Life continues at the Light House

10 July.
I intended to sleep in a little bit this morning, but the sound of voices on the porch woke me up at 7:15. I have had a few late night visitors in the past, but never early morning ones. Today the museum is supposed to be closed, so i am going to do some work around the property, hike the trails etc... My usual regime of sweeping everything and mopping. I plan to do a little bit of laundry, use that water to mop the deck, and whatever is left over to scrub the stairs. I’ve cleared 6 inches back of grass along the sidewalk and plan to keep it trimmed. I think Randy Morgenson expressed it clearly during his years as a back-country ranger. Although the area belongs to the greater public, it’s hard not to feel a sense of ownership and responsibility for the land. Certain trees become my familiars and as I walk past them I affectionally touch their bark as I would hug a friend. Each one different, each one brings a different sensation to my fingertips. The pitchy and gnarled up Douglas Fir reminds me of an old wise gentlemen, full of stories, piss and vinegar. Parts are broken or missing, rarely growing symmetrically, scarred by battles with fire. However there he stands a sentinel on the point, whispering his secrets only a patient ear can hear. Standing alongside is the beautiful old Madrona. Every year she sheds her skin and looks new, fresh, and radiant as the days of her youth. All is not vanity as she stores the knowledge and battles of the year in the dense, thick, hard wood that forms her skeleton. Her leaves may fall, forming neat piles at her feet, but still her beauty is strong and magnificent. I am reminded of one of my most prized pieces of jewelry. A necklace of Madrona ‘beads’ on a string that my grandmother collected for me. When the ‘berries’ are dried they resemble the dark red of the Madronas’ bark. Rich and warm to the touch, a gentle reminder to the beauty found in nature. I am not sure what time of year is the best to find Madrona berries, but it wouldn’t hurt to go and check and see if the ones on the property have any for collecting. I already had to improvise earlier when the arm of my glasses fell off. The screw disappeared somewhere, so I found a piece of wheat stalk that fit through the whole and tied it off.
11 July,
News about Percy is ‘No idea what is wrong’. They did the x-rays, a radiograph and an electro-cardio-gram. All they were able to discover was a slow heartbeat while at the vets office. It’s a little frustrating not knowing what is wrong or how to fix it. I had a late night writing another story for my class. I felt like I was lacking inspiration, until I met 'L' the woman who helps take care of the property and the outhouse.

A little story

I wrote this partly for an assignment, but also just to write, I felt a little inspired. I have taken liberty with some of it, but I tried to capture the humor in the situation.




River was not the first person I would go to if I had a problem with an outhouse. Her dread-locked grey hair, dingy miss-matched clothing, and general demeanor said I was more likely to encounter a few bags of alaskan marijuana in her homemade 'junk sailboat', not an all inclusive self -published guide to the bacterial breakdown of the composting outhouse toilet and waste management system.

At first the outhouse had it's usual smell, human urine and feces festering at a healthy 100 degrees in a confined space. However, this weekend with all of the visitors to the area, over 1000 by last count, our tiny little outhouse was near overflow stage. Even in the cold air of the morning you could smell it before you saw it over the ridge. Parts of your brain would fire off as you walked towards it, animal instincts told you that it was something you should be fleeing, not willingly journeying into its closed and stuffy interior.

As it is with most tasks on the island you call out to whomever can help and expect said help to arrive on 'island time'. It's a part of the lifestyle that we have all come to love and appreciate, while others find frustratingly out of sync with the hustle and bustle of 'city time'. This being said, it was nearly a week after we put in the call for someone to stop the toxic sewage seepage that River showed up at the steps to the house introducing herself. At first I was taken aback by the dainty handshake from the proffered hand in front of me. A dainty little creature, almost mouse like in demeanor, clad head to toe in what I can only imagine were once scrubs of bright turquoises and yellows, and a blue baseball cap atop a head of thick dirty grey hair permanently shifted to one side from a lack of washing. I was a little upset that it had taken so long to service the one working toilet, aside from the woods, that is used as the toilet for myself, my workers, and all of the public that happens to walk the trail out here. For a week visitors must have been thinking as they walked down the steep hill to the lighthouse proper "Welcome to Turn Point, turning heads, and ships, and your stomachs since 1893". Granted I hadn't put the call out and said there was a fire, but maybe I should have, and then they would of sent over someone with enough heft to handle the monumental job.

We spent a good 20 minutes dispensing with the usual chit chat of islanders, talking about life, dinner, what that grass is for, if the eagles were especially active etc... Finally, after a particularly interesting conversation regarding 'swifts vs swallows' she announced that she would be heading up to the outhouse to begin work. I chuckled and said good luck, it's pretty bad up there. I had encountered many of her type around the islands. Men and women that had a general distaste of the government, usually on the verge of or not complete conspiracy theorists, people that elected to live 'au natural' as the earth intended, and sad to say, usually felt that work was beneath them, instead they were to commune with nature and expect handouts from the community. The kind that leaves you sarcastically saying "We have been wrong all a long, they have chosen the right path, only we are to snobbish to realize it. "

I watched her walk up the hill side to the odoriferous abomination and set about tidying up the property and conducting my nightly rounds. Forty five minutes later she came trotting down happy as a, dare I say it, shit eating clam.

"Whew!" she exclaimed, "it wasn't bad till I stirred it"
Stirred it, I thought, good lord why would you ever want to do that. However my response came out as a simple "Oh?"
"I am going to be back down tomorrow to pressure wash it and clean out the rest of it" she responded.
This only conjured images of a shit-spackled outhouse. Had stirring it set off a bomb and she was powerless as it gushed up in horrid torrents, eventually forcing her out of the offensive site?
"Do you need anything from me, buckets, water, scrub brushes. Do you need some bleach?" I asked.
"Oh no, I have everything, and I don't need bleach, I don't want to kill it."

'It'? What is 'it', is 'it' alive, does 'it' move, will 'it' come and kill me in my sleep under a deadly cloud of hydrogen sulfide? Her choice of words was not helping me conjure up an image of a possibly pleasant and peaceful pooping palace in the near future. As I watched her walk away that evening, I was reminded of the nightmares I had as a child using the pit toilet we had while building my grandparents house. No matter what they said, my youthful brain said there were monsters down there that would reach up and grab me and pull me down.

The next day she arrived in a beat up truck, one that had already seen its prime and had ended up on this island to die. In the back of her truck were several rusted oil barrels full of water, sloshing about. As the truck rocked over the big rocks the water in the drums would swish one way then make a mad dash towards the side with the open hole on the top, forming little geysers and fountains as she jostled down our 'road'. River hopped out of the driver seat, spry and as excited as yesterday.

"Do you need a hand?" I offered as she walked to the back of her pick up with a small bag.
"sure, let me get changed first" she replied.
I leaned on the edge of the pick up and watched as she donned a black full body tyvek suit, thick rubber gloves and booties, and a respirator. I half expected her to pull a snorkel, fins, and a floating ducky out of her bag to complete the profile of SEPTIC SCUBA SALLY. She caught my inquisitive look and said "Oh, don't worry, you will be fine"
"Ok" I said as I shrugged "what do you need me to do?"
"I need you to collect all of your grass clippings"
"My grass clippings?" I replied incredulously.
"Yes and any kitchen waste or waste water you have, bring it all up here" she said as she grabbed the pressure washing unit and prepped it.

With her back turned to me I could only assume that, that was that. I had my marching orders and gathered the 5 gallon bucket I used for coffee grounds, old pasta water, mop water left overs etc, that I usually tote up into the forest and deposit under a moss bed. I also filled another bucket with the grass I had cut around the sidewalk and had intended to move to a debris pile far enough away so as not to become a fire hazard. I heaved the two buckets to the top of the ridge before the outhouse and saw her standing there inside the outhouse pressure washing around the base of the 'toilet stand'. (This outhouse is a composting toilet, thus no flush, just a raised hole with a nice wooden seat). Although it was but a small pressure washer, the nozzle appeared as a fire hose in comparison to the bearer. She finished with a few short blasts of water to the ceiling and walls and walked back to shut off the pressure washer. Already I noticed the smell had dissipated some, and at least the inside was looking far better then I had imagined yesterday. With the sunlight entering the side ventilation shafts and striking the water droplets, it gave a sparkling almost fairy like glow to the once repugnant part of my daily routine.

"Go ahead and dump the grass clippings down the hole" she said, bringing me back to reality from my temporary dream.
"Ok, but why grass?" I asked.
"To make it smell sweet, kinda like candied apples"
Candied apples was the last thing I wanted to associate with this particular locale. Her statement brought up thoughts of swearing off candied apples for the rest of my life.
"And this kitchen water?" I inquired as I lifted both buckets.
"Put that in after you put the grass in, try to get the grass all over in a good layer, you will probably have to reach in and toss it around" she replied.
Oh god, I thought, she wants me to not only put stuff in the 'hole' but also to stick my hand inside an area that contains the excrement of over 1000 people, I don't think this was a part of my job description. My grandparents had always taught me to not be scared of something, to at least try it, and if it's a job, just do it with out reservation. I steeled myself and took one deep breath before going inside with the buckets. The shining fairy image I had seen of this outhouse, well damn fairies can go to hell, the smell still lingered about. Lingered, no, it didn't linger. Linger is a term you use when you describe the smell of jasmine or a pleasant flower. No, this made the air chewy. Chewy is more accurate of a description. I felt if I opened my mouth I could chew the air. The thought of tasting it on my tongue was nearly as offensive as the actual smell invading my nostrils.

"Here, use these" River said as she offered me the rubber gloves "no sense getting anything on you".
I was thankful for the gesture, and glad that she had turned down the cuffs so I could pull them on with out having to touch any of the 'used' parts.
"Ok, can you explain something to me, I know this is a composting toilet, and I grew up on septic systems and compost piles, but why do you want me to put grass, coffee, soapy water and all of that in here?" I asked as I reached my hand down the hole and tossed my first handful of grass into a corner. I figured if I talked I could avoid from focusing to much on my location.
"The grass forms a positive layer for the bacteria to feast on and introduces a series of smells that somewhat offsets the amount and type of ammonia emitted by human urine. The coffee is a great neutralizer and will decrease the amount of smell along with increasing the acidity slightly. This increase, along with the eco-friendly soap you use will kill off the bad bacteria. Of course this only encourages the good stuff to multiply, grow, and eat more. " she explained.

Whether or not her statement had any scientific truth behind it, I was going to take her words at face value. Something about her body language as she continued into the complexities of competing bacteria colonies found in waste management systems said that she knew what she was talking about. I grabbed my second bucket and poured its contents into the hole, listening with a sickly interest to the way the coffee grounds fell in large clumps and 'plopped' in the effluence below. When I finished River was standing behind me with a bag of freshly opened peat moss.
"This adds natural hummus to the mix, think of this outhouse as going to the bathroom on a really big compost pile. When I add this it helps absorb the moisture and thus makes it easier to digest for all of the little buggies and wormies that would other wise drown in a soil that was too watery." She said as she handed me a large funnel to place on top of the hole. "Hold this, and I'll pour."

The rest of the clean up went fairly quick, and as I walked back to the house to use my sun shower, I noticed the smell had gone. Or, I had only become accustomed to it in full force. Only time would tell, and this next week, along with a weekend full of visitors would be the true test of her methods. If I went to the outhouse to leave a 'present' and left desiring candied apples and espresso, then I would thank her for her work. For now I waved as she turned the truck around and headed it bouncing back up the hill. My initial reservations over her personal hygiene aside, she was a hard worker and scrubbed that outhouse to a spit shine. I guess it doesn't pay to be a germa-phobe and clean outhouses for a living. "What an odd woman" I thought aloud to no one.

Idle thoughts from Stuart Island

Various bits from my journal:

The late evening is settling about the Canadian Gulf Islands. The afternoon fog has continued to thicken and makes the islands float above the sea on the wings of fairies. Down the Strait somewhere south and out of view a large tanker is sounding its fog horn, warning that any boats in the way better move of be under the rick of being run over. I am surprised that the fog only stay to the western side of Haro Strait. At a quarter to 9 there are no boats within view of Turn Point. It feels ‘normal’ when it’s like this, unlike the freeway it is during midday. During the day at least 20 large tankers, several tug and barges, and 100+ small private boats pass the lighthouse. Additionally there seems to be an endless stream of sea planes and helicopters, their must be an air corridor directly over the south banks of Stuart Island. The sun is beginning to set, the warm colors cause an alpine glow affect on the property and cast an angelic halo around Roses’ body. I think of the whole day she enjoys this time the most. Stretched out on the deck, me scratching her belly and soaking up the last rays of the sun. No people around to bother us or interrupt ‘out’ time. Thisis also the time when the deer come to eat the grass in the field. Given the chance I have no doubt she would chase them, however she instead elects to keep me company with watchful ears and eyes tuned on her ‘intruders’.
9:40 pm, a group of 12 kids from camp Nor’wester come running down to the point, not safe, strange, puts me on edge.

More from Stuart

July 6th
End of yet another really long day. We had just over a hundred visitors come by today. I walked the property trying to figure out more of my keys. Thankfully, one of the keys opens both the lighthouse and the fuel shed. I properly tagged it and went about figuring out the other 10 or so unknown keys. Some are to unknown padlocks, others must be to doors somewhere. When I wasn’t talking to visitors and showing them around the house, I was cleaning. I have been finding jobs for myself instead of just sitting here. Boy, would my grandmother be proud.
Today I decided to wipe down all of the front siding with some water and a little bit of cleaner for the tough spots. The grime wasn’t bad, but the bird poop, dust, pollen and salt spray had accumulated enough that I had to replace my water a few times. I also wiped down the interior window sills and swept my living quarters and the second floor. I plan to continue the work tomorrow as it’s something I can do near the house and museum and still talk to the public. This will be especially imperative since I will be the only one on the property.
After the long day I shared the last bit of pie with Mike, one of the docents and biologists. He left around 4:30, but I kept the museum open till 6 pm before I closed up for dinner. Surprisingly only a small handful of people came by after that, unlike the past two days. I ate dinner, Chicken stew with portabella mushrooms, on the porch listening to the weather report for the next few days. I went ahead and added a weather page into the logbook so I can keep a rough idea of what it’s supposed to be like. I am a little surprised they are saying the Strait of Juan de Fuca will have a small craft advisory tonight. After breathing in the crisp air I headed inside to start doing some of my correspondence course work. I am supposed to write another story, and I am grasping at straws for new ideas. I could easily write about life at the lighthouse, but sadly thats not what the assignment calls for. My other class is a little frustrating because the teacher has made nearly half of his questions about webpages or internet based searches. needless to say I am going to do half of three assignments and then do the other half when I get back to Orcas. While I was pondering a particularly difficult section f wording I heard the telltale whoosh of blowholes. I rushed out with my video camera just in time to capture a pod of Orca’s passing the point. I sat there opening my heart and thanked them for welcoming me home. I doubt it will be the last time I see them, but for those brief moments, I was the only one that saw them pass. Not another human or boat was in sight for miles.

Turn Point, Stuart Island

Excerpts from my journal :
STUART ISLAND
4th July, Day 1
First day of the new journal. After many false starts we were finally on our way to Stuart Island. Percy had recovered from his apparent bout with heat exhaustion, the weather had improved, and the boat was loaded. We left the Orcas dock around 7:20 and arrived at the county dock in Prevost harbor nearly 2 hours later. As we pulled up the Bernquests were on the dock along with their sons and friends. So many helping hands ready to help us offload all of the furniture and my goods. They were intent upon giving me a fully furnished house, well, I have it.
A lot of visitors came by today, but that comes as no big surprise, it’s a holiday weekend. i am now spending the sunset alone with my dogs. I am mesmerized by the tidal whirlpools along the point. I see a life wrapping around the core. I am only distracted by the sharp gutteral noises from Roses belly. I hope it’s only indegestion and not something that wakes her, and thus me, up in the middle of the night.
It’s 9:05 pm and I am contemplating sleep while Orcas contemplates what the fireworks show will be like tonight. I love fireworks shows, and the parade. I love all of that community on the island and I will miss it. Sigh, oh well, instead I will stare into Canada for another half hour, think of things to do tomorrow, and then go to bed in my new home. My ‘show’ today has already come and gone. I watched a pair of adult eagles and their juvenile fishing in unison during the tide rip. I hopefully captured a few good photos, if not there is always tomorrow or the next day.

Final chapter

The next few hours passed in a blur as he stood watch over the fragile body. He wanted to be there when his son awoke, be there when he was confronted with what happened. he didn’t blame Mary for the accident, but he believed it wouldn’t of happened had he been there. That night the bed was left cold and the dinner unmade as the two grieving parents buried their only daughter. It was 2 fretful nights of waiting for their son to recover. Shirking their duties as light-keepers when Jules stepped in and tended to the beacon. Finally on the third day Billy awoke, his father sleeping in the chair next to him, his head resting on the bed with an outstretched hand across his sons leg.
“Dad” Billy said weakly.
“Yes” he said after a long sigh of relief. He fought to stave off the oncoming flood of tears, but the dam was breaking with every breath and blink of his sons eyes.
“Wheres Sis?”
At this he could hold it back no longer, no more the stoic man, he wept into his son[']s bedsheets. He couldn’t bring himself to say that awful word, the one that would explain it all, dead.
“We buried her under the Madrona[,]” he sobbed. His son reached down and placed his hand upon his fathers and said[,] “She loved you”.

The waters behind the dam burst forth and tears streamed down his face as he looked his son in the eye. How was it that Billy knew this was what he needed to hear, when did his son finally become a man. He turned his gaze towards the window pane as the rain began to fall.

The next day it was apparent that Billy's condition had taken a turn for the worse. Mary first noticed it when mary changed the bandages on the open amputation wound. The amount of yellowish green fluid oozing from deep within had grown in quantity. This could only mean one thing, an infection had set in. Later that day he had slipped into a coma and fears of losing him completely were rising [passive here again-say instead, Their fear of losing him rose.]. They originally planned to await the arrival of the Coast Guard Cutter, but the current situation forced him to decide to take his son by boat to the mainland 20 miles away. He ran down to the boat and made all the preparations to get underway while Jules and Mary prepared a stretcher and gave him another dose of quinine.

He shoved off from the dock and headed straight for the St Joe’s dock as fast as he dared to go with such precious cargo on board. He radioed ahead to the marine dispatch and explained his situation. They in turn ringed the hospital and were able to have an aid car at the wharf ready to receive him. He left his boat at the city dock and jumped into the back of the ambulance, his face showing how worried and distressed he felt. Although the drive took a matter of minutes, it felt like an eternity as with every second he saw his son slip farther and farther away. The emergency room was a blur as his son was whisked off down some unanimous hall and he was corralled into a room with a nurse with a clipboard. She was asking him medical questions and he could hear himself answering but he was intent upon watching the door behind which his son had disappeared.

He awoke from his dream, as a few rays of morning sun were dancing on the window pane. The ice cubes in his glass, long since melted leaving a ring of condensation on the table. The only reminder of yet another drink gone bad. He swilled the watery booze, allowing it to rest on his tongue, yet no matter how hard he tried he could never wash away that taste. Only bourbon could burn it out of his brain. He walked over to the phone and dialed the car service.
“Bye and Byes Drivers, how may I help you” came the sweet voice of a young girl.
“Yes, I need a car for one passenger to the airport in an hour” he said.
“Ok sir, will you need a return pick up?”
“No, it’s one way” he replied.
As he gave the young woman the address he realized this was the end. He knew where his wife was going, he knew that he had moved there after that fateful year. He ceased to care, and as he hung up the phone, he ceased to exist.

Chapter 7

The next morning as he cast off the mooring lines and turned the boat out of the protected cove, he saw his now extended family standing at the edge of the dock waving. Although the clouds had opened up and showers now poured down upon them, the children stood there smiling and waving furiously as the boat rounded the corner and was out of view. The next few days were bliss for the family. Another family from one of the neighboring lighthouses stopped over on their return from a supply run Visits from fellow light-keepers were always well received, as there were so few people in this world that understood the trials and tribulations of the lifestyle. The details were never made clear to him, but a day before he was set to return the children were out in their customary fashion exploring the island. The two children were climbing in one of their favorite trees near the beach, when there was a thunderous crack as the crown of the tree separated and crashed down amongst the rocks.

Mary heard the crash and instinctively, as only a mother can feel, felt something had gone terribly wrong and dropped the basket of fresh flowers and took off running. The petas of the delicate blooms barely had settled to the ground before she let out a blood curdling scream. There, lying still and lifeless amongst the debris, lied her two precious babies. She lost the ability to function, her legs collapsing out from underneath her, barely able to crawl across the rocks to where Bridgette lay pinned under a massive branch. A shard of which had peeled off and was firmly secured in her abdomen. Hopelessly she splashed some of the incoming sea water on her precious girls face, mindlessly trying to wash away the blood. Sobs violently racked her body and she was unable to fight the urge to vomit. As she lay there weeping into her own bile she hear something. A whisper at first, then a whimper and the soft cry of her son “mama”.

She rushed over to him and grabbed him, hugging him closely as she collapsed about him, rocking back and forth as the tears stung her face.
“Oh my god, thank god.” she stumbled over her words between each sobbing fit. It wasn’t until she felt her sons body go limp that she realized the severity of the situation. There trapped under the trunk of the tree were the mangled remains of her sons leg. Although most of his leg remained unseen, bits of broken bone and flowing blood could be seen above his knee cap. She started screaming “Help” as she removed her bandana and fashioned a crude tourniquet above the wound. Calling upon all of the angels of mercy and all that is good in this world she placed her hands underneath the log and began to lift. That was her flesh and blood under there and she would die before giving up. Just then Jules arrived and she was barely able to grunt out between gritted teeth “Get him”

Jules quickly reached down and scooped the boy up in his arms, being careful to raise his legs higher than his heart. Mary dropped the log with a resounding crash. She walked over to where Bridgette was lying, now blue and cold, and removed the offensive piece of wood. She gingerly lifted her into her arms, her face now numb, and walked past Jules towards the house. Her once pink and white floral dress streaked with crimson. When they arrived at the house she directed Jules to take Billy into the kitchen as she carried her darling girl up to bed. She gently laid her down, nestled the blankets up around her and laid her favorite stuffed rabbit next to her. She stared at her daughters once beautiful alabaster skin and freckled nose, kissed her on the forehead, and tucked her in for her final rest. She knew time was short for her son, and mourning could be saved for later. She walked down the stairs, grabbed her medicine bag and rolled up her sleeves. She stopped outside the kitchen door, took a deep breath and let out a sigh before proceeding. Quickly her brain switched into clinical mode and she no longer saw her son on the table, but just another trauma patient on the operating table. She walked over to the sink and began scrubbing her hands and arms, watching as the suds turned to a foamy pink before washing down the drain. She heard the back door slam shut and figured Jules had lost his nerve, but as she finished scrubbing she turned around to see him carrying a smalle stick, a leather strap and the new ax. He too had realized the severity of the injury. They stared at each other, preparing themselves for what they were about to do. They didn’t notice the boat pulling up to the wharf.

He had found it odd that his family was not waiting for him at the dock. He was a day early, but he had blown the horn three times before he arrived. Surely Billy would have heard it. He tied his boat off and started unloading supplies on the dock. From the last box he removed a brand new porcelain china doll, and as he walked towards the house he was careful to hide it behind his back, lest his daughter caught him unawares. As he approached the house he noticed there was a lot of lights on in the kitchen. He opened the back door and saw Mary’s back holding something on the table, and Jules swinging and ax down hard. Mary felt his presence and turned, and there, just a glimpse, he saw his son laying on the table. He felt a deep pit form in his stomach, the precious doll sliding from his fingers and crashing upon the floor. The tinkling of the individual pieces now filled the deathly silent room. Mary ran to him, her once clinical resolve melting away as she hugged him tightly. Between her whimpers he could hear the words he dreaded ‘she’s dead’. He hugged his wife close and gently pushed her away as he walked towards his son[']s now deformed body. Jules grabbed a piece of cloth and wrapped up the now dismembered leg and placed it beneath the table before dressing the wound. Here his son lay, sticky with sweat, cool to the touch. A stick marked deeply with teeth marks, now lay limply across his mouth. He removed the wood, and wiped his boys face, wiping away the sweat, and wiping away the now free flowing tears.
“My boy, my beautiful boy” he kept repeating over and over as he laid his head upon his sons chest. He could feel that somewhere deep within, his sons heart was beating and there was still hope.

Off to Stuart Island

Well, the time is finally here, I am off to Stuart Island tomorrow afternoon, and the first 'vacation' I have is on the 16th for the family reunion. If anyone needs to get a hold of me you can always call my grandma's house, or you can call my voicemail call button. I wont be able to check emails until I get back on the 16th, so I hope everyone has a great 4th of July. Thinking of all of you and missing you!

Nic

Chapter 6

He awoke from his memory with a jolt, a bruned aftertaste on his tongue. Why do I torment myself this way, why must I relive this, he thought to an empty room. The sun was now hiding on the other side of the world, and in its absence was the cold and dark night, forbidding yet comforting. He reached for his glass and walked to the bottle resting ont he bar. He tapped off his glass, watching the amber liquid cascade about in the confines of the crystal . He drank that one and poured himself another. He saw his whole life crumbling about him and he felt powerless to stop it. A cold shiver ran down his spine and he placed a few more logs on the fire before returning to the residual warmth in his chair. Outside the trees shuddered against one another, a rogue limb was was scraping across the window pane. Tap Tap, tap tap, Papa, tap tap, Papa, the voice of his son lured him back into a fitful slumber.

His dream took him back to the lighthouse, only now it was a year later and the situation had changed . He gazed out across the cove and saw his son waving at him from a boat and holding up what looked to be a salmon. He smiled and waved back before turning about and heading towards the house. there sitting outside the back porch sharpening the aces was hi new assistant light-keeper, Jules. It was almost a year ago this day that he nearly arrested this man. mary was right all along, and after squaring things away with the Coast Guard, Jules asked to stay on the island to repay his gratitude. To date Jules had been one of the hardest working and able bodied men to serve alongside him. He came up next to him and admired the progress before saying “the new fresnel is coming in today”.
“I will go make sure the old one is ready to be moved before they get here” replied Jules.
“I’ll come and get you when they come in.”
At this he walked inside and found Mary washing the morning dishes. She was looking through the kitchen window and her gaze was focused on something outside the back door. He walked up to her, wrapped his arms around her waist and nestled his face amongst her locks. She moved her head slightly and cooed “Hell there handsome, what brings you by my door at this hour?”
“You” he simply replied.
He was enjoying the feeling of her tight in his arms pressed up against him. A growing warmth was building deep inside him. As he nuzzled her neck and breathed in the sweet aroma of her hair, he finally caught sight of what it was that was occupying her gaze. The once passionate heat suddenly froze over as he saw Jules grinding away outside the kitchen window. He lifted his lips to her ear and whispered “I love you” before pulling away and going to the washroom. He always felt he could trust Mary, he knew she wouldn’t be unfaithful, had he not tried to give her everything? He tried to put the thought out of his mind for the rest of the day, but there was always that incessant reminder. She had seemed more cheerful these past few months, more then usual.

That evening at dinner, as the family st laughing about another on of Jules stories, he remained silent, awaiting a lull in the conversation. As dessert was being served he finally found his chance and announced “I received a letter last week, I need to go to Astoria for a meeting of the light-keepers.” The silence was palpable, and he could feel his heart beat thunder inside his chest in sync with the tick tock of the grandfather clock on the mantle.
“I will be gone for a week or so, but I promise to pick up supplies before I return. Mary, Jules you must always watch the beacon in my absence” he said.
At the mention of supplies and therefore possible treats, a smile returned to the childrens’ faces before spreading infectiously to the rest of the tables occupants.