Point of Direction. Rachel Weaver

can feel Kyle’s mind moving fast as he paces at the river’s edge before he sits down next to me.

      “Are you good with heading out tomorrow?” he asks.

      “What’s the rush?”

      “I’m just ready. Seems like the next step, and I’m ready for it.”

      “The next step to what?” I push up onto my elbows.

      Kyle shakes off my question, smiles, “Come on Anna, you know it’s going to be one of the coolest things we ever do.”

      “I’ll talk to Nancy tonight at work. Susie’s been wanting more hours anyway. Good thing the attic is month to month.”

      “I’ll head to the hardware store first thing in the morning. Do you want to cover the grocery shopping? Did he mention a generator? We’ll need to bring gas.”

      “There’s got to be one.” I listen to the slow pull of water, let this new definition of us wash over me.

      Kyle asks something else I do not hear. When I look over, he’s watching me. “You’ll be okay out there, right?” he asks, slowing down for the first time since we got to the river.

      “I’ll be fine. It’ll be you who goes crazy first.”

      “No one’s going crazy. It’s a grand adventure, it’s not jail.”

      Sometimes one turns into the other, I want to say, but don’t. Instead, I roll toward him. His hand moves around my waist to my lower back. His breath inches down my neck while his hand moves slowly. My skin melts toward his. It has always been this way. Heat and ice. Something outside of reason. His touch, creating in my body a demand for more oxygen.

      * * * *

      The following afternoon, our skiff is low in the water. A solid flooring of canned goods, tools, and backpacks - everything we own and everything we could think of that we might need. We stand on the dock, peer out together at the horizon, in the direction of our new home. I have on a winter hat in the cool summer rain.

      “Ready?” Kyle asks.

      For some reason, how I feel does not match the excitement in his voice. “Guess so.”

      The water stretches out before us, a stone colored sheet pulled tight at the corners. In this kind of weather, the channel is easily passable by skiff.

      I zip up my jacket. It’s not the cold, it’s the way the sky opens. I turn, look over the mound of our belongings to Kyle at the tiller. He grins, large and unhindered as Neely slips away. I smile back and he lets go of the tiller, climbs over the mountain between us and leans in for a kiss. We both laugh as we are pitched sideways against the caprail with the sudden sloshing of the boat.

      As he gets us back on course, I tuck my hands in my pockets, turn my back to the wind. The vibration of the motor keeps my thoughts from organizing. The temperature of the water moves up through the aluminum boat, through the soles of my rubber boots and wraps around the bones of my feet. Water all around, fifty degrees lower than the temperature of my heart.

      * * * *

      I’ve never been up close to Hibler Rock, only seen it from the ferry a couple times. The lighthouse is large and white, a two story octagon with a red roof. In the center of the roof rises a second smaller octagon made of glass that houses the light. The island floats in the shape of a tadpole on the surface of the water. A round body on which the house sits, a long tail made of rocks piled haphazardly on top of each other. I notice there are two spruce trees of equal height.

      When we get close, Kyle slows down to a crawl. We approach cautiously as the lighthouse looms, huge above us. Eventually, I point to the twenty foot wide beach. “There it is,” I say. Kyle doesn’t move. I’m not sure he’s heard me. I’ve found the only safe place to land. “There it is,” I say again.

      He snaps back, nods and turns the skiff, his eyes following mine. I hop over onto the small shelf of rock that is the beach and hold the bow while he raises the motor.

      Our bodies collide as we pull together, nudging the boat up onto the beach. I kick a line free from the small gray rocks. “Found the haulout.” It’s a long line, anchored to two big rocks on the beach, fifteen yards apart which then runs out to a small buoy floating in the water.

      “Doesn’t look too gunked up,” he says.

      “No, not bad.” I start walking up the beach, running my hand along the line, freeing it of seaweed so it will run smoothly through the pulleys. Kyle does the same thing on the other side of the loop. He ties the skiff to the haulout, then we both pull the line, our bodies moving in unison until we’ve pulled the skiff out to the buoy so that it will not go dry as the tide goes out. He ties a knot in the line to keep it in place.

      “C’mon,” he says, walking backwards up the path, reaching for my hand. He’s suddenly in a hurry.

      I turn and study the skiff, make sure it’s not moving out into the channel with the tide before grabbing his offered hand. The rain is light on my shoulders as he pulls me into himself.

      We climb the small rise to the house. Mountains on either side begin jagged and white, turn to a green that is almost black, then dive sharply into the sea. In the other two directions, the channel snakes long and thin as far as I can see.

      “It’s unbelievable.” I turn in a circle, trying to take it all in at once, a new feeling taking root inside me, stopping me in my tracks. This is a place where all the rules are different, a place outside normal life and society, a place where I have not yet failed.

      Kyle is already at the front door. It is thick and wooden, rounded on the top and wider than most doors. There is no lock. He turns the handle and pushes. Nothing happens. He pushes harder and eventually uses his shoulder to unstick the door.

      He falls into a cavernous room built of concrete. A foundation to withstand hurricane force winds. I cough as the damp, mildew-tinged air enters my lungs. There’s a window sunk deep into each of the eight walls, one bare bulb hanging from the ceiling. To the left of the doorway, a kitchen hugs two full walls. Wide wooden stairs lead up to the second story. Off to the right is a large square woodstove with a braided rug and an antique rocking chair in front of it.

      “Look at all this space,” I say. The downstairs alone is three times the size of the attic.

      “It’s like we’re millionaires.” Kyle grins.

      In the center of the room stands a stark wooden table with four chairs. There is a specific stillness in the house. A thickness that makes me check that I can get a deep breath. “Everything looks so…museum-like.” I step toward the middle of the room.

      Kyle’s eyes jump from one part of the room to another, almost as if he doesn’t know where to start. Eventually, he crosses the room to pull back an off-white heavy curtain that sections off the area underneath the stairs. He begins examining the shelf contents, moving things around to see behind them.

      I do not feel comfortable enough to touch anything yet. It feels like a space that wants to be left alone.

      I study the kitchen from where I stand. It consists of a deep metal two-basin sink with a drain but no spigot, an old cookstove and no refrigerator. There are two propane lanterns hung on hooks on opposite walls. I make a mental note that we’ll need to buy coolers to keep food outside the way people who live off the grid in town do. More often than not, the outside temperature equals the temperature a fridge might produce.

      There is lots of counter space made of thick, smooth wood and hand built cupboards. I open one. There are plates, cups, and bowls from another era. Plato, taza, sustantivo, I repeat to myself softly. I open a second, lower cupboard. Heavy cast iron pots and pans are stacked neatly.

      As I close the cupboard, my fingers run over something rough. I open the cupboard all the way, study the number 29 that has been carved into the inside of the door. It looks like it was done with a pocket knife, but it’s not sloppy. It is at the top outer edge