The Treasures of Little Gasparilla Island

CONTENTS

Prologue

Acknowledgments

Chapter One

Finding LGI

Chapter Two

A Dog’s Island

Chapter Three

Shelling

Chapter Four

Going To Englewood

Chapter Five

Meeting Island Folks

Chapter Six

George

Chapter Seven

The Long Commute To Scotland

Chapter Eight

Back To Little Gasparilla Island

Chapter Nine

The British Invasion

Chapter Ten

Aunt Phyliss Arrives

Chapter Eleven

The Wades And Henry The Dog

Chapter Twelve

Commuting To Britain With Nikki

Chapter Thirteen

The Trip Back To LGI

Chapter Fourteen

Sunsets, Fishing, And Friends

Chapter Fifteen

The Last British Landing On LGI

Epilogue

In memory of

My wife, Nikki, for always being there

Our loyal companion, Napier

Very close friend, George Geier

Ed Strickland, who visited us throughout the world

PROLOGUE

T HIS ISLAND’S NAMESAKE is Juan Gomez Gasparilla—or, as he’s known today throughout the west coast of Florida, Jose Gaspar. Some think of Gaspar as folklore, while others say he is just a myth. A few locals have stories handed down by ancestors through the ages and say the proof is probably in the United States naval archives, since the pirates were hunted down by the USS Enterprise in the early 1800s. They all were either killed or put on trial in New Orleans and subsequently hung, all except for Jose Gaspar. He was alleged to be sixty-five years old and on his last campaign before dividing up the spoils among his cohorts. Rather than get caught, he wrapped himself in the anchor’s chain and rope then jumped into the dark blue waters of the Gulf of Mexico to end his life; that was his only way to escape the hangman’s noose.

It is believed that Gaspar and his band of thieves and murderers had their haven around Charlotte Harbor. The barrier islands, such as Gasparilla and Little Gasparilla, would have been excellent cover where they could lie in wait behind tall sand dunes or mangroves, searching the Gulf waters for European vessels sailing within sight, carrying gold, silver, and jewels collected from the Americas to take back to their kings and queens or other financiers. Rumor has it that the pirates would slaughter everyone on board the captured ships except for the attractive ladies, who would become concubines of Jose Gaspar. He was a noted womanizer when he was assigned to the court of Charles III as a naval attaché at the age of twenty-seven. He jilted the daughter-in-law of the king for another woman of the court and was about to be arrested on trumped-up charges of treason when he commandeered a Spanish ship, called the Florida Blanca, and set sail with a hastily assembled volunteer crew for the Florida straits.

Little Gasparilla had two passes barely navigable for a sailing ship, but not for a man-of-war ship. The much larger pass into Gasparilla Sound was on the south end of Big Gasparilla through the Boca Grande Pass, with its two rivers emptying into the Gulf, flowing through Charlotte Harbor. This proved to be ideal for the crew to hide and pounce on unsuspecting heavily laden sailing ships heading north. Legend has the number of conquered vessels by Gaspar to be over four hundred. Back then, the amount of the bounty was reported to be in excess of thirty million Yankee dollars. Today’s count would be in the billions, which would take scores of stolen chests to accommodate the spoils. No treasure of his to this day has ever been found.

I have visited Little Gasparilla most winters for several months during the last seventeen years. On my many walks toward the state park on the north end of the island, I always look wishfully for doubloons washing ashore or a treasure chest sticking out of a tall sand dune while looking for sharks’ teeth.

Besides the tangible treasures that may be—in one’s wildest dreams, could be—found, there are other riches to discover while walking on the sand, be it purely spiritual or just a perfect seashell lying on the shore of Little Gasparilla Island, brought in by the gentle waves.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Julliet Wiggins King (England)

Jimetta Anderson (USA)

Meg Costello (USA)

Susan Wade (USA)

Jim and Jeanette McGill (Scotland)

David and Jacque Bevan (England)

CHAPTER ONE

FINDING LGI

N IKKI AND I, with our oversized black lab, Napier, were getting excited about our annual trip to sunny Florida. The previous night had been Halloween when we had had our first dusting of snow, which added to our longing for warmer weather. The temperate waters of the Gulf of Mexico were calling us! This year was going to be different; Tom and Amber Hurley had visited us on Lake Nottely in the North Georgia Mountains that past summer. One evening, after dinner, they asked us what we did in the winters. Normally, we would go to the Indian Rocks Beach for a month to meet up with Jim and Jeanette McGill from Alyth, Scotland; that was all the four of us could afford.

The Hurleys owned a ranch in Balm, Florida, and were not only friends but also distant cousins of the Wigginses and McLeods on my mother’s side of our family. They said that they had a beach house on a barrier island in Southwest Florida just south of Englewood, accessible only by boat and less than a mile from the mainland. It was apparently a little desolate or like having a wide moat around a village. Anyway, they offered us that beach house for the whole winter as long as we were out by the middle of May, when it would be warm enough for them to go down. Florida residents do not go to the beach unless the temperature is in the eighties; they wouldn’t swim in the sea if the water wasn’t that same temperature.

I couldn’t thank them enough; however, Nikki said, Maybe we could stretch it to six weeks.

And I replied, Why not three months?

Nikki reminded me that the antique shop had to be opened on weekends. So I suggested that friends and old employees Cynthia, Tom, Bob, and Betty could work it, as they all had a good record for sales. Nikki still wasn’t so sure.

Tom said, Think about it and let us know. We can move our personal stuff out so that you will have room to put your clothes. The beach house can be yours for the winter. When and if you drive down, stay with us, and we will take you there the next day by car, trailing our boat, to show you how to get on to the island. There is a water taxi at Eldred’s Marina on the edge of Gasparilla Bay.

Again I said, Thank you, but we would like to pay you for us staying there for such a long time.

Amber said, No way, Lloyd. None of us ever go there from October to the last of May or when school is out.

I said, What about spring break?

She said, Oh my god! On a Florida beach at spring break with college and high school kids—you couldn’t pay us to be there. No! Have fun, it’s yours.

They left the next day after breakfast for the long drive home. We said, Good-bye, and thanks, we’ll probably see you in early November.

For the next week, we packed and set up a work schedule for the antique shop to be opened weekends, with our accountant paying all fees and taxes to the State of Georgia. We both excitedly agreed that the coming Saturday morning, when we’d be driving through the center of Atlanta on Interstate 75, would be a lot less stressful than a workday.

We were finally on our way, looking adoringly at each other with big smiles and full of overwhelming anticipation. Napier could sense the feelings we had to a point where she edged her nose through and between the seats while still lying down, wanting to be part of our excitement. The Hurleys were expecting us at their ranch house by five that evening, with an extra hour built in for any delays.

After picking up a couple of Egg McMuffins and coffee in Blue Ridge, Nikki drove in the dark to just outside of Cumming, Georgia, ten minutes from the interstate junction of Interstate 75 and Interstate 575 Nikki pulled the Blazer over under an overpass so I could take over the driving to get us through the city. On our way, we both asked ourselves, What is this island that we are going to for at least three months going to be like? We agreed that if we didn’t like it after New Year’s, we would go back to Blairsville. At that time in our lives, we were trying to build our business, so we just couldn’t afford to spend silly money on an extended holiday. Thanks to Tom and Amber, we were able to have it all.

Nikki had phoned Jim and Jeanette about that new area of Florida, and they were as excited as we were at the thought of going to a new beach as long as it was in a warm place. They planned to join us in a few weeks, and we looked forward to seeing them again. They did love Florida—not only for the weather, the beaches, and the cheap food, but also for the fishing equipment and clothes, such as Levi’s 501 jeans for Jim (at least half a dozen pairs) which were 50 percent cheaper than in the United Kingdom, not to mention long-sleeved shirts to go with the jeans. Jim would also buy an electric boat motor to use on lakes in Central Scotland where he fished with an angling club. He supplied all his friends by taking one of these engines back every year along with other fishing gear.

Going through Atlanta, talking a mile a minute, we came to the first rest stop on an interstate that cuts off just before Macon connecting to Interstate 75, again shaving off a few miles, to go to the bathrooms and to exercise the dog. Getting ready to hit the road, Nikki said she would take over the driving. She knows I would rather read the paper between our conversations about our exciting future on a Florida barrier island. Napier, being a quiet traveler, would occasionally sneak her head through if she needed a walk or a pet, not knowing we would probably be stopping at the next rest stop; it was good to stretch our legs after a couple of hours driving.

We stopped on the Florida state line on the Georgia side to fill up with cheaper gasoline, enough to get us to the Hurley Ranch, and to give Nikki a rest. I would drive to the next rest stop on the other side of Lake City. That was probably our seventh trip on the same route in the past three years, commuting from North Georgia or Western North Carolina to Southwest Florida. Our feelings for the love of going back home never changed.

We finally got to the state line. We held hands, squeezing lovingly with a shared feeling of euphoria; both of us loved Florida so much and always had. We were now counting the few hours that it would take to pass Riverview, where I was raised on a very small farm, and cross the Alafia River, where swimming had been a welcome relief on the long, hot summer days.

The Lake City rest stop was coming up when Nikki said, Napier and I have to have a twenty-minute break with some walking-around time.

I thought to myself, I don’t think we passed a rest stop without stopping! It had worked out well so we could take turns driving.

Back in the Blazer again, while Nikki drove, I was able to take a long-enough nap to wake up while we were pulling into the Ocala rest stop; with renewed energy, I was ready to drive us through Tampa. Soon we were at the Balm cutoff near Sun City, about thirty-five miles south of Tampa. As we drove around the big city to the east, seeing the names of roads and places, it brought back memories of growing up. There were now subdivisions where once cattle meandered over the pastures of ranches and dairy farms.

While daydreaming the miles away, it seemed like, in no time, we were turning off the interstate on to State Road 301. We pulled into Tommy and Amber’s place fifteen minutes later. They must have seen us driving up their long driveway, going under the raised entrance with a sign reading that we were now entering the Hurley Ranch. They were outside, waiting, and waved at us enthusiastically. We got out with handshakes and hugs and let Napier out to see chickens running all over the place. That was just too much temptation. She caught one in her mouth, and Nikki screamed at her! I was thinking, Oh no, I hope this doesn’t hurt our friendship. They were both okay with it, and Napier was immediately put on a leash.

We had a great time with a cookout by their bunkhouse where they kept their barbecue gear under an overhang that was supported by knobbly pine posts. The porch also had roughly cut boards attached to the bunkhouse; it looked like something out of an old Western movie. What a great place to relax after a long, arduous drive! Napier was happy chewing on an old steak bone that Tom had given her. Talking like ranch hands, we told our hosts that we were going to turn in for the night; being weary, sleep was easy to succumb to.

The next morning, Tom took us for a tour of his ranch in an open Jeep through the wetlands where wild hogs were prevalent, then through the vast areas of cattle pastures. We went back to have breakfast before travelling to Englewood to do the big shop that had to include everything we would need for the coming week. Tom said, unfortunately, that they couldn’t take us down to the island because of prior commitments, but he told us what to do and where the key was kept under the house. He also phoned Eldred’s Marina, so we had a three-hour time frame to get all the shopping completed before catching the water taxi.

We took off for Englewood after once again thanking them for their generosity. Our excitement and anticipation were becoming overwhelming. Finally, we got off the interstate at the Englewood North Port exit (a road with nothing on it, through low wetlands where the wild hogs frequent the ditches on River Road). Nikki went into the Publix grocery store while I went to buy the grill and the charcoal at Kmart to save time, then I joined her with my own cart to load up mainly with water and Coca-Cola. We kept passing each other in the aisles, happily shopping, with a little pressure to be at the marina’s water taxi on time. Once we finished the mammoth shop, the trick was to squeeze it all into the back of our SUV and leave just enough room for Napier.

Off through the small town of Englewood south on Placida Road, we arrived at Eldred’s Marina ten minutes later. The look on our faces must have been priceless because we thought we had to be in the wrong place. A tin-covered shanty could not be a marina! It looked more like a backwoods fish camp one would find on a river in the Ozarks. When we went inside to pay for the three months’ parking and the water taxi fare, a smiling young girl greeted us. She welcomed us to Eldred’s Marina and said that her name was Ruthy. After paying what we thought was a reasonable fee to park for that length of time, the water taxi fare of twenty dollars each struck us as expensive. But on reflection, when we considered all our gear that had to be transported, we felt it wasn’t so bad.

Our boat captain was Sam, Ruthy’s brother, a young man in his twenties with shaggy red hair, no shoes, and a pleasant manner. He had a kind of teasing talk that made me think Sam was a real-life Tom Sawyer down to his bare toes. We all loaded up the taxi, and Sam steered it through the channel; he pointed to an island we could see through a canopy of trees on the other side of the Bay about a mile away. We had noticed, earlier, bumper stickers on trucks at the marina that read: Do Not Ban Nets.

Sam explained that the government stopped the gillnetting of mullet for their roe, which was then exported to the Orient. He was upset by the government preventing that way of making money and the interference of the Clinton administration. I definitely was not a fan of the president; however, I quietly thought that they were protecting the fish from being overharvested. If I had shared my concerns, it would have shown me as a left-leaning environmentalist wacko, so I decided that some things were better left alone—especially in the middle of a body of water!

Sam then started talking to Nikki. He was absolutely intrigued by her posh accent. He commented, You should have been a schoolteacher, ma’am.

Her reply to him was It’s strange you should say that, Sam. I was a teacher in England and Florida in the sixties and seventies.

You look way too young to be retired, Sam adoringly added.

Thank you, Sam. Lloyd and I are now antique dealers, which allows us to travel without time restraints, but more importantly, we love working together. Nikki added, Now, Sam, spending three months on an island with him may be our biggest test yet!

Sam laughed, saying, You guys will do just fine.

The boat proceeded slowly alongside the island in order to reduce its wake. It ensured that we wouldn’t make waves that would rock the boats tied up to the numerous docks at the end of each lane or the docks in front of small homes built on low stilts and the few older homes directly on the ground. The majority of these places looked like they were built in the sixties or seventies; there were no modern-looking homes. The dock numbers were getting higher the farther we traveled, and the delight was showing on our faces the closer we got to dock 88. Sam said, Here we are, as he pulled alongside our port of call.

After unloading all our gear and provisions, including gallons of springwater covering most of the dock area, we picked up the luggage holding our important possessions to take with us to look for the house we would be living in for the next few months. Stepping onto Peacock Lane with Nikki and Napier and walking toward the Gulf of Mexico was amazing! The lane was sandy, with seashells and exposed roots crossing the path. There were lots of palm trees, which led to a canopy of sea grape and Brazilian pepper trees along with very large Australian pines. I was overwhelmed and bursting inside with such a euphoric feeling; it was similar to falling in love. I just hoped that Nikki would like that part of Florida even just a little. I had definitely come back home after spending fourteen years overseas.

When we got through the canopy of trees, the lane opened up where we could see six houses on both sides with the roaring sound of the Gulf as a backdrop. Tom’s house was the first on the right, with a cute front porch and gray asbestos siding. Pine needles covered the roof from the huge tree in the front yard—or garden, as Nikki would call it. The windows were cloudy with grime and a saltlike film. It was not exactly a posh condo, which was our usual winter holiday rent. For some wonderful reason, I liked that place a lot better. It was so much nicer than being in a high-class area where a dog could not be walked for the lack of spare land. Last year, we had to take Napier by car miles away from the beach to give him his exercise without trespassing.

Going up the steps, we set our luggage down on the porch; from there we could see the water, with waves breaking onto the shore. I went under the house to get the key. Tom and Amber’s beach house was on stilts, and at one time, it was possible to walk without stooping underneath, but now, with added sand from the Gulf, one had to bend quite a bit to get under it. The key was where it was supposed to be: on top of a large post.

When