Little Jim’s Fort Pierce: Historic Waterfront Bar & Bait Shop
Waypoints & Waterholes: Little Jim’s — Fort Pierce, Florida
Where Frogmen, Fishermen, and the Lagoon Share the Same Tide
By Jim Turner
Little Jim’s, tucked between old bridges and mangroves, just after sunrise.
Some places get rebuilt every decade until you can’t recognize what they once were.
Little Jim’s isn’t one of them.
Little Jim’s feels like it’s held together by salt, memory, and the stubborn pride of a Florida that refuses to disappear. It sits at the edge of Fort Pierce, half-tucked between old bridges and mangroves, the kind of place that looks like it’s been waiting for you longer than you’ve been alive.
The first bridge out here was thrown across the water in 1926, a narrow wooden stretch from the mainland to North Hutchinson Island. They replaced it in ’42 with another skinny wooden bridge — wartime urgency over engineering finesse — and a piece of that one still stands today, jutting out between Little Jim’s marina and the concrete two-lane bridge built in 1963. A relic. A reminder.
Florida hides its history everywhere.
Little Jim’s wears it on its sleeve.
Where Frogmen Once Stood Watch
This spot wasn’t always a bait shop. During World War II, when thousands of sailors and soldiers trained on North Hutchinson Island, this was the checkpoint — the guard shack. Only authorized personnel crossed that bridge.
Among the men passing through that doorway were the Navy Combat Demolition Units — the forerunners of the Underwater Demolition Teams, the Frogmen, and eventually the Navy SEALs. These were men who learned to fight the ocean long before they fought anything else.
Little Jim’s in the 1970s — a fish camp, a checkpoint, and a waypoint long before anyone called it that.
Across the bridge today sits a museum honoring their legacy. But Little Jim’s?
Little Jim’s is their unofficial annex — a place where returning vets used to stop by, drink a cold beer, and leave behind a sign, a patch, a story.
A quiet salute still hanging on the walls.
When the war ended and the guard post was abandoned, the locals did what locals do:
they turned it into a bait shop.
They kept the cold beer.
Some things don’t need to change.
The classic sign — unchanged, unmistakable.
Cold Beer, Hot Tacos, and a Lagoon That Hasn’t Changed in 80 Years
Arrive by land or idle in by boat — the vibe is the same.
A general-store atmosphere, mismatched tables, the smell of shrimp baskets and sunscreen, and a steady breeze rolling off a mangrove-lined bay called Shorty’s Slough.
Little Jim’s serves the kind of food that doesn’t apologize:
— fish tacos with real snap
— shrimp baskets that taste like old Florida
— Cubans pressed flat and hot
— fish dip that might be the best on the entire east coast
“A place where you can order a sandwich, a cold beer, a bag of ice, and a dozen live shrimp without ever leaving your stool.”
Live music drifts across the water on weekends. The crowd — part fishermen, part kayakers, part sunburned regulars — treats the place like a church they don’t mind laughing in.
The Locals Fought For This One
A few years back, the city — which owns the land — floated the idea of replacing Little Jim’s with something shinier, something that might bring in more revenue.
The locals had other plans.
They showed up. They pushed back. They made noise.
In the end, the city left Little Jim’s alone.
Florida loses pieces of itself every year.
But it didn’t lose this one.
Where Stories Settle and the Lagoon Breathes Slow
What makes Little Jim’s more than a bait shop or a bar isn’t just the food, or the cold beer, or even the Frogmen history — though all of those matter.
It’s the setting.
Shorty’s Slough curls around the place like a protective arm. Much of the land across the water belongs to Fort Pierce Inlet State Park, so it stays quiet — mangroves, osprey, mullet flipping, shadows moving under green water.
It’s a perfect spot to launch a kayak.
It’s a perfect spot to lose an afternoon.
It’s a perfect spot to sit under a tin roof, drink something cold, and let Florida’s older stories settle into the conversation.
The Waypoint That Refuses to Fade
When you finally stand to leave, the light will have changed. The bridge will hum with traffic. A heron will lift off the bank like it’s done the same thing for a hundred years. And Little Jim’s will look exactly the way you left it — a stubborn piece of Florida that refuses to dress up for anyone.
The lagoon at dusk — quiet, slow-breathing, unchanged.
Next time you’re in Fort Pierce, skip the polished waterfront.
Point yourself toward the old bridges.
Follow the mangroves and the smell of fish dip.
Find Little Jim’s.
Order something cold.
Watch the lagoon breathe.
Because places like this aren’t just reminders of the past.
They’re waypoints — the ones you drift into without planning…
and remember long after you leave.
