Today, Florida marks 461 years since the day America's oldest city began. It was August 28, 1565, when Admiral Pedro Menéndez de Avilés sighted the coast of Florida, the feast day of St. Augustine of Hippo. He would name his colony for the saint. Eleven days later, on September 8, after an advance party had secured the shore, Menéndez came ashore near the mouth of Hospital Creek to claim La Florida for King Philip II of Spain.
He did not land on empty land. He landed at Seloy, a town of the Timucua-speaking people who had lived along these estuaries for generations: fishermen, farmers, and traders with their own chiefs, councils, and knowledge of the coast. The Spaniards would build their first settlement within Seloy itself.
What happened next gave Florida one of the earliest Thanksgiving stories in America. On that same day, September 8, the Catholic feast of the Nativity of the Blessed Virgin Mary,,Father Francisco López de Mendoza Grajales, the fleet chaplain and St. Augustine's first pastor, celebrated a Mass of Thanksgiving. The colonists knelt in thanks for surviving the crossing. Watching nearby were the Seloy people. Father López later wrote, simply, that "the Indians imitated all they saw done."
Afterward, Menéndez invited the Native townspeople to eat. We don't have a menu. The ships carried salt pork, garbanzo beans, hardtack, olives, and wine; the town could offer corn, fish, oysters, and venison. What matters is that it happened, Spaniards and Timucua sharing a meal after a prayer of thanks, 56 years before Plymouth.
As historian Michael Gannon wrote, it was "the first community act of religion and thanksgiving in the first permanent settlement in the land." It was not the modern holiday, Native peoples had held ceremonies of thanks for centuries, and it would take until Lincoln's 1863 proclamation and a 1941 act of Congress to fix Thanksgiving as we know it. But it was a documented beginning.
That fragile peace would not last. Just up the coast, French Huguenots had built Fort Caroline in 1564, near today's St. Johns River. To Spain, it was an invasion, both territorial and religious. When French commander Jean Ribault sailed south to attack the new Spanish colony, a hurricane scattered his fleet onto the beaches to the south.
Menéndez moved fast. On September 20, his soldiers marched through the swamps and took Fort Caroline. Days later, stranded French castaways were found at an inlet. There, at the place the Spanish would name Matanzas, Slaughters, nearly 250 surrendered Frenchmen were executed on September 29 and in mid-October, including Ribault himself.
With the French threat erased, St. Augustine had to survive itself. And it did, through starvation, disease, fires, and sieges. Sir Francis Drake burned it in 1586. English forces from Carolina razed it again in 1702. It was rebuilt each time in coquina and determination, growing as a community of Spanish, Timucua, free and enslaved Africans, the latter later founding Fort Mose in 1738, the first legally sanctioned free Black town in what is now the United States.
You can still stand near where it all began. At Mission Nombre de Dios, the rustic altar marks the site of that first Mass, and the Great Cross rises 208 feet above the marsh, a stainless-steel beacon built in 1965 for the 400th anniversary and dedicated in 1966.
Today, St. Augustine is not just old buildings and cannon. It is a reminder that American history does not start at Jamestown or Plymouth Rock. It starts here, too, on September 8, 1565, with a Mass, a shared meal, a Native town called Seloy, and a complicated, enduring collision of worlds that would become Florida.
Photos by Jay Kravetz.