Sanibel Scribbles (9 page)

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.”

“I don’t believe in ghosts,” said Vicki as she stepped onto the dock near the tiny red brick boathouse. There were a few sets of oars hanging on one of its walls, and rowboats and canoes were napping on the sandy ground beside it. A rusty pay phone stood out as noticeably as a polished silver fork in a bag of plastic picnic utensils, and a red Coca-Cola machine caught her attention like a glowing UFO landing on Earth.

As she walked up the coconut-palm-tree-dotted path, she didn’t want to run into any woman carrying bricks, so she tried not to look too hard. Instead, she looked only at the natural beauty of the land and declared the tropical jungle her Utopia. No pavement, no light posts, no tourist signs, and no preservatives. It stood completely void of commercialization. Birds chirped, and waves rippled slowly on the shore. Some slapped against the wooden docks.

By the time she’d walked up the hill to the front doors of the slate blue clapboarded restaurant with its white wraparound porch, she felt like she had gone through a facial, a back massage, and an aromatherapy treatment – completely revived.

Inside the shady Florida bungalow stood a variety of different antique wooden tables, some painted pale yellow, others white or faded green. Each had white, straight-back chairs. Shaded by thickly shadowing palm trees that looked like monsters with long, slender bodies and wild, crazy green hair, the inside rooms were dark and cold, and there were ashes in the fireplace. Maritime murals decorated the walls, and in one of the restaurant rooms farthest from the front door, Vicki noticed wallpaper peeling off the walls.

“Go ahead. Give yourself a look around,” said a woman. “I’ll be right with you. Those things you see falling off are post cards of lighthouses. Go, look up close.” She left the room.

The floorboards squeaked as Vicki walked around the dining rooms that encircled the bar. Jimmy Buffet music was playing. It was music she and her friends had played as they huddled in the fraternity houses on winter weekends, drinking and dancing to keep warm. She gave herself permission to sing the words “pencil-thin mustache” out loud as she hurried around the corner and into the bar. She looked around. Pictures and postcards of lighthouses from all over the world, secured with masking tape, covered the walls. Outside the large screened windows, she saw a jungle of Indian banyan trees with ovate, heart-shaped leaves and remarkable aerial roots that grew down from branches to form secondary trunks. Overshadowed by the banyan and fanlike leaves of palm trees framing the window, the rustic bar felt more like a tree house to Vicki, a place where, as Simon said, moments mattered more than minutes.

“I’m Ruth,” said the woman, returning to the room. “I’m the head waitress and manager. It’s going to be a busy day. Every day here is busy, so we may as well get right to the point. Why should I hire you? Why would you be good waiting tables?”

“Well, I have a strong work ethic.”

“A strong work ethic? Explain.”

“I went to school in a small Dutch town where they believe in doing everything to the best of their ability, whether scooping ice cream, waiting tables, or leading a country.”

“I see,” she said.

“And I grew up working our family businesses.”

“Well then, I would love to talk more, but it’s going to get busy quickly around here. Part of the interview includes busing tables. You can show me your work ethic in action. The boat leaves again at three-thirty. Maybe you can work until then?”

“Of course,” said Vicki. “Thank you.” After years of adding exactly one tablespoon of malt powder to make the world’s best vanilla malts, it felt strange having to prove her workmanship to someone else, and it made her sad. She missed her family and the businesses. She wanted to kick herself for looking back, but just as a dragonfly has four powerful wings that move independently, allowing both forward and backward flight, so too do humans have the capacity to reminisce at the same moment they’re moving forward in life.

“If you take the job,” Ruth said, “you’ll have to live here on the island for about twelve days in a row at first, then the boat will take you back for two days off every week. Two days in a row that is.”

“Live here on the island? Where?”

“We have two houses for the cooks and waiting staff. Later, once things slow down, you can go and check out the living quarters. We also provide staff meals here in the restaurant before lunch and dinner serving hours.”

“Does the waiting staff make good money?”

“They average about five hundred dollars a week in tips during the summer months.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me. You can only get here by boat. That many people really make it out here?”

“Oh yes, just wait. You’ll see for yourself soon enough.”

“I don’t know about this—about living out here. I can’t give you an answer right now.”

She looked around at the others who were working, and searched for a grandmother, one who wore purples and reds and added much color, even to an ice-cream shop. She didn’t find one.

“Then think about it while you’re working today. If it goes well, I’d like you to start within a week or two. I always lose waitresses before summer
starts. I’d love for you to move out here tomorrow, but I understand if you have some things in your life you might need to settle before up and leaving for a remote island. Anyway, I’ll show you where the rags are kept and how to set tables. We’re going to be getting busy soon, so we better get started.”

“Okay, so the fork goes on this rim of the place mat here?” Vicki asked Ruth in a conscientious tone.

“Over this way a little more, and make sure the napkin doesn’t cover up any wording on the place mat.”

Ruth looked to be in her sixties, and she was as small and powerful as a breath mint. Her voice was quiet, but her words were concise, focused, and seemed to have impact. She spoke matter-of-factly, displaying an overabundance of natural common sense about everything.

“Are you okay? You seem a bit out of breath,” she asked Vicki.

“I’m fine. This is a better workout than kick-boxing,” Vicki lied, dropping a rag as an excuse to bend down and gasp for breath. She didn’t know why she couldn’t breathe. No danger lurked and, with the sun directly overhead, night stood hours away yet.

As Ruth explained the busing procedures, both women recognized that they shared common work ethics. They both set up tables with intensity, carefully aligning the silverware with pride. As Vicki folded a napkin neatly, she could almost hear teachers from her past challenging her do everything with pride and to the best of her ability.

While busing her second dirty table, Vicki glanced out at the dock. She was amazed to see boats of varying caliber—big boats, small boats, sail boats, fishing boats and yachts—pulling up to the dock. Within half an hour, voices of every accent, language, and pitch imaginable rang through the three-room restaurant. Sun-tanned people in flip-flops started lining up outside the door and down the walkway. They spoke English, French, and German. A few minutes earlier, Vicki could never have imagined people from all over the world arriving on boats for lunch.

She sprinted from table to table, wishing she had more time to talk to Ruth about island life and the job. What would she decide come three-thirty when she’d have to catch the boat back? As dirty tables piled up, she
had no time to talk to anyone, only to bus. Her family used to run around together like this every summer. She felt lonely without them working by her side, and it felt uncomfortably professional to call a boss by first name instead of Mom or Dad.

“Okay, you can stop now. The boat’s waiting for you down at the dock.”

Ruth walked up to the dirty table she was cleaning.

“It’s three-thirty already? It can’t be.” For the first time all afternoon, she lost her breath again.

“Well, you were busy. And you did a fine job. If you’re interested, you can be back on the boat any morning with your suitcases, if that works out for you.”

“You’re offering me the job?”

“That’s right. I’d love for you to return tomorrow, but I understand if you need more time. I’ll give you up to a week to think about it, but remember, you must stay out here and work twelve days in a row.”

“I’ll admit,” said Vicki. “When I took the boat out here, I didn’t realize I had to actually live on the island.”