The Lightkeepers

by Abby Geni

  There is no pier on the Farallon Islands. The tides have seen to that. Any attempts at building a dock have invariably been washed away. There is a powerful undertow. There are riptides that come and go without warning or rhythm. There are reefs and shoals. The islands are home to two small boats, both of which must be lowered into the sea by crane. They are too large to ride in the Billy Pugh, of course. Instead, they must be hooked directly to the steel cable itself.

  The first is a rowboat (called the Lunchbox, I am sad to say, since its crew tends to feel like a tasty snack when moored next to a white shark). Then there is the Janus, a seventeen-foot Boston Whaler. This is a sturdier thing, with benches and a deckhouse, as well as a railing that, to my untrained eye, appears to be for decorative purposes only. The Janus is equipped with a motor, which makes this boat the preferred method of transport. Both boats spend their free time resting on a mattress of rubber tires at East Landing, a thirty-foot cliff. I have seen them being lowered into the water, swinging merrily on the end of the chain, plummeting into black waves larger than themselves.

  I have not yet been brave enough to venture out on Shark Watch. I have stayed safely on land. It is unnerving to think that those monsters are always out there, patrolling the dark surf. Waiting. For the most part, the white sharks remain hidden, tucked inside a wave, buried in the deep currents. Once or twice, however, I have glimpsed a dorsal fin cresting the water, as menacing as the periscope of an enemy submarine.

  MY LOVE AFFAIR with the islands has continued. At times I feel drugged, wandering the shoreline with a stupid grin on my face, camera aloft. Each snapshot seems like a benediction. We may never know what another person is thinking—never truly get into anyone else’s head—but photography brings us as close as anything can. When the members of an audience at an art gallery look at a picture, they can step for a moment inside the mind of the artist. Like telepathy. Like time travel. At some future date, when people gaze at my photographs of the islands, they will see what I saw. They will stand where I stood, on this granite, surrounded by this ocean. Perhaps they will even feel some of the elation I have experienced here.

  Earlier today, I found myself at North Landing, where a dozen California sea lions were lolling in the light. They maneuvered around like canine mermaids. Their bodies seemed split in two; the upper half was alert and upright—pert little ears, sharp eyes, and a snout bristling with whiskers—whereas the back half was weighted down with fat and fins, slithering across the flagstones. They toasted themselves like marshmallows, plunging into the frothy shallows to cool off.

  Soon I realized that one of the creatures was injured. It did not romp and play with the others, diving and hunting fish. Instead it lay on the shore, one flipper cradled against its chest. Through my telephoto lens, I could see a deep, fresh wound. The flipper had nearly been severed from the torso. The gash was new enough that it had not yet begun to scab. Instinctively I put a hand to my rib cage, where my own flesh had been cut open a few weeks before. Probably the animal had survived a run-in with a white shark. This was surprisingly common. What the sea lions lacked in mass, they made up for in gymnastic agility. I could imagine the shark lunging forward as the sea lion pirouetted and somersaulted away. But it was clearly in bad shape now. It was weak and dazed-looking.

  I knew, however, that there was nothing I could do. There would be no point in going to fetch Mick or Galen. The biologists were on the islands to observe and document. Nothing more. Noninterference was the core of their belief system. They would never intervene in the life—or death—of one of their charges. I had received a stern lecture on this very subject from Galen a few days back. An injured animal was a specimen to be studied. Its demise was an event to be recorded for posterity. The food chain was paramount. Sympathy and affection were beside the point.

  I turned away. Bending down, I took a few close-ups of shark teeth. The grounds are speckled with them; they dot the landscape like flowers in a prairie. Delicate reminders of danger. People used to believe shark teeth fell from the sky during lunar eclipses. Honestly, I am not sure myself how they travel so far inland.

  After a while, I moved off to get a few candid snapshots of my human companions. They had proven to be as camera-shy as the animals. I had learned to be crafty. Crouching behind a boulder, telephoto lens in place, I saw Lucy sitting cross-legged on the shore, engaging in a debate with a puffin. She could imitate most birds’ cries well enough to cause confusion in their little minds. This one clearly thought she was another puffin encroaching on its turf. Presently another shape intruded into the frame. I adjusted the focus and saw red hair, a too-big windbreaker—Charlene.

  I have not mentioned Charlene yet, since I haven’t been sure what to say. To begin with, she is young, even younger than Andrew and Lucy. Charlene is still in college. A mop of unruly red hair. Pale skin strewn with constellations of freckles. She is an intern, not a biologist. (For the record, Charlene is the only intern who has ever lasted more than a fortnight on the islands. She has been here three months already.) Her identity is effaced by her subordinate position, by the eagerness she displays whenever she is asked to help with the simplest task, from hosing down the Janus to itemizing the contents of the cupboards to making coffee. I have yet to get any sense of her personality.

  Now, through my lens, I watched both women get to work. They were too far away for me to catch any of their conversation. It appeared that Lucy was teaching Charlene how to tag the birds. Lucy is a master at this tricky process: capturing a feathery body, holding it firmly but gently in both hands so it cannot peck her or injure itself, and attaching the orange band. Charlene was obviously nervous, her brow furrowed with concentration. Lucy spoke soothingly, patiently, as Charlene fumbled and frowned, letting bird after bird slip through her grasp. Suddenly, both women burst into laughter. I got it on film: Charlene’s head thrown back, her hair a crimson halo, and Lucy doubled over, clutching her stomach. Their mirth scared the remaining birds into flight. The flock swirled upward, a waterfall of wings.

  I found myself distracted. The problem of Lucy has occupied my mind lately. I cannot figure it out. She is the belle of the Farallon Islands, the darling of the group. I have seen her giving Charlene a neck rub or offering to do the dishes when it’s Forest’s turn because he looks tired. I have observed her sitting on the couch with Galen and delighting over a ludicrous error they have stumbled upon in a reference book—the kind of thing that would only be discernible to a pair of biologists. Lucy laughs easily and loudly. She is open, cheerful, kind.

  But not with me. It has taken me a while to catch on to the reality of the situation. To be frank, I was fooled at the start by her appearance. Plump and pink, she looks like the sort of woman who ought to be wearing an apron or kneeling in a garden, her hands deep in the earth. In her interactions with me, however, she has been odd from the beginning. Every so often, she will throw out a backhanded comment. (“Wow! That shirt is interesting.” “You must have great teeth, mouse girl. I can hear you chewing all over the cabin.”) Lucy will snicker when I trip on a loose floorboard or drop my spoon at the table. Withering looks. Covert eye rolls. I cannot read the riddle.

  My roommates and I have the dynamic of a family, minus any semblance of warmth. We share a home. We see one another all day, every day. I must do my best with them, whether or not we get along. There is no privacy. If Mick is constipated, if Charlene has her period, if Andrew is feeling lustful, everyone knows about it. We each have our own roles. Galen: the stoic parent, ruling through benign neglect. Forest: the brainy son, forever at his books. Me: the shy stepchild, still finding her place in the pecking order. Within this group, Lucy might be the mean sister whose behavior is not obvious to her elders—who deals out punishment in pinches and slaps and then looks up innocently, saying, “Who, me?” She presents one face, hiding another, a double identity I am just beginning to perceive.

  7

  YESTERDAY CAPTAIN JOE made his first appearance since my ar
rival. Normally he comes twice a month, but he has been hindered by engine repairs. It has been almost seven weeks now. I was in my room when the boat appeared on the horizon. It might have been dropped there by magic. My heart turned over. I have come to understand why people in olden days imagined that the world ended at the horizon line. It is sometimes hard to believe that anything can exist beyond that cold edge.

  Through the window, I saw that Galen and Forest were on alert. Dressed in their typical, ludicrous gear—waterproof pants, bright orange jackets, hats with earflaps—they were heading toward East Landing. I knew the drill. Captain Joe would approach as close as he dared. One wrong turn, and the ferry would find itself torn apart on the jagged cliffs. Galen and Forest would lower the Billy Pugh. Captain Joe would load it up with our groceries, toilet paper, and toothpaste. Galen and Forest would respond by sending back our outgoing mail. In truth, the whole thing reminded me a bit of space travel. Captain Joe would blast off from his native soil, his cargo hold stocked with supplies for the crew at the space station. The journey from California could take as long as six hours each way. Galen and Forest would meet him at the boundary line, where the crane would bridge the empty air. At any moment, something could go wrong. Someone could be injured, or worse.

  Captain Joe is not the first ferryman to service the islands. I have recently discovered that there were others before him—many others. Most of them quit the moment they found easier work. A few fled after being hurt on the job; broken bones and concussions were common. One drowned. Five years back.

  Our oceanic view is the most dangerous stretch of water on the Pacific coast. In places, the sea is only fifty feet deep. The tides sweep in and out at a quick, breathless eight knots. Powerful currents wind through the ocean with their own internal logic, like rivers carving banks into water, rather than earth. There are monstrous waves. Boats slosh and tumble like marshmallows in cocoa stirred by a spoon.

  Soon Captain Joe was on his way home. Galen and Forest headed back toward the cabin, loaded down with boxes of groceries, tampons, batteries, and all the mail that had been piling up for us in the post office in San Francisco. The ferry motored smoothly away from the shore. I watched it go with a sense of desolation. The emotion passed quickly, but for a moment I felt like an abandoned child. Watching a parent retreat into the distance. Alone in a hostile and unfamiliar place.

  On board that ferry was a postcard for my father. I had been on the islands for nearly two months, and during that time, I had prepared only one piece of mail to send to the mainland. On it I had written, Proof of life.

  This has become a running joke between Dad and me—the cryptic postcard. (He doesn’t know about the letters I save for you, of course.) My postcards to my father tend to be as brief as telegrams. I will amuse myself by communicating my meaning in as few words as possible. 110° in the shade, I wrote during my month-long stint in the Sahara. From Paris, where I was sent to photograph the piles of skulls in the catacombs beneath the city, I wrote, Beaucoup de dead people. And when I was living in the arctic circle, throughout the eerie summer months, when the sun neither set nor rose—when it skimmed the horizon in bewildering revolutions, drifting higher and lower like a balloon caught in the breeze—I wrote simply, Bright.

  Dad has gotten into the spirit himself, omitting unnecessary verbs and articles. It is a game we play, trying to top each other. Office a madhouse, he will write. Overworked. Printer ink dangerously low.

  I am aware that my relationship with my father is unusual. Home has been a constant point on the compass since my childhood. For my work, I have bounced around the globe, rootless and unmoored. A month in Costa Rica. Three weeks in Taiwan. Half a year in Australia. Sleeping on couches and bare floors. Letting my stomach tie itself in knots over the local cuisine. Photographing birds and geckos, shacks and trees, people and gravestones. Photographing everything.

  And then, like a swallow to Capistrano, I have returned to my father’s sprawling two-story house. He has never had the chance to transform my old bedroom into a study or a storage area. I have continued to use it, sleeping on that narrow mattress beneath the mobile of the solar system I built back in middle school. I have kept my own books on the shelves, my own clothes in the drawers. My father and I have transitioned into companionable roommates.

  The whole thing is both logical and odd. Most of my old friends from school have mortgages of their own by now, not to mention husbands and kids. But I have never lived anywhere long enough to justify paying rent, let alone buying furniture. Besides, I like my father’s house. I help him with the garden. I do most of the cooking. I know the surrounding neighborhood like the back of my hand. Dad and I have our own rhythms and routines, built over years, honed and perfected. His book club. My soap opera addiction. His morning run. My evening walk. His workbench in the basement, strewn with sawdust and tools. My darkroom in the attic, foul-smelling and secret, baths of chemicals shimmering in the gloom. The photos of us on the wall.

  That house is where I remember you best. I remember your thin shape curled on the couch, book in hand. I remember your voice raised in song, echoing down the hall from the shower. Each room is a treasure trove of unexpected recollections. Any little thing—an object, an odor, a sound—might trigger a memory, jolting me into the past. A laundry basket might remind me of your hands, working deftly to fold the clothes. The squeal of a cabinet opening might bring back a chance conversation you and I once had while sitting in the kitchen. The sky on a stormy afternoon, clouds mounting outside, might call up an image of you dashing around the house, closing all the windows in anticipation of a hard rain.

  There was a postcard for me on board the ferry, by the way. Miss you, my father had written. Two words only.

  THE NEXT DAY, I found myself on the roof. There was a good reason for this: a leak had appeared in the cabin. At noon, a storm struck without warning. It rained wildly, desperately, as though the sky had something to prove. The gutters overflowed. The air was filled with so much moisture that when the wind blew, it rippled like the sea. Lunch was spoiled by a miniature waterfall. Though Charlene and I knew nothing about carpentry, we were the two who could be spared to tackle the problem. Lucy had disappeared on Bird Watch as soon as the storm blew over. Mick wanted to check on an injured sea lion and document its progress—to record whether it would survive or perish. Forest had finally solved a glitch in the video camera and was hoping to catch a few sharks on film. Andrew was probably asleep. Galen handed me the necessary items: tar paper, tiles, a hammer, and a sad collection of bent, mismatched nails. He explained where to find the ladder. As an afterthought, he reminded me not to fall.

  To be honest, I didn’t mind being up there. In fact, I wished I could have brought one of my cameras. Any new perspective on an established landscape can shake loose inspiration. The sea, the seals, the coast guard house—they all looked diminished now, unreal. The pictures would have been striking. But I could not risk dropping my camera from such a height. It would never survive the fall, and I did not think I would be able to tolerate the death of another of my precious instruments.

  Charlene and I crawled around, crablike, hammering down anything that seemed loose. She had brought a caulking gun, which she squirted at the slightest provocation. The shingles were rough to the touch. We found a few chinks that required maintenance. We got into a confused debate about which rooms were beneath us at any given time. We discovered a chimney. Then we relaxed for a while, gazing across the sea.

  As always, I was slightly baffled by the fact that I could not see California. I could see nothing beyond the ocean’s edge. There is nowhere more alone than the Farallon Islands. The rest of the world might disappear—the human race wiped out by a pandemic, a meteor strike, a zombie uprising—and we would be the last to know anything about it. We would be the only ones spared. The day was fine, despite a cold, breathy breeze. October had crept in without my notice. The grass was yellowing at the corners like mildew on cloth. The mice were
spending more time underground now, their scuffle and scamper less constant. The two trees near us were wilting, no longer embracing. Maroon leaves tumbled across the stones.

  For the first time, Charlene opened up to me. In the manner of the very young, she chattered on about herself, never realizing that she hadn’t asked me any questions. This was not exactly narcissism. She was at the age in which her own personality fascinated her so much that it eclipsed everything else. Her own capacity for creativity. Her own brand of intelligence. She did not seem to heed the unspoken rule that talk of the past was verboten here. I heard about her family’s farm in Minnesota. Without guile, she mentioned something about an aunt who had disappeared for a time and returned with a new name, claiming to have suffered amnesia. Before I could process the oddness of this—particularly when described in Charlene’s upbeat cadence, as though it were not odd at all—she had already moved on. She was free-associating, leaping from idea to idea. She told me about her college roommate at Berkeley. She told me about the sweet-tempered boyfriend she had left behind, perhaps permanently, perhaps not.

  This seemed like a good opportunity. When she paused for breath, I broke in. With every semblance of nonchalance, I asked if she had any idea whether Mick might be single.

  “I don’t think so,” she said.

  “Really?”

  “Really.” Charlene shot me a worried look. “In fact, I’m sure he isn’t.”

  “Ah.”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “Oh,” I said. “No reason. Still learning about everyone.”

  There was a pause. Charlene was playing with her bangs. Her hair was the sort of fiery red that always made me do a double take. Day by day, I felt the need to check the pallor of her skin, the profusion of her freckles, trying to verify whether such a shade could possibly be real. I did that a lot here generally. The islands were a place that seemed to exist in fantasy, ever-changing and harsh.