Adventure Bequeathed

By Jef Kaiser

Jef Kaiser grew up in Florida but has lived in Multnomah County, Oregon for the past 42 years. Despite a love for the natural beauty of the Pacific Northwest, the gloominess of Oregon winters sometimes turns his thoughts to the sun and subtropical wilds of his home state. This novelette was written during one of those winters as a vicarious way to escape the drear and return to the haunts of his boyhood during the 1950’s and 60’s.

“Adventure Bequeathed” offers the reader a quirky tour of natural Florida led by an author who has extensive firsthand knowledge of the Sunshine State beyond the Disney World and tourist glitz. A retiree confronts the loss of his artist-father and is drawn into a treasure hunt with venomous consequences. Believers in extraterrestrial visits, prohibition era executions, and navigating sweaty waterways and trails add spice to the story’s wildlife-laden context.

Although thoroughly a work of fiction, the story was inspired by real places, people and experiences liberally embellished by imagination.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jef Kaiser
• Release date: Dec 16, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311974754

Book preview

Adventure Bequeathed

Published by Jef Kaiser at Smashwords

Copyright 2019 Jef Kaiser

The Story:

A retiree confronts the loss of his artist-father and is drawn into a treasure hunt through the wildlands of Florida with venomous consequences.

Proem

Face down in the rough marl of a two-rut road, I imagined rivulets of venom coursing their way to my heart. Between bouts of delirium, I wondered how this moment would have been different had I not accepted the challenge of finding a small lead box containing a treasure known to have a history of mortal consequences. Would I ever hold my wife and see my family again? A buzzing numbness crept through my head fogging my thoughts. Then . . . nothing.

One

He lay diagonally across a musty quilt on his childhood bed. Long remembered sounds drifted through the just opened window, gently stirring memories of growing up here on Heron Key along the west coast of Florida. A light Gulf breeze rattled the fronds of century-old sabal palms and the smacks of jumping mullet in the nearby bayou added to the quiet symphony of the remnant wildness. An incoming tide began oozing into pores created by fiddler crabs in the muddy shallows. Stilted mangrove trees shielded a view of the bayou from the house except for a narrow break through which a sagging dock protruded into water deep enough to moor a shallow-draft sailboat or launch a canoe.

The house was old-Florida-style with a screened veranda on three sides and its bulk raised on pilings as storm surge protection from hurricanes. The one-story home was spacious for its time with four bedrooms, a living room, a large family kitchen and eating area, and a modest studio space where his father had painted scenes of then-Florida rarely seen today. The hipped roof was sheathed in galvanized tin and the siding was clear cypress that had staved off the ravages of rot and insects for more than eighty years.

Behind the house were twelve acres of subtropical jungle dominated by sabal palms and live oaks draped with Spanish moss and festooned with spidery epiphytic plants. Some of the trees heroically battled their inevitable entombment by strangler figs, and patches of poison ivy kept the human visitor wary. A small shell midden on the property gave evidence of early man’s opinion that this was a choice and bountiful place to have a home.

The man on the bed was just under six feet tall with a lean frame and a complexion that burned rather than tanned under the fierce Florida sun. At 62 years of age, he had lost the toneness of youth but still looked fit - - a result of years of lap swimming and sea kayaking from his home in Port Townsend, Washington. He had a pleasantly angular face with a thin white scar that emerged from his left sideburn and extended halfway to his jaw line. The scar was a reminder of teenage foolishness when he bodysurfed through the pilings of an abandoned pier while trying to impress two girl tourists sunning on the beach. His now mostly white hair made the scar less apparent. Reading glasses that normally hung around his neck were lying on the adjacent night table.

He had retired as a landscape architect and planning consultant last fall allowing him and his wife Sarah more time for their passion of travel and outdoor pursuits. Both his children had completed college, one now married and the other’s relationship waiting in the wings. Their house was paid for and they were financially comfortable in view of their modest lifestyle.

The man dozed briefly, tired from a red eye flight across the country then an early morning drive from Tampa International Airport. These next two weeks would be the last time he would stay in his boyhood home.

His father had unexpectedly passed away a month earlier having stayed on in this house seven years after his wife of 57 years had lost her battle with cancer. The man had flown home on short notice to share his father’s final hours. Three days later, he spread his father’s ashes in Sheepshead Cut during an outgoing tide according to his dad’s wishes. He then returned to Port Townsend. He was now back in Florida to complete the final steps of transferring the family home and property to the Upper Bay Estuary Land Trust, again, according to his dad’s wishes. He felt good about the transfer, knowing that the wildness and beauty of this place would be preserved from the ever-accelerating onslaught of Florida’s coastal development. Although the Pacific Northwest had been his home for over 35 years, he still had a deep affection for natural Florida. He was the only remaining heir to his father’s estate as his older brother had been killed by friendly fire in Vietnam.

He was awakened by the crunching of tires on the oyster-shell driveway to the house. A rapping sound brought him groggily to the ironwood framed screen door where a scholarly looking man in his late 30s stood on the weathered stoop. With a friendly smile, the visitor extended his hand in greeting as the mesh door was pushed open. Mr. Barlow, I’m Jason Hardesty from the Upper Bay Trust. I was in the area, and thought I’d drive in to check on the property. Knowing you would be returning today and seeing your rental car, I felt I’d better announce my presence.

Hi Jason, sorry, I’m still waking up from a nap, please come in. You can drop the ‘Mister’ and call me Chay. Seeing a hint of confusion in Jason’s face, the man explained that ‘Chay’ was the ‘C’ in