Shining Sea Read Free

distract myself by considering the choice of activities on “the Hook.” That’s what locals call this long, rocky spit of land. It feels more like an island—the ocean’s everywhere. At the end of every street, the view out every window.
    A few short days after she returned from Maine. That’s when it happened. She went out on that boat—it could just as easily have been me. The water—it could have been me. Sucked beneath the sea.
    Wishing my fearful imaginings were as easily changed as a radio station, I start to sing now.
    I’ve worked hard at this “game,” playing it when I need to, ever since I—ever since Lilah nearly drowned—
    Hands trembling violently, I move back to the railing. Hold it tightly.
    Aquaphobia. That’s what Mom says I have, but Dr. Harrison says there’s nothing abnormal about my fear. He says it’s a reaction. A result of . . . Lilah’s traumatic experience. That it’ll fade over time. But did Dr. Harrison figure this into the mix? Living in a lighthouse—is it supposed to help?
    I lift the binoculars back to my eyes—but look away from the water.
    Comprised of the lighthouse, the keeper’s house, and one small outbuilding, the light station is about twenty minutes south of the harbor—the center of life here on Rock Hook Peninsula. The compound sits at the edge of a parcel of land designated to become a park, and next July, Rock Hook National Seashore will officially open to the general public. Tourists will invade the beach, trample the woods, and leave litter in their wake, ruining the wild beauty that stretches away to the south. And yes, it is beautiful. Even with the water all around. For now, it’s untouched, a wilderness. Breathing in the fine rain and salty mist, I scan the dunes and bluffs leading from the beach up to the woods.
    The forest is sparse where it starts, then the hilly terrain becomes dense with undergrowth and trees. As the incline steepens, the land begins to show again, becoming mostly barren. Sheer granite rock faces stretch up, up, up—until finally, with rugged shrubs and tall trees clinging to the top, the park’s most dramatic feature emerges, thrusting itself from the earth and jutting into the sky: Rock Hook Cliff.
    The huge ridge goes on and on, dipping and climbing out of sight, leading eventually to the end of the peninsula. It looks like the end of the world.
    Sunlight streams through a break in the clouds. I notice my arms are tiring from holding up the binoculars. I’ve gotten out of shape in the last year—I need serious exercise. Hiking might work, although I’ll probably be wiped by the time I finish taking a walk in these woods. My gaze sweeps the miles of primeval forest, made up largely of pine and birch trees. I’ll be totally fried before I even set foot on the hills that lead up to the craggy cliff.
    Squinting, I manage to pick out what looks like a trail, then follow it with the binoculars until it vanishes into the green growth. Cloud-dappled sunlight hits the next beach over. Half-hidden by high dunes, the white strip of sand appears similar to the long, curving cove the lighthouse overlooks, but there’s been so much fog and rain since we arrived—sea, sky, and sand blending, horizon invisible—I haven’t had a chance to study the land below in such detail before.
    Between the two beaches there’s a big jetty, similar to the seawall in front of the lighthouse. I imagine a giant tossing the black boulders . . .
    I adjust the binoculars. Now I can make out part of a shingled house, weathered to the soft shade of driftwood. I can’t see more. The tall sand dunes below the bluffs loom over the empty beach, blocking the rest.
    A flash of movement catches my eye. A figure, coming from behind one of the bluffs near the house that’s stayed stubbornly just out of view. A boy. A man? Whatever, some guy, maybe a little older than me.
    Tall, he carries a surfboard under one arm, heading toward the water with long