Free Sanibel Scribbles by Christine Lemmon Page B

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 theirdream – 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