Beacon on a hill

The relatively tiny plateau that sat the East Brother Light Station was picturesque and cozy. There were three buildings in total: the main lighthouse, the fog horn building, and the keeper's quarters that belonged to Lighthouse Ed and his wife Anne. Standing in the middle of the island next to a large white cistern, they explained how the only source of water came from rain collected during the rainy season and used sparingly throughout the rest of the year. They then walked the three couples on a short tour to show them the property and the rooms that each would be staying in.

The first pair was a wannabe San Francisco power couple, Jeff and Kristen. Both were the kind who had clearly done well for themselves, but in boring ways. So instead of sharing their own interesting experiences and insights, they would loudly interrupt any story with unrelated anecdotes about their more powerful, influential, interesting friends. Jeff was the typical frat man, still convinced at mid-forties that the word "bro" and a loud voice were the keys to immortality. Kristen was the type who just nervously packaged her sentiments in an awkward laugh, hoping that people would find her witty. These two were in the foghorn building, and apart from the remaining four of us. Lighthouse Ed and Anne dropped them off to change their soaked shorts while continuing on with us.

The next couple were Ed and Kim. They were clearly in their early thirties, had been married for two years, and we connected with them right off the bat. They were a humorous pair, intelligent and cosmopolitan in their experiences. The four of us were all scheduled to stay in the lighthouse that night, and after we were shown our respective rooms we rejoined Jeff and Kristen for a visit to the top deck of the lighthouse.



In the small balcony wrapping the massive lens I stood shivering in awe that lighthouses are not known to fall down more often. The wind was absolutely incredible; at the edge Adam appeared as if he were skydiving in a standing position. Lighthouse Ed told us to listen for a bell, then left us here to converse while he scuttled off to prepare dinner with his wife. Unable to stand in the brisk air much longer, we moved downstairs into the lounge and perused the piles of interesting board games and antique paraphernalia until we heard the dinner bell.

Appetizers were served at a wooden table outside, and we happily munched down "French nachos" (chips with bleu cheese and capers) along with a small selection of cheeses, nuts, and artichoke hearts. After having sufficiently frozen our extremities we were moved inside for a dinner including fresh bread, carrot soup, asparagus with eggs, and roast chicken with prosciutto. All in all it was a little too vegetable-heavy for my tastes but it was well made, all fresh. The table conversation was spirited, covering topics ranging from the lavatorial effects of asparagus (we thought of you, Summer) to whether or not we would eat our significant others on a stranded island. After dessert Lighthouse Ed and Anne bid their adieus and the rest of us traipsed upstairs to watch the glowing remnants of the sun that had snuck past the horizon while we ate.


Having expected a toasty California coast in summer, we were hardly dressed or prepared for the weather. Once Adam and Ed had their fill of photographing the sky, we headed eagerly back down to the warm lounge where Ed and Kim proceeded to teach us Liar's Dice. As Ed, Kim, Jeff and Kristen exuberantly shared their anniversary champagnes, the game got more and more animated. Eventually Kim insisted that we play Apples to Apples, a game that hinges on the mounting ludicrosity of its players. This was a ton of fun, and I ended up winning long before our inebriated counterparts ever realized it.

Once they caught on, we ended Apples to Apples and pulled out the old standard, Jenga, which Ed had never even played before. At this point the simple premise promised some fun for the two of us, being the only ones aside from Ed capable of still playing this game with some semblance of steadiness. Kim wisely chose to sit out the game, having downed at least a bottle and half of wine and champagne and weighing in at a hefty 95 pounds. Once the game began however, Kim became its most spirited feature, and she loudly, persistently, and shakily demanded move after move. The 5 of us generally ignored her instructions and laughed at her absurd inputs while holding our breaths at the near-misses of her accidentally ending the game early while trying to point out the best blocks. After a particularly heart-wretching nail-biting final round, we all packed it in for the night and headed to bed.

In the morning we awoke in time to dress for the breakfast bell. Downstairs we nibbled croissants, eggs, sausages and Belgian waffles while the other 4 recalled the more exciting moments from the previous nights events. With satisfied stomachs, Lighthouse Ed trooped us over to the foghorn building for a demonstration. The first horn he triggered was electric, and we all stood listening to its generic bleet over the water. Next however, he started up the motor for the old foghorn and led us outside to wait for enough pressure to build. With about five seconds to go, he signaled for us to close our ears and gleefully watched our faces as the deep baritone of the island rippled through the morning air. Even with our hands removed from our ears we could hear its echo tremoring in the atmosphere between the hills.

After finishing up and taking some last minute pictures, we once again packed up our things and clamored aboard the small boat. Lighthouse Ed talked continuously about Facebook and squinted at any audience feedback or input as if he weren't quite sure whether we were real or just a figment of his private imagination. Once our Willy Wonka dropped us at the parking lot we once considered the pit of fear, we said our goodbyes to the other couples and exchanged information. Having just made some new friends and gearing up to go meet some old ones, we pulled once again into the maze of thorns that once so easily hid our rose.


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