whereismymind
02-20-2005, 06:25 PM
The road grows longer every time I drive it. New curves seemingly invent themselves, and the marinas become more distant, as they're the first signs that the island is reaching its end. It's changed in the years I've known it: for one thing, there never was a welcome center. What once was a dirt road that ended abruptly in the sound is now paved, with a nice little parking lot for visitors, picnic tables, and informational signs relating the history of the island and the lighthouse that's watched it across the sound for some 150 years.
The lighthouse. As I step out of my car, Lookout's beam hits my eye as it sweeps over everything in its path. It looks so small from so far away--probably five miles, but I'm a poor judge of distance. "I've been in that lighthouse, I've seen what it sees," I think, but that was a long time ago. It's been closed to the public for thirty years, but my grandfather knew the last keepers, so we got to go up. I think I was six--no, seven--and my cousin Dani was seven too, and the three of us made the trek to the top. The light looks so small from below, but up close it's an intimidating mass of glass and steel, almost frightening to a small child. You could see everything from up there; on one side is the sound, where you can see all the boats below, the ponies on Shakleford Banks, even Harker's Island; on the other side is the ocean, the most brilliant blue I've ever seen, stretching all the way to the hazy horizon line.
A car door slams behind me. Kids leap out of a minivan and run to the water's edge while their parents shout that they'd better not get their shoes wet. I decide it's time to go, the sun is getting lower in the sky, soon it will be dark. As I drive back down Harker's Island Road, I notice all the lights are off at Sonny's house--"They must be at the hospital," I think.
The last time I saw Sonny I was shocked at how old he looked, older than my grandfather. For as long as I can remember, Sonny ran the Mule Train, a sort of ferry service that consisted of pickup trucks with seats in the back that carried people from the sound side of Cape Lookout to the ocean side. He used to give us rides for free, Dani, my brother, and I. The ocean side was the best because there was never anyone there, just a few sandpipers and miles of white sand dotted with seashells. One time we found an old tote bag stuffed under a seat, and we spent the whole day combing the beach for conch shells. Conch shells were the best, not only because they were big and impressive looking, but because they didn't break easily like delicate jingles or cockles. We ended up filling the bag, and it was lucky that Sonny picked us up because we'd never make it back across the dunes with such a heavy load. Once he'd dropped us off and we made it back to the boat, my dad said we didn't have room for the shells and refused to take them from us. Dani wasn't too upset--after all, she lived here and could come back for them anytime--but I was. We got in the boat and I sat in silence the whole way back, and once we got to the harbor I just got out and walked home by myself. When everyone else got back I was sitting on the swing in the yard, balloons from my 11th birthday were still tied to the lightpost on my right. I watched them unload coolers and beach chairs and loads of other stuff that was far less necessary than my conch shells had been. I saw my grandfather get out of the cab and walk over to me, and without saying a word he called me over. Sitting in the bed of the truck were our conch shells.
As I turn off the road and pull into the yard I notice those shells still sitting under the swing. There are no balloons this time to remind me that my birthday is tomorrow, but 18 year olds don't need balloons. The sun is edging ever closer to the horizon and the sky is lit up with every possible shade of red. It's an exact scene I've witnessed thousands of times before, but never have I actually seen it for what it is. The lighthouse beam makes another sweep across the sound and an odd noise jostles me out of my daydream--my phone is ringing. I glance at the caller i.d: "Call from: Mom." It continues to ring and I let it. I know what has happened, I know what will be said. My grandfather has died. I watch the sun set.
The lighthouse. As I step out of my car, Lookout's beam hits my eye as it sweeps over everything in its path. It looks so small from so far away--probably five miles, but I'm a poor judge of distance. "I've been in that lighthouse, I've seen what it sees," I think, but that was a long time ago. It's been closed to the public for thirty years, but my grandfather knew the last keepers, so we got to go up. I think I was six--no, seven--and my cousin Dani was seven too, and the three of us made the trek to the top. The light looks so small from below, but up close it's an intimidating mass of glass and steel, almost frightening to a small child. You could see everything from up there; on one side is the sound, where you can see all the boats below, the ponies on Shakleford Banks, even Harker's Island; on the other side is the ocean, the most brilliant blue I've ever seen, stretching all the way to the hazy horizon line.
A car door slams behind me. Kids leap out of a minivan and run to the water's edge while their parents shout that they'd better not get their shoes wet. I decide it's time to go, the sun is getting lower in the sky, soon it will be dark. As I drive back down Harker's Island Road, I notice all the lights are off at Sonny's house--"They must be at the hospital," I think.
The last time I saw Sonny I was shocked at how old he looked, older than my grandfather. For as long as I can remember, Sonny ran the Mule Train, a sort of ferry service that consisted of pickup trucks with seats in the back that carried people from the sound side of Cape Lookout to the ocean side. He used to give us rides for free, Dani, my brother, and I. The ocean side was the best because there was never anyone there, just a few sandpipers and miles of white sand dotted with seashells. One time we found an old tote bag stuffed under a seat, and we spent the whole day combing the beach for conch shells. Conch shells were the best, not only because they were big and impressive looking, but because they didn't break easily like delicate jingles or cockles. We ended up filling the bag, and it was lucky that Sonny picked us up because we'd never make it back across the dunes with such a heavy load. Once he'd dropped us off and we made it back to the boat, my dad said we didn't have room for the shells and refused to take them from us. Dani wasn't too upset--after all, she lived here and could come back for them anytime--but I was. We got in the boat and I sat in silence the whole way back, and once we got to the harbor I just got out and walked home by myself. When everyone else got back I was sitting on the swing in the yard, balloons from my 11th birthday were still tied to the lightpost on my right. I watched them unload coolers and beach chairs and loads of other stuff that was far less necessary than my conch shells had been. I saw my grandfather get out of the cab and walk over to me, and without saying a word he called me over. Sitting in the bed of the truck were our conch shells.
As I turn off the road and pull into the yard I notice those shells still sitting under the swing. There are no balloons this time to remind me that my birthday is tomorrow, but 18 year olds don't need balloons. The sun is edging ever closer to the horizon and the sky is lit up with every possible shade of red. It's an exact scene I've witnessed thousands of times before, but never have I actually seen it for what it is. The lighthouse beam makes another sweep across the sound and an odd noise jostles me out of my daydream--my phone is ringing. I glance at the caller i.d: "Call from: Mom." It continues to ring and I let it. I know what has happened, I know what will be said. My grandfather has died. I watch the sun set.