Free Sanibel Scribbles by Christine Lemmon Page A

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 thatmade 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