Free Sanibel Scribbles by Christine Lemmon

called for directions, the man on the phone had told her it arrived every morning at around eight o’clock. She knew nothing aboutthe 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 shewatched 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