The Derelict

 The Derelict

This past week, the Tampa Bay area once again celebrated the landing and invasion of Jose Gaspar. Gaspar is depicted as a pirate purported to loot and ravage the west coast of the peninsula. Though many say he is but a mythical character, others suggest Gaspar was real.

It doesn’t matter. Every year hundreds of boats, decorated for the occasion, escort the iconic Spaniard into Tampa Bay where he makes his once-a year-landing and the mayor hands over the keys to the city.

May not exactly Jose Gaspar...but thank you Pixabay for the image.

When we were in high school, Gasparilla Day meant a day off. We would attend the parade, try to catch the real honest-to-goodness plastic gold coins and candy the pirates threw into the crowd, and cheer for our high school band as they marched by. And a few years later, they threw real plastic beaded necklaces. Sometimes the invasion was only a day or at most a week ahead of the Florida State Fair. 

I haven’t been to the Gasparilla Day Parade in years.  Actually, I have no desire to go. No desire to find a place to park, fight the crowds, and eat corn dogs.

I thought it might be an age thing. I thought perhaps I had outgrown the fantasy of pirates and hidden treasure. 

But something happened on Gasparilla Day. 

The weather had turned cold. We even had the threat of temperatures dropping below freezing. They didn’t, but there was a definite chill in the air. That morning of the invasion, the sun was shining.

Mike and I walked out onto the deck. Somehow, in the night, a boat had freed itself and drifted into our cove. We watched as the chilly wind pushed the unmanned vessel through the tall grass and around the point. Slowly through the day the craft moved about. 

The next morning the derelict boat was still there. Eerily waiting for its master and crew. The boat came to rest in the vegetation on the other side of the cove. Then the next day it was gone.

I’m pretty sure if we searched that grassy part of the cove hard enough, we’d find hidden treasure.

Sorry. It’s the storyteller in me. 

Maybe I’m not too old for Gasparilla Day after all.