Sanibel Scribbles

by Christine Lemmon

  On the second day she did more of the same and returned home feeling rejected. Under the dock behind her grandmother’s condo, a manatee, about ten feet long, with a small, wrinkled head and straight- whiskered snout, snuffed its nose slowly above the surface of the warm water before disappearing into the shallow canal with a pump of its tail. Glancing up from the classifieds, already highlighted from her morning perusal, Vicki watched the rippling current of the canal. Where are the currents going? Where are they coming from? Four hundred miles of canals running behind homes made Southwest Florida one place in the world with more canals than any city in Italy.

  About three minutes later, the gray-black creature surfaced again, and this time brought with him one, two, three more manatees, each with cleft upper lips and bristly hairs. She couldn’t tell if they were grazing for food on the canal’s surface or simply spying on her. She waved to be friendly. She blew kisses. She felt the urge to grab the corpulent body of one of the slow-moving manatees and swim away with it and its family into the Caloosahatchee River, maybe the Gulf of Mexico. She knew the canals led somewhere exciting, and the manatees were surely living a more adventurous life than she was. But they had fears too: of boats speeding down the canal and killing them, of crushing or drowning in floodgates, of eating a fishhook by accident, of getting entangled in crab-trap lines, of pollution and animal haters with rocks in their hands, or of red tide and cold water. She felt depressed. Of course they did. They and all the other great creatures of the canal, and of the world all feared something. And if they didn’t, well, they should.

  She felt desperate. “Oh, dear Lord,” she prayed aloud, “please guide me to a job. Charter me wherever you like, oh, please. There are so many things I want to do in life and so many options that I feel overwhelmed at times. I’m afraid that I might not be able to accomplish my tablecloth scribbles. I can’t seem to even find a simple summer job. I shouldn’t feel so lost. Please help!”

  She then tossed the paper onto the dock, glancing one last time at the ads that left her no optimism. But there it was, hit by the first drop of Florida’s daily summer downpour. She read it once to herself, then out loud: Waitress with a lust for life needed for island restaurant. Interviews start daily at 8:00 a.m., Island Marina. Call first.

  Early the next morning, she set off like a mouse in a maze, trying to find the Island Marina.

  There were many routes she could have taken, just as a person has endless routes they can take in life. Some choose the major highways, while others take the side roads, or even back alleys. One might discover that a bumper-to-bumper ride works fine one day, but the next day a road with less traffic better fits the mood. Some days, it might take an hour to get to the marina. Other days, one might catch every red light and, therefore, it might take a couple of hours. There’s the scenic route, and there’s the speedy route. “It’s a decision you must constantly make,” said the man’s voice coming from her cell phone.

  “I don’t get it. I’m just asking for simple directions to the island.”

  “Oh, but the island is symbolic for so much more, dear. I will give you practical directions to this magnificent island, and for this particular interview, but I also want to inspire you to discover more islands in life and more routes to those islands, that’s all.”

  More or less, she followed the directions the man on the phone gave.

  She drove over the causeway to Fort Myers, then over another bridge and continued to Cape Coral’s far north end, and turned onto Pine Island Road. After a few miles, it changed into a narrow two-lane road with smelly swamp water on both sides. She laughed, recalling the man on the phone’s vivid directions, “Once you enter a town called Matlacha, you’ll see marsh water all around you. It’s magnificent.”

  After a wooden bridge, she could smell morning coffee as she drove through the quaint fishing town with its waterside fish houses and casual-looking seafood restaurants—more designated landmarks. Between buildings, she caught glimpses of the picturesque water, unsure whether it was the Gulf of Mexico or an intra-coastal waterway, and it was turning a shimmering orange from the dawn’s emerging sun. She felt renewed, restored in some way, as if she were rising with the sun. She felt competitive, ahead of the day, and all the late-morning sleepers of the world. They were still in bed, missing out on the sun’s skyward ascent. She had never noticed morning and all its traits before. Now that morning no longer meant rushing off to class, she was observing things that never caught her attention before. Maybe she had stopped noticing life’s details because she passed by those same details day after day, year after year, without ever leaving her comfort zone, or maybe because her schedule only allowed her time to notice things that needed to get done.

  Despite a few old hotels and boat rental shops on the side of the road, Matlacha didn’t look like a tourist town. It looked more like a lifestyle that had remained as such for centuries. Perhaps the local fishermen intended to keep their site a secret. Or maybe fishermen preserved it as a no-fuss, non-glamorous escape. She could smell raw fish, sushi. No, it was not sushi; just plain old raw fish, stripped of its scales, nothing glamorous, and certainly nothing edible in her mind. Then she passed by art galleries and a bookstore and knew there was more to the place.

  North of Matlacha, she drove over a bridged creek and entered Salt Water Key, an island of its own. Continuing on her treasure hunt, she laughed when she spotted rows of banana trees—they meant “turn right.” She did so and lost sight of the water.

  Wow, she thought, turning a confident left at an orchard of mango trees. Michigan has things like blueberries and apples, but nothing from the passion- and citrus-fruit families.

  She unrolled her window, smelling a sharp citrus fragrance magnified by the crisp morning breeze. It satisfied her more than a glass of grapefruit juice. She daydreamed.

  Me? Commissioned the job for naming a new lipstick shade? I’m honored to accept such a glamorous position. You can pay me my million bucks later. First, I just need a little brainstorming session. Moon-lit Mango, Sunlit Papaya, Papaya Wine. No, no such thing … Mermaid Gloss, oh, stupid … Banana Peel, get off the rhyme, Vicki … Salt Water Drench, Whipped Banana … Ashe … Ashes to Ash … Dust to … Death Black … Heartbeat Red … Coffin brown …

  A dead end diverted her thoughts as she made a sharp right and headed about two miles down a curvy road with old wooden stilt homes on one side and nothing but the wide open gulf on the other. Breathtaking, she thought, and turned at the sign that read, “Island Marina.”

  She took a seat under a bamboo hut and watched a white pelican balance itself on a narrow wooden dock post as she waited for the boat to arrive. When she called for directions, the man on the phone had told her it arrived every morning at around eight o’clock. She knew nothing about the restaurant and didn’t ask. She just knew that a boat would take her out to the island for an interview. On the island stood a restaurant that needed a waitress. She planned to be that waitress. She felt foolish and irresponsible for not asking more questions, but she impatiently wanted a job, and a boat trip sounded nice, regardless. After all, her deadline to find a job expired today. So take it and stay in Florida or leave it and head back to Michigan, a place no longer comfortable.

  What if there is no restaurant? No Tarpon Key Island? What if it’s a big hoax? What if it’s the type of place where the waitresses dance naked? Or worse? Why do they have to take me out to the island for the interview? Why can’t they interview me here at the marina? Perhaps it is a joke, and I’m waiting for nothing, because there is no boat.

  She opened her purse and turned the mace that hung on her key chain to ready position. She couldn’t breathe and the pains she had felt in her chest at night returned. She didn’t know why her shortness of breath always brought chest pains. They were only slight pokes, not stabs. The blade of the knife moved under her control. She wouldn’t let it stab, not right now. She closed her eyes, focused on each breath—pushing her abdomen in and out, not
up and down. She imagined mental gargoyles perching upon her thoughts and fighting off negative worries. This helped somewhat. Then, a few minutes later, she picked up a cracked coconut, closed her eyes again, and felt its rough, splintery skin. She concentrated hard on the coconut in her hands, anything to prevent her imaginative mind from wandering to the “what if” thoughts.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  A SURE THING! THANK GOD, she thought as she heard the motor of a small powerboat and opened her eyes. As it pulled up to the dock, she forced herself to yawn, stealing extra air.

  “You here for the interview?” asked a man with leathery skin as he tied the rope. He wore all white but for dockside shoes with no socks, and the lines on his face belonged like the crevices on a seashell.

  “Yes, I am. I probably should have asked a bit more about the job and the island.” Vicki reached onto the boat to shake his hand. “So tell me, what type of island is it?”

  “Ah, how does one describe Tarpon Key? Well, dear, let me tell you. It’s a magnificent place to eat. Simply magnificent!”

  He spoke with the passion of an auditioning actor. “You need to visit Tarpon Key to understand it, and I’ll take you there if you’re ready.” He extended his hand and Vicki accepted, stepping onto the boat.

  “My name is Simon. I’m the Tarpon Key dockmaster. I just need to load up a few things, and we’ll be on our way, dear.” He walked over to some boxes that were piled on crates under a Sabal palmetto palm tree and started loading them one by one onto the boat. Suspiciously, Vicki peeked inside the boxes each time he’d leave for more. Bulk amounts of ketchup bottles, cleaning detergents, and cleaning rags—typical restaurant items.

  Within ten minutes, Simon started the boat, and they slowly pulled away from the dock. The smell of boat gasoline tickled her nerves as she watched the marina slip further and further away. She felt carefree and irresponsible at the same time, a dandelion blowing far from home but having fun along the way. The gasoline smell reminded her of Saugatuck and the yuppie boaters who would sail from Chicago to buy ice cream in their shop. But now as the wind hit her in the face, she knew that leaving that comfort zone behind might not be so bad after all. Looking at the water ahead of her reminded her that this present situation—no friends, no job, no money, and no idea where the boat would take her—forced her to pay attention.

  “Tarpon Key is a privately owned intra-coastal island where time is measured in moments, not minutes.” Simon stood behind the wheel still smiling, and in doing so, deepened the engravings on his skin. “There’s not much on the island, just the restaurant and bar, a few log-cabin cottages, and an old lighthouse tower. But the place is simply magnificent, dear. Magnificent, I tell you!”

  Vicki smiled too, aware of the crow’s-feet forming around her eyes.

  “Dear, you’ll want to take a seat now and hold on. It’s bumpy ahead.”

  She could feel the force of the boat’s increasing speed sliding her and the cushion she sat on back toward the stern of the boat. She tucked her hair into the collar of her shirt so she could see and grabbed onto the side of the boat. Her lungs filled with the heavy sea air, as if someone had sprinkled a saltshaker over the boat.

  A mile or two passed, and she saw a few distant islands and boats anchored everywhere, fishermen mostly. The eight o’clock morning sun provided a fresh perspective, vivifying everything - color, temperature, and sounds. The water looked like luminous turquoise-stained glass. Any chapel would pay big money for such windows, she noted. The air raised goose bumps up and down her arms. The birds of the air chirped clearly, loudly, as if through a microphone echoing across the currents. Any chapel would pay big money for such a choir. She closed her eyes and prayed under her breath, “Our Father who art in Heaven, hallowed be Your name.”

  Even if she didn’t get a job, Vicki decided the boat trip alone made the early morning effort well worth it. Just feeling awake, alive, and on a boat before the official daytime actually began, rejuvenated her in a way that made her think of how an early-morning poacher who never got caught might feel. Being alive under the incandescent, dawning sun made her realize that her late-morning dreams didn’t compare to what real life offered. She scolded herself for sleeping late into the morning. There are things to see in this world, things that look different early in the morning.

  She no longer had to hold onto the side of the boat as it approached a large island capped with about a hundred extravagant old Florida-style, pastel-colored homes, clapboard-sided, and tin-roofed.

  She bent down to scratch her ankle and to secretly catch her breath. She kept her sentences short, as always, when she sensed a breathing frenzy approaching. Ouch, my heart. Darn, I’m a hooked fish, she thought.

  “Is that Tarpon Key?”

  “No, dear. That’s Useppa Island. Some consider it Fantasy Island.”

  “Is Tarpon Key that gorgeous?”

  “Absolutely, but Tarpon Key is more of, let’s see, it’s more of a remote, rustic sort of place.”

  “Well, I’m no shipwrecked woman washing ashore. Once I see the place, I’ll decide whether or not I choose to stay.” She would think about that later. For now, she couldn’t take her eyes off the island they were passing. She would certainly feel safe docking there.

  “There’s no bridge, no road, and it’s so far from the mainland, but the homes look new!”

  “Not as new as you think. President Theodore Roosevelt and his tarpon-loving friends used to fish here at the turn of the century. And the building that is today an inn on the island was built in 1896 by a streetcar magnate from Chicago.”

  The island looked luxuriant, and Vicki felt she’d be comfortable docking there. Maybe it was the pastel-colored homes that reminded her of her family’s ice-cream shop, she decided. But, as the boat passed the ritzy residences, panic suddenly gripped her, and so did the same chest pains. She felt a knife stab her chest and knew what a fish felt like being filleted alive. Maybe it’s a hoax. Maybe there’s no Tarpon Key, no restaurant. What’s the worst thing that could happen? she asked herself. I might die in some wretched way. She didn’t like her answer.

  They passed several small mangroves as well as a channel marker topped with an osprey nest, then passed Cayo Costa State Park, part of the chain of barrier islands, with the Charlotte Harbor on one side and the Gulf of Mexico on the other. The ten-mile limestone-based island stood completely undeveloped with a thick forest of pines and oak and palm hammocks in its interior and mangrove swamps on the bay side, one of Florida’s most primitive state parks, according to Simon.

  A few minutes later, Simon pointed. “There’s Tarpon Key!”

  “It is remote!” She had never seen anything like it, except on television or in the movies. A mound of shredded greenery appeared, a small, round island of about one hundred acres of lush green palm trees, lavish vegetation and tropical flowering plants. It looked like a floating head of broccoli. And thankfully, unlike an island on which someone is shipwrecked and washed ashore to fend for their life, this island had sailboats and several small boats bobbing in their berths. There was also what looked like a lighthouse of a faded red color looming before them.

  “Wow, what do they use on their lawns? Monosodium glutamate? I’ve never seen anything so green and beautiful,” Vicki asked, taking off her sunglasses to get a flawless view.

  “No, no preservatives needed. It’s all natural.” He shook his head and chuckled. “Monosodium glutamate–that’s the first I’ve heard that one, dear, and I’ve taken a lot of people out here, from all over.”

  As the boat drew closer, a rustic building, slate blue in color, with a white wraparound porch and wooden swing chairs grew larger and larger, as did the tower of natural red brick.

  “That’s the restaurant and bar. Once we tie up, follow the sandy pathway up to the front doors and go on in, young lady.”

  Simon easily maneuvered the boat into a slip. “Long before it was a restaurant, it was the lighthouse keeper’s quarters. The
tower stands exactly in the middle of the island.”

  “So, that is a lighthouse?” she asked.

  “Maybe I shouldn’t have called him a lighthouse keeper. Some call him crazy. John Bark and his wife bought Tarpon Key in the mid 1800s for a couple hundred dollars and later spent around fifty grand to build their dream – a lighthouse. No one supported this personal project, or obsession. It wasn’t needed. The Sanibel lighthouse was being constructed at the same time, completed in 1884. Its light could be seen over fifteen miles away, so no other light was needed, but John Bark was driven by his obsessive goal of becoming a lighthouse keeper. They say he laid the bricks himself, one by one. The story goes that he also enslaved his wife, and she carried bricks day after day, year after year.”

  “That’s a pretty big tower for two people to build by hand without any outside help,” she said.

  “He cheated. He built it on a natural hill so it looks taller than it is,” laughed Simon. “He was territorial and wouldn’t allow people on the island to help. Like I said, some call him mad. The Barks lived lives of solitude and privacy on the island until their deaths. They died shortly after finishing the tower, but before ever installing the light. No one knows much about them, but on occasion, guests swear they have seen a transparent man wandering through the restaurant carrying a lantern and a woman carrying bricks around the island.”