The Lighthouse Keeper

A lot can happen in a single minute. 

This fact is well-known to the Keeper of the Copper Harbor Lighthouse. A staple of Michigan’s shoreline, his station serves as the final signal for freighters looking to round the Upper Peninsula's perilous reach toward the center of Lake Superior. A minute, he’s learned, is all it takes for a radio to go silent. For a November storm to turn deadly. For a great, steel ship to give in to Superior’s currents and take every crewman with her.

After sixteen summers spent tending to the structure, the Keeper has developed a keen eye for its patterns. Waves break in rhythm against the northern cliff side. The geese make their annual flight south. Familiar westward winds tell him that the waters will be rough tonight, no doubt from the storm flashing over Canada’s horizon, with thunder rolling in sixty Mississippis too late. At his back, the beacon spins at its usual pace, punctuating each passing minute with one, two, three, four even turns. He watches the light sweep across the surface of the lake, whitecapped warnings rippling across an inky night.

A lot can happen in a single minute, which is something the Keweenaw County Deputy Sheriff has known since her first night on duty. She’s served for well over three-thousand nights now, and she’s seen firsthand how a minute can change a life, change a family, change a community. How it can mark the difference between life and death. How it only takes one call, crackling over the radio, to take a night from bad to worse.

The lighthouse is part of her usual beat, so she knows what to look out for. Kids starting bonfires up and down the rocky beach. Tourists trying to enter the park after sundown. Boaters out late on red-flag waters, loud and boisterous after a few too many drinks. It’s always the same out here, and the Deputy Sheriff has seen it all. Her cruiser’s headlights blaze across chilling waters, a scaled-back and static version of the beacon’s one, two, three, four pulse.

A lot can happen in a single minute, which is a lesson learned the hard way for two dark figures trying to find their footing in the lighthouse’s forested edge. Decisions can be made in one minute that have a lasting impact on every minute after. The decision to stand in front. The decision to finally hit back. Both figures regret the decision to weigh down their bright blue tarp, now that they’re carrying 260 pounds across uneven soil. 

Two figures—three, technically—who are on their way to realizing that nothing was ever going to change, until they changed it. Two figures who, for the first time, feel something like hope in their chests even with all the weight of their decisions. It’s dark and getting darker as one, two, three, four flashes from the lighthouse light their path toward the shore. Its beat is relentless, washing over them again, and again, and again.

One.

The Keeper hears something strange, out of place among the usual call of nighttime critters coming to. Voices, maybe, though it’s awfully hard to tell over the crash of water down below. Nothing distinct, but definitely a disturbance. Probably those damn kids again. He reaches for his flashlight and finds his way to the spiral staircase with a grumble.

The Deputy Sheriff lets an idle static fill her car, staving off a perpetual small-town boredom. She spots the Keeper, leaving his post earlier than usual. In a place like this, even small changes are big changes, and she didn’t get to be Deputy Sheriff by sitting on her ass. With the easy flick of her keys, she powers down her cruiser, pops open the driver’s side door, and grabs a flashlight of her own. 

The shadowed figures fumble down to the high tide, muscles aching, stomachs turning, hearts clenched tight in their chests until the deed is done. Relief strikes when they spot two abandoned boats pulled up on dry land, one wood and one steel, both in questionable condition. They choose wood, because it’s quieter and less likely to shine in the beam of the lighthouse.

Two.

The Keeper reaches the base of the steps, maneuvering past old fishing nets, oil-scorched lanterns, preservers and life jackets. His front door only presents more steps leading down, down, down into the trees. He knows this forest just as well as he knows the lighthouse, which is why he double-checks his hip for bear spray. The thunder is only thirty seconds out, now, and bigger animals have been spooked by less.

The Deputy Sheriff keeps a respectful distance, but doesn’t let the Keeper disappear into the night. The radio on her belt sparks to life, dispatch calling out the report for a potential 13-20 to all officers on duty. Routine stuff. She reaches for the rubber dial and turns the volume down. She’s not hiding. But something tells her she doesn’t want to be seen, either. Not yet, anyway.

The figures are all too eager to drop their dead weight into the body of the boat. They only have a moment to catch their breath, heaving in and out against their own pounding hearts. The tarp creases at an odd angle, right at its center, and neither one of them thinks too hard about what it looks like beneath the straps. Instead, the shorter figure turns to the taller one. She reaches two maternal hands to either side of his face, thumb gracing the spot along his cheekbone that’s starting to swell. “He’s not going to hurt us anymore,” she says.

Three.

Definitely voices, the Keeper decides, climbing down the steep decline toward water. His flashlight crawls across all the roots, weeds, and mud along his path. No one in the park this late is ever up to any good.

The Deputy Sheriff is gaining distance, all tied up in leafy tangles. She can’t imagine how the old man moves so fast. She hears something growl in the distance and thinks she should have brought her bear spray.

The figures heave the boat across rocks, one of them pushing, the other pulling. With effort, they reach the water, relieved beyond reason when the beaten up boat floats on entry. The water chills them to their knees, but they don’t feel it. They don’t feel anything. Not until a flashlight shines across their faces, flooding them with panic.

Four.

The Keeper recognizes them on sight, the same way he’d recognize any local. Sheila Dodson grew up down the road from the church, where she also raised little Connor Dodson the best she could, considering their circumstances. The rumors weren’t kind. The truth wasn’t much kinder. The Keeper shines his flashlight across the boat, and doesn’t have to wonder too hard about where Jackson Dodson finally ended up. His own father comes to mind, memories sour, featuring the type of man who makes living alone in a lighthouse seem like the preferable lifestyle.

The Deputy Sheriff spots a light up ahead, glistening off the water. She’s getting closer to the sound of breaking waves, rolling in over the shore, and she knows she must be close. Good thing, too, because the patter of an oncoming downpour starts to sprinkle across the trees. Things are about to get rough in Copper Harbor.

Connor’s bruises are worse than when Sheila last saw them, turning fast. Her boy. What has she done to her boy? The Keeper looks on with a knowing glance, his jaw set in determination, and Sheila knew she should have never let Connor help. She’s about to make a plea on her son’s behalf, when the Keeper holds up a hand to stop her. “Storm’s coming in tonight,” he says. “Better make all this quick.”

A lot can happen in a single minute. As the lighthouse beacon turns above them, Sheila says her thanks, Connor grabs the oars, and the full Dodson family pushes off from shore. The Keeper says a prayer, damning Jackson to the same Hell his own father burns in, then turns back up the hill. When he meets the Deputy Sheriff, lost in the night, he already has an explanation waiting. “Best not go that way, Deputy. Great big black bear waiting for us.” Lightning flashes overhead, with thunder just a few seconds to follow. “What do you say we get out of this storm?"