THE GAMES OF POWER

THE GAMES OF POWER: Chapter 2

CHAPTER 2:

The Cape Hatteras lighthouse loomed over us as we came to shore. Its spiraled body reached up into the sky like a spear impaling the clouds. I didn’t know much about it before we moved here, but I’d heard mention of it occasionally. It was the nation’s tallest lighthouse in all of America, jutting nearly two-hundred feet into the sky, keeping watch over the sailors today just as it has for over a century as the sea traffic made their way near the treacherous Diamond Shoals. The Graveyard of the Atlantic.

Some say that the guy whose job it was to paint all of North Carolina’s lighthouses got the plans mixed up with another lighthouse in Cape Lookout and painted our lighthouse like a big barber pole instead of painting diamond shapes to go with the warning of Diamond Shoals. Cape Lookout with its diamond-painted lighthouse lies way on the other side of Pamlico Sound, even reaching passed Core Sound. A pretty big goof-up. But hey, I guess big goof-ups make for interesting history.

With its reputation and location, the nearly 300 step lighthouse never had problems attracting tourism in North Carolina. But thankfully today, there weren’t many people flocking around the beach as Lucas and I made our way up to the lighthouse and to our cars. I didn’t particularly like crowds, especially when you had to get somewhere real fast.

I threaded my long board into the back of my forest-green Jeep, and hopped inside. Lucas called from behind me, loading his board into his Tacoma. “Hey man, do you have some clothes I can use for the dry run? I don’t wanna make a run all the way to my house. Coach’ll blow a fuse if I show up that late.”

I stuck my head outside the window, and looked back at him. “No prob, I got an extra tank and some gym shorts back home. Just follow me, and dress fast.” He said thanks and jumped into his tan truck. I waved and turned to start the ignition of the Jeep. With a satisfying roar, the Jeep started and we sped off onto the road.

Home may only be a few minutes away and I may be able to spot it on occasion from the ocean, but the “legal” way to get there had unnerved me to no end. Where we could take a small trail straight to the subdivision, it was offroad and cars weren’t allowed. So we had to take Lighthouse Rd. all the way around to Outer Banks Byway, and then turn on Old Lighthouse. It was completely ridiculous since we could practically walk there—and sometimes we did—but since we were going to be late for the dry run, pedal-to-the-metal-ing was required. I guess it was our own fault, since we could just as easily go to the part of the beach near my house, but we liked the southern part better. Plus it kind of felt like people were watching you being so close to houses like that.

Five minutes later we pulled up to my house, a small little white home nearly identical to the four others that completed the circle lining the cul-de-sac. Moms red Juke was in the garage so I pulled in behind her and Lucas pulled to a stop next to our mailbox.

Swiftly I pulled my board out of the Jeep and rushed it to its rack inside the garage. Still soaked with water, I fumbled with the doorknob while Lucas waited behind me impatiently. I slipped and fell into the door as it swung open, the rush of air super-cooling my skin and raising goosebumps. Mom yelped as I caught my footing before I slammed face first into the tile floor, dropping her basket of newly cleaned and folded laundry, and sending socks and underwear across the floor.

“Jethro Stone what in the world!?” Mom’s mouth hung open like an exasperated “O”, her eyebrows knitted together in a sharp “V”.

I flew passed her, my wet hair dripping cold water down my back. “Sorry Mom, I gotta go, I’m gonnna be late.” Lucas slipped by Mom as she bent down to retrieve a sock that had slipped under the table. “Sorry Ms. S.”

“Jethro seriously?You boys are dripping wet!” Grumbling things under her breath about annoying adolescence, she dug into her spilled basket of laundry and produced two white towels. She flung them at us exasperated. “Dry off. I don’t want water on my carpet, understood?”