Hell by the Sea

The Legend of Cebe Tate and the Forest That Bears His Name

If you ever stand alone in Tate’s Hell State Forest after dark, perhaps as a camper in a remote site, a night paddler on the Crooked River, or one of the few who work these woods after sunset, you know the kind of silence that hums under your skin. The air is heavy with pine and tannin, the ground soft with water that never quite dries. Every rustle could be a deer, or something far less harmless: an alligator sliding out of the water, a panther’s padded paw on dry branch, or the quiet rustle of a rattlesnake moving through the grass. Out there, where the light disappears between the cypress and the night feels endless, even your own breath can sound like a stranger’s.

The Man Who Cursed the Pines

In the late 1800s, Cebe Tate lived along the Crooked River, a hunter and farmer like so many who carved a life from these swampy lowlands of Franklin County, Florida. The story goes that Cebe entered the swamp one summer, some say to chase a panther that had taken one of his animals, others to retrieve a lost cow. Armed with his rifle and his dogs, Cebe set off for his search into the forest.

But what he found instead was the end of his own trail.

For six days and nights, Cebe stumbled through the tangled palmetto and cypress, the heat and humidity oppressing his every step. Mosquitoes swarmed constantly. Ticks and chiggers relentlessly climbed up his legs and arms trying to find purchase on his flesh. At one point, a water moccasin struck from a puddle of black water, sinking its fangs into his leg. The venom burned through him, his calf swelling and pulsing with pain as he limped onward. His boots filled with more of that same dark water, and his stomach with the bitter berries and plants he was able to forage. His mind began to unravel. The forest has a way of whispering things to a man when he’s alone and afraid for too long: promises, warnings, and voices that aren’t quite his own.

Still, some part of Cebe must have remembered that orienting south would eventually lead him to the shores of the Gulf of Mexico. He kept walking, knowing soon he would catch the scent of salt and the sound of steady waves would signal a way out. The shoreline would be able to lead him toward the next fishing village.

When he finally emerged, miles from where he started, near what is now Carrabelle, Florida, he was delirious. The first face he saw, perhaps a fisherman or homesteader, must have felt like salvation. His hoarse voice would have broken with relief as he stumbled forward, collapsing near the man and gasping his final words:

“My name is Cebe Tate, and I’ve just come from Hell.”

He died where he fell, and the land took his name. Tate’s Hell.

The Forest That Breathes

Even now, more than a century later, the forest seems to remember him. Cypress knees jut from the swamps like ancient bones. The wind shifts strangely through the longleaf pines, carrying a low hum through the empty spaces.

There’s a deep and natural beauty to it, too. The kind that belongs only to places both wild and wounded. Tate’s Hell itself is scarred by the decades of logging, turpentine camps, and drainage before restoration began in the late twentieth century. The dwarf cypress stand like sentinels, their limbs twisted by wind and time. The creeks reflect the sky in shades of dark rust and gold, stained by tannins and history. Egrets glide between worlds like white ghosts against the blackwater.

But beauty in Tate’s Hell has always been a fragile thing, wrapped tight around danger.

Logging Roads and the Rail Era

Before Tate’s Hell became a state forest, the region was a hub of Florida’s early timber industry. During the early 1900s, a network of logging roads and narrow-gauge railways crossed through the swamp to transport longleaf pine and cypress to coastal mills in Carrabelle and Apalachicola. Some traces of these routes remain visible today, winding through stands of pine and bog.

Passengers on the evening trains between Tallahassee and Carrabelle described feeling uneasy as their cars cut through the dark wilderness. The lantern light flickered across the swamps, reflecting in unseen eyes beyond the glass. Only God knew what watched from that vast country between the cities and that haunting sense of isolation followed them until the first lights of their destination came into view.

Hell by the Sea

By the 1940s, the world had changed, but the forest had not. During World War II, U.S. soldiers trained on the beaches near Carrabelle, a place they grimly nicknamed “Hell by the Sea.” The sand burned their feet; the mosquitoes and heat nearly drove them mad. The name was borrowed from the forest nearby, but perhaps  the land itself was cursed, still echoing with Cebe Tate’s fevered footsteps.

Today, Tate’s Hell State Forest stretches across more than 200,000 acres of pine flatwoods, cypress swamps, and slow blackwater creeks. Visitors come to paddle, fish, and camp or maybe to listen. At night, when the fog rolls in from the Gulf Coast and the frogs begin their chorus, you can almost believe the old stories are true.

If You Go

• Location: Tate’s Hell State Forest, between Carrabelle and Eastpoint, Florida
• Best Access Points: Dwarf Cypress Boardwalk, Cash Creek, Crooked River, Pidcock Road
• Activities: Kayaking, hiking, fishing, camping, and wildlife photography

Editor’s Note

The truth about Cebe Tate may never be known. But maybe that’s the point. Some stories are meant to be lived in the space between fact and folklore. In that uneasy place where North Florida’s beauty meets its darkness. Tate’s Hell isn’t just a forest; it’s a reminder that even in paradise the sun must set.s are meant to be lived in the space between fact and folklore, in that uneasy place where Florida’s beauty meets its darkness. Tate’s Hell isn’t just a forest; it’s a reminder that the sun sets in every paradise.