As I descended the off-ramp I saw a sign for a Holiday Inn Express. I turned left, crossing beneath the overpass and into a well-groomed business district not a quarter mile from the exit. I had again walked less than twenty miles, but it felt like more.
The hotel shared a parking lot with a steak and seafood restaurant called LeGrand’s. I lay down on my bed for about a half hour; then I got up, washed my face, and walked across the parking lot to the restaurant.
The restaurant was crowded, but, being a party of one, I was seated quickly. I had the best meal I’d had since I left California: skillet corn bread, a wedge salad, sweet potato pecan soufflé, and a twelve-ounce rib eye steak garnished with sautéed mushrooms.
There was a couple sitting just two tables away from me that I guessed to be about my age. They had a toddler, a boy, who was celebrating a birthday. The family looked so remarkably happy that I couldn’t help but watch them. I surprised myself by laughing out loud when their boy smashed his hands into his piece of birthday cake. As they got up to leave, the young mother glanced over at me. I smiled. She smiled back, then turned away and pulled her child close. Suddenly, all the reasons I’d given McKale for putting off having a child seemed petty.
When I got back to the Holiday Inn I went for a long swim, then relaxed in the hot tub until it closed around eleven.
The hotel provided a free breakfast. I ate a cheese omelet with bacon and sausage, biscuits and gravy, and sticky cinnamon rolls. I went back to my room for my pack, then walked back out to the freeway.
I had walked about an hour when I exited onto the 1, which, at this part of the state, was called Philips Highway. (I was to learn that Highway 1 has more name changes than Zsa Zsa Gabor.) An hour later I passed through the town of Bayard. The skies were clearing a little, but I noticed that the shoulder to my right was filled with water, so, likely in unwarranted paranoia, I kept an eye open for gators.
Since passing the Okefenokee Swamp I’d thought a lot about alligators. There’s a myth that the best way to outrun an alligator is to run zigzags, the rationale being that the reptile cannot easily adjust its path. This is wrong on two counts. First, the fastest an alligator has been recorded running is ten miles an hour, half the speed of a human sprinter and still considerably slower than any average adult can run. Second, an alligator has little endurance on land and rarely chases anything more than fifteen feet away from it. So the fastest way to put distance between you and a gator is to run in a straight line. While I realize that this information is probably useless, it does make for good conversation.
As evening fell I turned off on Palencia Village Drive and stopped at a small strip mall restaurant called Pacific Asian Bistro, where I ate edamame, miso soup, and unagi don—eel over sushi rice. After finishing my meal, I asked the proprietor, a middle-aged Chinese man, if there was a hotel in the area. He replied, “Yeah, it’s close. Just keep driving another ten minutes.”
Ten minutes by car was four hours by foot. I walked around the area until I finally found a clump of trees big enough to conceal my tent. I felt like I was hiding in plain sight.
CHAPTER
Twenty-Seven
Some people spend so much time hunting treasure that they fail to see it all around them. It’s like sifting through gold to find the silt.
Alan Christoffersen’s diary
I didn’t sleep well. I woke early, broke down my tent, and walked back out to Highway 1. I wasn’t too concerned with my lack of sleep, since I planned to walk for only a few hours anyway. The city of St. Augustine was only seven miles away, and I wanted to spend some time there.
St. Augustine is America’s oldest European-settled city. It was founded more than two centuries before the Declaration of Independence was signed and served as the capital of Spanish Florida for over two hundred years. The town, like most of early America, has a bloody past, and control of the region has changed hands multiple times. It was first colonized by the French, then seized by the Spanish and traded to the British.
A quarter mile into the town was a parking lot and booth with a sign that read:
Old Town Trolley Tours
I purchased a ticket and waited for the next trolley to arrive. Tourism was light that day, and I took an entire bench on the trolley for myself and my pack, behind a family I deduced was from Kansas from their Jayhawks sweatshirts.
It was pleasant sitting on the trolley as it wound through the city’s historic streets accompanied by the driver’s commentary. The trolley ticket was an all-day pass, so I got off in the old town near Aviles Street, the oldest street in America, walked around awhile, then reboarded and crossed the Bridge of Lions to Anastasia Island, where I took a tour of the St. Augustine Alligator Farm, which, for a reptile lover like myself, was well worth the admission.
The park had all twenty-three living species of crocodilians, the most interesting being the gharial, with its long, toothy snout as narrow as a French baguette.
In the center of the park was a pool filled with some of the largest alligators I had ever seen. They were monsters, motionless as statues. They were obviously well fed, because during a feeding demonstration a dead chicken landed on one of the alligators’ heads and it was still there when I left ten minutes later.
After the farm, I walked over to the St. Augustine Lighthouse, 140 years old and striped white and black like a giant, monochromatic barber pole. I checked my pack at the front registry, then walked through the lighthouse keeper’s house (which had been converted into a museum), then to the lighthouse.
McKale loved lighthouses, and I thought of her as I climbed the 219 steps to the deck on top.
I had been warned by the ticket taker to remove my hat before I reached the top, and the reason became obvious as I walked out on the deck. The sea winds were powerful enough to remove hats and sunglasses.
The deck provided a 360-degree view of St. Augustine, the Intracoastal Waterway, and the Atlantic Ocean.
I climbed back down the lighthouse and caught the trolley to the mainland. I asked the driver about a good restaurant, and he recommended Meehan’s Irish Pub & Seafood House, which was near one of his stops.
Even though it was the town’s off-season, the restaurant was crowded. The hostess, a pretty young blond woman with a (I hoped temporary) shamrock tattoo on her cheek, informed me that there was a twenty-five-minute wait for a table unless I wanted to eat at the bar, which I elected to do.
I sat at the end of the bar, where I could keep an eye on my pack, and perused the menu. The pub’s motto was “Eat, Drink, and be Irish,” so I ordered their Irish specials: a Reuben roll (which was something like an Asian spring roll but was filled with corned beef and sauerkraut), conch chowder, and shepherd’s pie.
I was finishing my meal when a man sat down next to me. He was probably a little older than my father, tan with sun-spotted, leathery skin. His blond hair was streaked with gray and pulled back in a ponytail. He wore a Tommy Bahama flowered shirt and cargo shorts. He glanced over at me and nodded his head a little.
“Evening,” I said.
“Evening,” he replied.
He ordered a beer and shepherd’s pie. He glanced past me at my pack, then asked, “Passing through town?”
I nodded. “I’m headed to Key West.”
“Good place to be headed,” he said. “I’m Gaspar.” He extended his hand.
“Alan,” I replied. “Gaspar. That’s an unusual name.”
“Not so unusual around here,” he said.
“So you’re from here,” I said.
“I was born near Vero, but I’ve lived here for the last twenty-six years. You?”
“Born in Denver, raised in Pasadena. But I moved to Seattle for work.”
“What do you do?”
“I used to be in advertising,” I said. “Now I just walk.”
“There’s a profession. Are you paid by the mile or the hour? Actually, a better question is who pays you? And why?”
“It’s pro b
ono,” I said.
He grinned. “Why wouldn’t it be?”
“What do you do?” I asked.
“I’m a treasure hunter.”
“Really. What kind of treasure do you hunt?”
“Buried, mostly.”
“You’ve found buried treasure?”
“Some. The big one’s eluded me, but I’ll find it someday. It’s just a matter of time.”
“There’s a lot of treasure around here?”
“Florida has more lost treasure than anywhere else in the world, and only a fraction of it’s been found. A few years back road crews were building a road in Brevard County and unearthed thirteen chests of coins.
“Every now and then Spanish doubloons and pieces of eight from shipwrecks will wash up on the beaches after heavy storms, but most of the loot was buried on land by pirates.”
“Pirates?”
“These waters were full of them. Captain Morgan, of the rum fame, Calico Jack, Black Caesar, and the most famous, José Gaspar. My namesake.”
“I’ve never heard of Gaspar,” I said. “But I’m not much on piratology.” I wasn’t sure that was a word.
The bartender returned with Gaspar’s food and drink. In one swig Gaspar downed a quarter of his mug, then wiped the foam from his mouth and turned back to me.
“Gaspar’s big in Florida. There’s a Gasparilla celebration in Tampa every year.”
“Why would they celebrate a thief?” I asked.
“We celebrate worse,” he said. “Columbus wiped out thousands of indigenous peoples, and we have a holiday for him. It all depends on how you view it. To some, Captain Morgan was a pirate, but he preyed on enemies of Britain, so he was knighted by the British Crown. One man’s hero is another man’s criminal.”
“Gaspar too?” I asked.
“No, he was pretty much in it for himself. He was just born bad, I guess. He committed his first crime at the age of twelve. He kidnapped a girl and held her for ransom. Being so young, he was easily caught. He was given the option of prison or the Spanish navy. He chose the sea.
“Apparently Gaspar was quite handsome. When he was older he was involved in a love affair with the king’s daughter, until he was accused of stealing the royal crown jewels. Before he could be arrested, he fled Spain, then, supposedly with the money from the jewels, purchased a ship and crew, sailed to the Florida coast, and began attacking any ship flying the Spanish flag. It’s believed that he attacked more than four hundred ships, including the vessel carrying the twelve million dollars in gold bullion that the United States paid Napoleon for the Louisiana Purchase. Some of the gold was lost at sea, but most of it was buried.”
“How do you know that?”
“I feel it,” he said, pounding his chest. “In here.” He took another drink, then said, “Every now and then there’s a story that confirms it. Just before the Revolutionary War, one of Gaspar’s last living confederates came out of hiding. He asked a farmer for his help in recovering the gold, promising him a share of the booty. The farmer was doubtful but decided to help out the old man. After they raised the first chest, he was pretty eager to continue. But the old man said he wasn’t feeling well and needed a few days’ rest. Two days later the farmer went to see him and found him dead in his cabin. The farmer went through the cabin, and all he found was a jar of gold coins and a code he had engraved in copper.” Gaspar reached into his pocket and brought out a piece of paper.
“I carry this with me wherever I go. It’s a Xerox of a pencil rubbing from that sheet of copper.”
O-X-NXW-W-VER-VAR
LEGUA 1/10 O-X-SWXW-VER-VAR
HASTA X
“I’ve been trying to decipher it for twenty-six years now.”
“You’ve spent half your life searching for treasure?”
“At least.”
“What did you do before that?”
“I drove a truck. Before that I took people on tours of St. Augustine. That’s where I learned so much about the history of this place.”
“Are you married?”
He took another long drink, pounding his glass down with a loud thud. “No. I planned to get married, have a family, the usual, but after I found treasure, time just sort of slipped away.”
I nodded.
“How about you?”
“I was married.”
“Was?”
“She passed away a year ago.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
I took a drink of my beer, then said, “She was my treasure.”
He looked at me for a moment, then turned and drained the rest of his mug. He had nothing else to say.
CHAPTER
Twenty-Eight
What was true three thousand years ago is true today: the end of the siren’s song is death.
Alan Christoffersen’s diary
I got a late start the next day, leaving my motel around noon. I followed Ponce de Leon to US 1 to 95 south, into Flagler County. If you travel through Florida, it’s impossible not to see the name Flagler. Henry Morrison Flagler was a railroad and oil tycoon and a founding partner, along with John D. Rockefeller, of Standard Oil.
By 1896 his railroad, the Florida East Coast Railway, reached all the way south to Biscayne Bay, where he dredged a channel, built streets and utilities, and even founded the first newspaper.
The grateful locals wanted to name the city Flagler, but he declined the offer. Instead he convinced them to use an Indian name, Mayaimi, later shorted to Miami. It was a good call. Somehow the Flagler Dolphins doesn’t have the same ring to it.
I stayed overnight in Palm Coast at a Microtel Inn & Suites, then set out again the next day. Interstate 95 met up with Highway 1, which again changed names, this time to Dixie Highway. I walked through Volusia County to Ormond Beach, then, as the sun set, into the city of Daytona Beach. It was nearly dark when I reached a city sign that read:
Welcome to Daytona Beach
Ten yards after it was another sign that read:
We’re glad you’re back.
Please keep the noise down.
I walked over a bridge and east until a neon sign stretched across the road.
World’s Most Famous Beach
December is the off-season in Daytona—a lull before the hordes descend in February for the Daytona 500. Still, there was less traffic in the city than I expected.
As I walked toward the ocean I heard reggae music playing. After a dull day of walking, I liked the idea of losing myself in the party atmosphere, so I walked past the beachfront buildings to investigate.
The music was coming from an outdoor bar called Il Galli, and the sign in front had a picture of a rooster. The crowded bar had a fire pit in the middle of the bricked terrace—the flickering, orange-yellow flames illuminating the band. I walked up to a hostess, who glanced up as I approached.
“Do you have a table?” I asked.
She nodded. “Yes, are you alone?”
“Yes,” I said.
She grabbed a menu from the hostess stand, then said flippantly, “Not for long.”
I followed her to the far side of the bar near the band, whose music seemed to be increasing in volume.
As I looked through the menu, a waitress walked up to me. She almost had to shout to be heard over the music. “What can I get you to drink?”
“Just a beer,” I said.
“What kind would you like?”
“What’s this Dark Lord Russian?”
“It’s a local brew. It’s popular. It has the taste of coffee and molasses. It’s a little pricey, but most say it’s worth it.”
“I’ll try it.”
“I don’t think you’ll be disappointed. Do you want anything to eat?”
“I’ll have one of your pulled pork sandwiches. With Swiss cheese and coleslaw.”
“Fries or chips?”
“Fries. And a side Caesar salad.”
“You got it.”
I sat back in my chair. It felt good to be off
my feet. The weather was nice, and the air was sweet and moist with the ocean breeze.
The band’s main singer and drummer wore dreadlocks. They weren’t Bob Marley and the Wailers, and I suspected that what they lacked in talent they tried to make up for in volume. I tore off a couple pieces of napkin, rolled them into marble-sized balls, and put them in my ears.
The people around me were mostly younger. With the exception of a few older men sitting at the bar, I was the only one alone—something that wasn’t new to me, but in this kind of setting it made me feel self-conscious.
Sitting at the far end of the bar were two women, likely in their late twenties, one blond, the other brunette. The blonde had a petite build and wore a black string bikini with a sheer cover-up that didn’t cover up much. The other woman, a tan brunette, was slightly taller and voluptuous. She was wearing turquoise short-shorts, frayed at the bottom, with an orange bikini top. They were both gorgeous, a fact that wasn’t lost on the men around them, who were almost all gawking at them or at least stealing glances—some more obvious than others.
The brunette looked a little like Falene, which intensified my loneliness. The truth is, seeing them reminded me that I wasn’t wired to be celibate.
The brunette looked at me and smiled. I smiled back, expecting her to turn away, but she didn’t. She continued staring at me, her eyes dark and piercing. Her friend noticed her gaze and looked at me as well and smiled. She waved me over, but I just smiled. She turned back to the barkeep and said something, smiled at me again, then turned away. A moment later a waiter brought me a beer.
“You’re a lucky man. This is from the ladies at the end of the bar,” he said, glancing back at my benefactors. “They would like you to join them.”
I followed his gaze over to the women. They were both smiling at me. The blonde cocked her head and raised her eyebrows.
“All right,” I finally said. I pulled the extemporaneous earplugs from my ears, then, leaving my pack at the table, picked up my beer and carried it over to the women. They both preened a little as I neared. They were even prettier up close. To tell the truth, I wasn’t used to this kind of thing and I felt a little awkward.
Richard Paul Evans: The Complete Walk Series eBook Boxed Set Page 83
