The Gulf Station Lion

The adventure began after nightfall. The next day, however, everything spilled out into the sunshine. The day on the beach was busy. It was February in Florida on the Collier coastal shores and because of the fine weather, everyone, it seemed, was ready to embrace the Southwest Florida dream. 

When the older man approached, he did not hesitate. The particular beach boy was at his post under the shade of the little hut on the sand, and the sailboats he was tending were at the edge of the water where the sunlight was moving in the waves. 

The man, when he spoke, was confident in his stance but his words were from a faraway land where English was not the first language. The man was compelling; partly because of his age but also because it was clear his need was urgent. After a brief exchange, it became obvious the traveling man was in need of a flare gun. He was quite certain of the item he required, and it was clear he wanted the sailor at the waterfront to help with producing a flare gun and a signal for nightfall. 

Without further preamble, the beach boy and the faraway man of many years set out together and began walking on the wet and sandy strand at the edge of an ocean.  

After a time, the many people on the beach began to disappear and the sand became a pathway that was familiar. The man and the beach boy did not speak as they walked, but as their movement became a harmony, a trust began that both knew was binding. 

When at last the man pointed, an old-style gasoline and oil station came into view. The service station was from another era in Americana, and standing high beside the moving palm fronds in the breeze was a sign with two colors. Gulf was the offering between the colors on the sign but the word on the display was a mystery with many meanings. 

Beyond the standing sentries of gas pumps from another age, two garage doors were open caves and shelters from the sunshine. Beyond the golden light that was winter in Florida, an unruly mess of tools and torches and the snakes of hissing air hoseswere waiting in the shadows. Resting upon a fractured floor of many concrete faults was the history of ten thousand automotive repairs and the uncountable stains of more than any mechanical recovery. 

Without the faraway man with the broken English, the beach boy crossed beyond the sunshine threshold and stood on the swept sawdust and the oily spills of the Gulf Station floor. In the far corner of the workplace and resting on the bed of a large but flattened cardboard box was a resting lion. 

The lion was a lioness. She was obviously from the heart of Africa but without the huge mane that her male counterpart would wear. She was obviously quite old - even older than the far away man and the beginning of the flare gun quest, and perhaps even older than the original thought to send a signal after nightfall.  

When the beach boy began to approach, the same trust from the faraway man was apparent in the lioness, even in the gloom of her jungle. The Gulf Station Lion was showing the ages of her time with her many patches of grease and oil and the blackened pads of her paws. 

Without pause, the beach boy bent and scooped the lioness up on his shoulders and began to walk into the sunshine. The faraway man from the foreign land was waiting but now he held a puppy in his arms. A leftover flare gun from a world war was riding in the belt of his trousers that was now the uniform of a Gulf Station mechanic. 

The lioness was purring as the group began to walk, and her purring sounded as strong as a diesel engine. She was light for the beach boy who was carrying her, and her weight was not a burden. With every step back between the palm trees and the driftwood and the sea grapes on the beaches, the lioness was purring in the golden winter sunlight. 

When the travelers reached the shore and the waves were beginning to tumble, a little boat was waiting. The boat was tiny and battered with many patches, but after all were aboard the sun began to sink into the horizon. 

The obstacles began as the wind began to drive the waves. The faraway man was resolute in the danger from the rising seas, but he was careful to guard his puppy, and his flare gun that was a trophy from a world war. The beach boy was steering the boat with determination, but every growing wave was new and terrifying with the grinding slow motion of a nightmare. Throughout the waves that were mountains, the Gulf Station Lion was the strength of faith, and she was a diesel engine purring at sea. 

When the faraway man had had enough, and the beach boy was ready to panic, the flare gun fired, the red flare flew into the sunset, and the particular beach boy awoke with a start and sat up in bed. 

The adventure truly did begin after nightfall and a meal of too much garlic and exotic cheese from a faraway land. The dream was a fantasy but the Gulf Station was real and was located in Old Naples on Third Street. The cars at the Gulf Station were Rolls Royce and Mercedes, but there was always the lion of a Jaguar parked among the tools and torches and the hissing snakes of air hoses . . . and the dreams from another era.