Sharon Welker was gently awakened from her afternoon nap by the cries of a red-shouldered hawk. "Keeyer…keeyer…keeyer…keeyer…keeyer…keeyer…keeyer…keeyer," whistled the hawk in a series of cries with their descending pitch. Sharon slept with her windows open to take advantage of the cross breezes that come off the gulf. She was, like most Sanibel natives, a squatter in one of the many abandoned condos that overpopulated the resort community. Locals referred to this quick-claim phenomenon as "movin' on up". Sharon's condo was in the Coquina Beach grouping on Nerita Street. What she especially liked about the location was the proximity to the beach - perfect for a professional beachcomber - and the easy walk along East Gulf Drive took her to Tuttle's Sea Horse Shell Shop, where three or four days a week she worked selling sea shells, gold and silver coins and jewelry, pirate paraphernalia, and nautical décor items.
Still the party at the marina last night was fun. They had built a large bonfire on the beach, gulf side, in full view of the destroyed bridge that spanned Blind Pass. They had toasted the locals who had already erected a swinging foot bridge, from one concrete mass to another, in order to restore foot traffic between Sanibel and Captiva. They had lifted their glasses more than once to conservation causes, to the capitalistic success of Che Guevara T-shirts, to Poseidon and the minor gods of the west wind, to Mrs. Cavendish, wherever she is, and sundry other eclectic issues. Last night was fun and Beverly couldn't get it out of her head; not that she wanted to.
