Page 11 of Landing Her Eagle
“It is! Lighthouses are romantic! My grandparents first confessed their love for one another in one. And my father proposed to my mother in one too.” Using the worthless Cape May diamond quartz stones that wash up on the beach there. I sigh. He was poor. It was romantic.
But the girl seems bored.
“Lighthouses are lovely,” I grumble, pocketing my card.
“Yeah, whatever.” I doubt Donna wins many customer service awards.
When I return to my car, I open the box of Entenmann’s glazed Pop’ems I bought. When my parents and I did this trip, food pickings were slim in a few stretches, so provisions were necessary. They’re necessary now too, so I’m well-prepared with peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and bottled water I brought from home, plus the donut holes and bag of Munchos I just bought. An adventure is no time to give up on carbs.
I continue south to visit the Sea Girt lighthouse. It’s truly a house with a light on it. When I was a girl, I remember being fascinated by the thought of living in a lighthouse and the adventure it would be. This would be the style I’d want. No curving spiral staircases to fall through, no nauseating heights. It’s a simple, lovely red-brick home that has helped save lives. Sounds perfect.
When I last did the challenge as a sixteen-year-old, I didn’t appreciate the beauty of the lighthouse. All I saw was the Sea Girt boardwalk and beach across the street, imagining it was probably full of shirtless guys all summer long.
What a difference in perspective ten years brings. After getting my coin and picking up a ceramic magnet depicting the lighthouse, I cross Ocean Avenue and climb the boardwalk’s steps.
This boardwalk isn’t like boardwalks in the towns further south, in Atlantic City and Wildwood. No amusement piers or casinos, no saltwater taffy shops…at least not at this end. I’ve never walked the length of it, so I don’t know for sure, but it doesn’t seem like there are businesses along it. I should bring my bike up here and ride the boards. Depending on when Logan comes back, maybe we can do it together. It’s a change of pace from what we’re used to. The southern Jersey shore towns we hang out in are usually full of tourists. There, the combined scents of pizza, sunscreen, and ocean air tickle the nose. The neon lights on the casinos and piers draw the eye and distract you from the beach and the vast Atlantic Ocean just across the sand. Here, it’s quieter, calmer, and the Atlantic with its never-ending ebb and flow is the star of the show. I can feel the salt in the breeze that blows off the water, but I’m not being jostled by the crowd or enticed to enter arcades and shops. Because there aren’t any. It’s the beach and the ocean. And peace. I love it.
I take my picture with the unassuming brick structure in the background. With its tidy lawn and welcoming porch, it’s such a pleasant house. It would be so cool to raise a family in a lighthouse, even a decommissioned one. The lens room at the top would make a glorious spot to sit and read, or maybe relax with wine at the end of a long day. We could tell our children stories about shipwrecks and rescues. Logan would show them pictures from his travels.
Wait.
When did I start imagining Logan as my hypothetical children’s father? We’re friends. He’s mybestfriend. We aren’t getting married or having children together. He’s never here.
A little voice in my head reminds me I could always go with him. I tell her to sit back down and shut up. He doesn’t think of me as anything more than a friend, so there’s no point thinking about a future together.
Thinking about the future is pointless, anyway. My parents had plans for the future, and look how that turned out. My fingers tremble a bit when I type in the message to go with the picture: “Sea Girt. Wish you were here.” Before I can change my mind, I hit send and get in my car to continue southward.
After visiting the Barnegat and Tucker’s Island Lighthouses, I end my day at the Absecon Lighthouse in Atlantic City. It blows my mind that this majestic lighthouse is in the middle of an urban neighborhood, just blocks away from the glittering lights of the casinos. Do the locals take it for granted? Probably. It’s always been there and will always be there as far as they’re concerned. Like everyone has an almost two-hundred-foot lighthouse in their backyard.
After I pick up my coin, I decide to buy a postcard showing an aerial view of the lighthouse at twilight with the ocean and casinos in the background. The juxtaposition of the stately white-and-black tower against the neon glow of Atlantic City is jarring. It’s like Queen Elizabeth hanging with a group of Vegas showgirls. I snort-laugh and draw curious glances from the volunteers.
I smile and say, “Long day.”
They laugh in return and agree, telling me it’s been a great day and something they look forward to every year.
“Please take a picture of me?” I ask the volunteers on a whim. I figure I should try to send at least one decent picture of myself to Logan today.
“I’ll do it.” A friendly man in his fifties steps from behind the table and holds out his hand for my camera. His name tag says Jeff. With salt-and-pepper hair and glasses, he resembles a dad. My dad was getting a bit of early gray at his temples when he died. I wonder if he’d be salt-and-pepper like Jeff or all gray?
“Ready?” Jeff asks. When I smile and say yes, he takes my picture.
I take back my phone. “Thank you.” I drop a few bills in the donation jar and head home.
It’s been a long day, but it’s been a good one. I’m surprised. I thought I’d be much more emotional and despondent, revisiting places I’d gone to with my parents. They have been on my mind a lot today, but while I’ve been sad to not have them here with me, my memories have been happy ones. It’s a relief. That’s what they would want for me, to remember them and feel happy, not to feel the overwhelming grief and loss that’s been my near-constant companion all these years.
I send the last picture from today when I get home.
Logan responded with a thumbs up after Barnegat, so he’s seen them. He must be busy traveling or working on whatever his current assignment is. I’m sure I’ll hear from him later. Being brilliant and lazy, I picked up fast food on the way home. I finish my fries while checking out Logan’s Instagram feed, flicking through all the places he’s traveled.
My favorite out of all his locations has been Ireland. It was so green but also rugged. I would love to go there someday. Maybe I could sit in a pub and listen to the cadence of the voices. Maybe they’d burst into song, like what happens in my favorite books by Nora Roberts. That would be magical. He hasn’t done many shoots in the United States or Canada. Everything has been oceans away. Maybe if he had assignments on this continent, I could join him. I don’t think he made his offers to accompany him out of pity or because he knew I’d turn him down.
I’m sure he wants me to join him. As his friend. Good old buddy Daphne.
It’s barely nine, but I prepare for bed and shake thoughts of the future away. They bring nothing but pain, disappointment, more loneliness. The past is comfortable, safe. And tomorrow, I can return to it. More lighthouses, more memories of my parents. More adventure.
10
LOGAN
