Read Online Maidenstone Lighthouse by Sally Smith O' Rourke - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Sally Smith O' Rourke
Ads: Link
of viscous blue smoke from its little chrome tailpipe. Then, with a noise like a nest of vengeful killer bees, the motor surged instantly to life.
I laughed aloud, twisted the throttle hard and turned onto the street, heading out onto the stone causeway that connected Maidenstone Island to the mainland. With the fresh sea air whipping my hair into my eyes and filling my nostrils I suddenly felt wonderful. Still laughing, I brushed away the tangle and glanced down at the speedometer. It was hovering at thirty miles per hourâwhich on a moped feels more like sixtyâand the engine was purring beneath my tingling bottom like a happy kitten.
I rode the two miles to the island without once slowing. Then it was a case of either stopping at the parking lot beside the lighthouse or plunging straight ahead into the chilly waters of the Atlantic.
So I stopped and just stood there, straddling the softly idling bike and drinking in the glorious view.
The Maidenstone Lighthouseâwhich is one of the few 19th-century coastal lights still in active serviceâis an old-fashioned structure that looks like an artistâs idealized conception of a traditional New England lighthouse. The tall white tower poised on the huge gray rocks beside its quaint clapboard lightkeeperâs cottage is possibly the most painted and photographed landmark in this part of the country.
As a result, during the summer tourist season the island is usually crawling with visitors. They walk down to the small rocky beach to photograph one another with the graceful white tower looming in the background, then line up by the dozen to make the daunting hundred-foot climb up a winding iron stairway to the tiny glass room on top. There they marvel at the gigantic hand-cast lenses that nightly beam lifesaving rays thirty miles out to sea, just as they did in the days when great sailing ships passed up and down this treacherous coast.
The visitorsâ fascination is easy to understand. For though those ships are no more and todayâs giant tankers and cargo carriers rely primarily on satellites and radar to warn them off the deadly rocks, the lighthouse carries on. Because satellite signals may be interrupted by solar flares and radar sets can break down, and frequently do. But the Maidenstone Light has never once failed in its entire one-hundred-and-sixty-year history. And though the beacon itself has been automated and the lightkeeperâs cottage turned into a museum, the beauty and romance of the noble old lighthouse holds a special place in the hearts of all who have ever dreamed of faraway places and sailing ships and the sea.
Out on the island on this unseasonably warm October afternoon, however, the little museum was closed and there was not a single tourist in sight. Except for a battered Toyota pickup that looked as if it might have been abandoned by high school beer drinkers the night before, I was utterly alone.
I parked the Vespa on its stand in the shadow of the tower and sat down on one of the white-painted boulders that separate the parking area from the beach. Fumbling in the pocket of my jeans, I found a rubber band and gathered my hair into an untidy knot. Then I turned my face up to the sky and watched a pair of gulls gliding around the lighthouse.
It would be pleasant, I was thinking, to come out here, as I used to, with just a picnic lunch and my sketchbook. And that thought led back to Bobby. This was the place he had come so I could be alone with Aunt Ellen on that awful morning three years earlier. Now I feared that his memory of this beautiful spot had been spoiled when heâd returned to find me screeching at my poor auntie that day.
God how I missed them both, longed to see them for just one moment.
Grief, according to Laura, is not the most painful of human emotions. Regret has got it beat hands down.
I was pulled from my sad reverie by the sound of footsteps approaching close behind me. Jumping to my feet, I
I laughed aloud, twisted the throttle hard and turned onto the street, heading out onto the stone causeway that connected Maidenstone Island to the mainland. With the fresh sea air whipping my hair into my eyes and filling my nostrils I suddenly felt wonderful. Still laughing, I brushed away the tangle and glanced down at the speedometer. It was hovering at thirty miles per hourâwhich on a moped feels more like sixtyâand the engine was purring beneath my tingling bottom like a happy kitten.
I rode the two miles to the island without once slowing. Then it was a case of either stopping at the parking lot beside the lighthouse or plunging straight ahead into the chilly waters of the Atlantic.
So I stopped and just stood there, straddling the softly idling bike and drinking in the glorious view.
The Maidenstone Lighthouseâwhich is one of the few 19th-century coastal lights still in active serviceâis an old-fashioned structure that looks like an artistâs idealized conception of a traditional New England lighthouse. The tall white tower poised on the huge gray rocks beside its quaint clapboard lightkeeperâs cottage is possibly the most painted and photographed landmark in this part of the country.
As a result, during the summer tourist season the island is usually crawling with visitors. They walk down to the small rocky beach to photograph one another with the graceful white tower looming in the background, then line up by the dozen to make the daunting hundred-foot climb up a winding iron stairway to the tiny glass room on top. There they marvel at the gigantic hand-cast lenses that nightly beam lifesaving rays thirty miles out to sea, just as they did in the days when great sailing ships passed up and down this treacherous coast.
The visitorsâ fascination is easy to understand. For though those ships are no more and todayâs giant tankers and cargo carriers rely primarily on satellites and radar to warn them off the deadly rocks, the lighthouse carries on. Because satellite signals may be interrupted by solar flares and radar sets can break down, and frequently do. But the Maidenstone Light has never once failed in its entire one-hundred-and-sixty-year history. And though the beacon itself has been automated and the lightkeeperâs cottage turned into a museum, the beauty and romance of the noble old lighthouse holds a special place in the hearts of all who have ever dreamed of faraway places and sailing ships and the sea.
Out on the island on this unseasonably warm October afternoon, however, the little museum was closed and there was not a single tourist in sight. Except for a battered Toyota pickup that looked as if it might have been abandoned by high school beer drinkers the night before, I was utterly alone.
I parked the Vespa on its stand in the shadow of the tower and sat down on one of the white-painted boulders that separate the parking area from the beach. Fumbling in the pocket of my jeans, I found a rubber band and gathered my hair into an untidy knot. Then I turned my face up to the sky and watched a pair of gulls gliding around the lighthouse.
It would be pleasant, I was thinking, to come out here, as I used to, with just a picnic lunch and my sketchbook. And that thought led back to Bobby. This was the place he had come so I could be alone with Aunt Ellen on that awful morning three years earlier. Now I feared that his memory of this beautiful spot had been spoiled when heâd returned to find me screeching at my poor auntie that day.
God how I missed them both, longed to see them for just one moment.
Grief, according to Laura, is not the most painful of human emotions. Regret has got it beat hands down.
I was pulled from my sad reverie by the sound of footsteps approaching close behind me. Jumping to my feet, I
Similar Books
