The Triumph

 The little white car had not moved for years, or so it seemed. It was waiting in the driveway of the house that was on the way home from the beach. It was a Triumph TR6 and the dream car of a particular Marco Beach Boy. The two-seater English sports car, however, was beyond neglect. The convertible top was missing; the tires were almost flat, and there was little doubt the engine in the British Leyland design had not turned over in recent history.

When the Beach Boy rode past in the mornings, the forlorn two-seater seemed to beckon. When the drive home from work was in the rain, the dirty car sat hopelessly with the rain falling on the open seats, the dashboard, and the steering wheel that was waiting for a driver.

Then, it happened unexpectedly. On a fine winter day, when the seasonal family was home, and the Beach Boy was returning from work, the hood on the old Triumph was up, the flat tires were inflated, and a small covey of snowbirds were standing around and looking at the engine. Suddenly, with a burst of backfire and smoke, the little car obviously started with its motor turning over loudly. The ignition was obvious because the original English muffler was missing like the convertible top, and the noise of the revving engine was demanding attention from anyone who might be living near Marco Lake.

With curiosity and snooping being the driving factor, the Beach Boy walked over from three doors down. The Triumph was still growling away with the overly loud motor noise, and without a muffler, the roadster seemed more than ready to burst away from the captivity of the idle driveway.

Without any introduction and over the roar of the engine, the older man who was the owner of the Triumph spoke loudly. “I’ve seen you looking at the car.” He was almost yelling over the sound of the motor. “A thousand bucks, and she is all yours!”

The Beach Boy could not hide his surprise, but the logic of the hopelessness of the car was at once weighing heavily. “No way!” The Beach Boy exclaimed with a laugh. “This car is a mess!”

The snowbird grinned. “$700 bucks and drive her home,” he said. “You know, you want it. Hop in and drive around the lake.”

With the engine still growling, the Beach Boy opened the door and sat in the ruined, damp and mildewed driver’s seat. When the clutch was in, all the gears went through the shifting pattern smoothly. When first gear barked, the British engineering roared into life, and the old Triumph chirped out of the age-old resting place and began to terrorize the Marco Lake neighborhood. All the gauges on the cracked wooden dashboard were working. The horn sounded, and when a driving circuit of Front Street was complete, the Beach Boy was thinking about every sports car fantasy and the incredible value. The tires were full of tread, all the mechanics and brakes were working perfectly, and other than the terribly ruined interior, the rusted-out muffler, and missing convertible top, the TR6 was extremely fun to drive.

When the Triumph pulled into the driveway where the snowbirds were waiting, the Beach Boy parked, shut down the noisy engine, and shook his head. “I can’t afford $700,” he said. “The car drives great, but the top is gone. The interior is a mess, and the car is a cop magnet. If I were a cop, I would pull this car over just because of the noise!”

The snowbird was grinning knowingly. “Five hundred bucks, and you drive her away right now.”

This was when the Beach Boy said, “Okay,” even without any more rational thought.

Over the next few weeks, a new adventure began. A friendly neighbor down the street had an oxygen/acetylene torch, some jack stands, and just about any tool or mechanical advice that any uncertain but hopeful restoration project might need.

When the work began, the muffler was first. It was a dirty job underneath the car, and one day, when the torch was hissing and tools were all over the lakeside driveway, a new and unexpected friend made a surprising appearance. Just when a stubborn screwdriver was out of reach, and when a dirty hand was reaching, the tool with the round handle rolled under the car unexpectedly. After the screwdriver did the work, a few minutes later, the torch that was now resting on the pavement began to snake away for no apparent reason.

When the Beach Boy began to climb out from under the car to investigate, an otter from nearby Marco Lake had finished playing with the torch hoses and was rolling another screwdriver around the driveway. With the Beach Boy gaping in awe, the otter playfully began looking up as if to say hello.

This was the beginning, and for most days afterward, when the beach boy was pulling out the old seats or replacing the convertible top, the Marco Lake otter was present and ready to offer happy company. The otter was never shy and always playful. If anything would roll, the otter would push it. If anyone else was nearby the otter would not visit.

After the restoration was weeks into the project and the new interior was complete just before the summer rains, the Marco otter made a final appearance as if to say goodbye. The restoration of the old sports car was a dirty, messy, and frustrating job, but the lonely hours of the almost overwhelming project would forever be a Triumph because of an old car and the Marco Lake otter that will always be a favorite Beach Boy Chronicle.