drop slide I've encountered since. Some habits die hard, I guess!

Tiki Island's 78 foot tall Speed Slides

While I did enjoy the slightly tamer twister slides – they were fun in their own way, and the option of a tube or mat was nice – my heart truly belonged to the freefall. But even on the twisty ones, I had my own little rebellious streak. Armed with a mat, I'd "accidentally" roll off mid-slide, my bare back hitting the slick surface. Talk about speed! I'd shoot into that lukewarm splash pool like a human cannonball, leaving the mat-clutching kids far behind. Still, that splash pool was never my happy place. The water always felt a bit tepid, like pee and you were practically ejected the moment you landed. Nope, the real draw, the true motivation for those sweaty climbs, was often competing with a cute older boy named Johnny Joffrion. Following him up that tower for the sheer, unadulterated thrill of those speed slides? That was pure summer magic.

The following year, things took a strange turn. The very top level of the tower was mysteriously off-limits and the legendary speed slides had been…modified. They lowered to maybe around 50 feet, which honestly wasn't bad. It still delivered a decent freefall and surprisingly, more of the younger kids actually braved it at the slightly less intimidating height. But the year after that? Silence. The slides stood still, lifeless. And then, one day, they were gone. The entire tower, the heart of Tiki Island, was demolished, leaving no trace that it had ever existed. It was like a vivid dream that had simply vanished.

Another view of Tiki Island from above, early to mid 80s.

After that first unforgettable summer, the quirky rollercoaster and all those vibrant carnival rides that used to line the front parking lot disappeared, never to return. To this day, a part of me wonders who actually owned those fleeting sources of joy – the "Viking" pirate ship, the Zamperla "Convoy," the Mack Music Express and all the other nameless thrills. Considering they were only there for the summer months, my guess is it was a traveling carnival company, using that sweet spot between spring and fall fair seasons. Maybe it was Link Shows or Nova Expositions, Cumberland Valley Shows or perhaps the show Ed Gregory owned as he was a resident of Pensacola at the time. Though I can't quite remember any of those shows travelling with a "Viking" ship, I'm sure it could have been possible. As for that compact wooden rollercoaster, I have a vague memory of hearing it might have found a new home in Ft. Walton Beach or Destin before eventually meeting its own demise or moving on to another forgotten adventure land.

My friend Jenny Reeves and I still reminisce about Tiki Island and other day camp escapades. But those Wednesday afternoons, conquering those towering slides, those are the memories that really stick. Tiki Island, despite its short lifespan and somewhat limited offerings, ignited a lifelong passion for waterparks in this once-clueless kid. It was a small, slightly strange, utterly thrilling chapter in my childhood and for my eleven and twelve-year-old thrill-seeking self, it was absolutely incredible.

The final year for these slides.

Wow, thinking about Tiki Island brings back such a rush of memories! I'd love to hear if any of you out there remember this little slice of Pensacola Beach history. Did you ever brave the "Speed Slides"? What are your favorite waterpark memories from way back when? Share your stories in the comments below – I'd love to take a trip down memory lane with you! And hey, if you enjoyed this little blast from the past and want to help fuel more nostalgic storytelling (maybe even a quest to uncover the fate of that Viking ship!), well, let's just say virtual high-fives and any little tokens of appreciation are always welcome. You know where to find the "support" button if you're feeling particularly generous! 😉 Thanks for reading!


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