in the tower's base. The heat of
the flames forced the trapped men out onto a high narrow ledge that
ringed the tower.
Indian sharpshooters killed the assistant. The lighthouse keeper was
wounded twice. Believing it to be his final act on earth, he hurled a
keg of gunpowder down into the fiery shaft, hoping to take a few
Indians with him.
To his surprise, he survived. Many of the Indians didn't. The
gigantic explosion generated outward, extinguishing the flames. The
surviving Indians fled, some on fire and screaming.
The crew of a passing schooner miles out at sea heard the explosion
and rescued the lighthouse keeper a day later.
Like the other doomed lovers, K.C. Riley. and McDonald would often
lie on the soft needle beds beneath the silver-tipped pines. They
talked about the lighthouse keeper, swearing his spirit still survived
on Miami's steamy and unpredictable streets. Residents made that clear
during the record-breaking crime wave of the eighties. Miamians, always
an unruly bunch, fought back with axes, knives, baseball bats, guns,
and machetes. Furious and fed up with crime, they took no prisoners.
They killed more criminals than the police.
Sometimes street justice is the only true justice.
K.C. Riley's small craft bobbed in the surf as she gazed at the
lighthouse, the beach, and the state park beyond. The huge pines were
gone, all fallen like jackstraws to Hurricane Andrew in '92. Apartment
and office towers rise, trees and presidents fall; only the lighthouse
had withstood time, angry seas, hungry tides, and half a hundred
hurricanes since 1900. The lone constant, she thought, a nail holding
past and future together in an ever-changing city that forgets people
and its own history too quickly. Daydreams of the past are a comfort
when the present is painful and there is no future.
The wind freshened. Lightning pirouetted like a drunken ballerina
across purpling clouds and a sky the color of regret. The sun sank as
though controlled by a dimmer switch, and she knew she'd lingered too
long.
"Did you know you made me stronger and better?" she cried. He had to
hear her. But her only answer was the rumble of thunder and a series of
wild, threatening lightning strikes. She clipped her safety light to
her vest and pushed the button. The small red flasher pulsated like a
heartbeat as she turned back, paddling against the changing current as
the wind grew stronger. At home in flatwater canoes and Whitewater
kayaks, she felt no fear. Gritting her teeth and grunting, she dug deep
with the paddle, barely able to maintain forward motion for the first
hundred yards. The wind showed no signs of switching direction.
Dark anvil-shaped clouds roiled toward her. Paddling furiously, she
winced at a blinding lightning strike nearby. Cracks of thunder like
rifle shots split the sky. The heavens rumbled and crashed in deafening
crescendos as though the gods were scoring simultaneous strikes in a
giant bowling alley.
"I dare you," she screamed into the wind. "Do it! I don't care. Take
me!"
The wind shrieked back, but she couldn't make out the words.
Rain pelted her face, mingling with tears as the boat ramp came into
sight.
She struggled hand-over-hand up the ladder against a drenching
downpour. She pushed her hair out of her eyes, dragged the
forty-five-pound kayak up onto the dock, then wrestled it onto the car
rack. She secured it and collapsed, breathless, in the front seat.
Soaked and shivering, she wished she had a drink.
Rain cascaded like Victoria Falls down the windshield of the Rodeo
as she slowly drove home, the visibility nearly zero. She sprinted to
the front door, slipping and skidding on wet grass and mud. As she
fumbled with the key, a tall, hooded shadow loomed suddenly among the
hanging spider plants on the rain-slick patio and rushed toward her.
Riley wheeled, startled, mind flashing on the gun still beneath her car
seat.
"What the fuck?"
"Hey! It's me. Where the hell have you been? Poor Hooker has
the flames forced the trapped men out onto a high narrow ledge that
ringed the tower.
Indian sharpshooters killed the assistant. The lighthouse keeper was
wounded twice. Believing it to be his final act on earth, he hurled a
keg of gunpowder down into the fiery shaft, hoping to take a few
Indians with him.
To his surprise, he survived. Many of the Indians didn't. The
gigantic explosion generated outward, extinguishing the flames. The
surviving Indians fled, some on fire and screaming.
The crew of a passing schooner miles out at sea heard the explosion
and rescued the lighthouse keeper a day later.
Like the other doomed lovers, K.C. Riley. and McDonald would often
lie on the soft needle beds beneath the silver-tipped pines. They
talked about the lighthouse keeper, swearing his spirit still survived
on Miami's steamy and unpredictable streets. Residents made that clear
during the record-breaking crime wave of the eighties. Miamians, always
an unruly bunch, fought back with axes, knives, baseball bats, guns,
and machetes. Furious and fed up with crime, they took no prisoners.
They killed more criminals than the police.
Sometimes street justice is the only true justice.
K.C. Riley's small craft bobbed in the surf as she gazed at the
lighthouse, the beach, and the state park beyond. The huge pines were
gone, all fallen like jackstraws to Hurricane Andrew in '92. Apartment
and office towers rise, trees and presidents fall; only the lighthouse
had withstood time, angry seas, hungry tides, and half a hundred
hurricanes since 1900. The lone constant, she thought, a nail holding
past and future together in an ever-changing city that forgets people
and its own history too quickly. Daydreams of the past are a comfort
when the present is painful and there is no future.
The wind freshened. Lightning pirouetted like a drunken ballerina
across purpling clouds and a sky the color of regret. The sun sank as
though controlled by a dimmer switch, and she knew she'd lingered too
long.
"Did you know you made me stronger and better?" she cried. He had to
hear her. But her only answer was the rumble of thunder and a series of
wild, threatening lightning strikes. She clipped her safety light to
her vest and pushed the button. The small red flasher pulsated like a
heartbeat as she turned back, paddling against the changing current as
the wind grew stronger. At home in flatwater canoes and Whitewater
kayaks, she felt no fear. Gritting her teeth and grunting, she dug deep
with the paddle, barely able to maintain forward motion for the first
hundred yards. The wind showed no signs of switching direction.
Dark anvil-shaped clouds roiled toward her. Paddling furiously, she
winced at a blinding lightning strike nearby. Cracks of thunder like
rifle shots split the sky. The heavens rumbled and crashed in deafening
crescendos as though the gods were scoring simultaneous strikes in a
giant bowling alley.
"I dare you," she screamed into the wind. "Do it! I don't care. Take
me!"
The wind shrieked back, but she couldn't make out the words.
Rain pelted her face, mingling with tears as the boat ramp came into
sight.
She struggled hand-over-hand up the ladder against a drenching
downpour. She pushed her hair out of her eyes, dragged the
forty-five-pound kayak up onto the dock, then wrestled it onto the car
rack. She secured it and collapsed, breathless, in the front seat.
Soaked and shivering, she wished she had a drink.
Rain cascaded like Victoria Falls down the windshield of the Rodeo
as she slowly drove home, the visibility nearly zero. She sprinted to
the front door, slipping and skidding on wet grass and mud. As she
fumbled with the key, a tall, hooded shadow loomed suddenly among the
hanging spider plants on the rain-slick patio and rushed toward her.
Riley wheeled, startled, mind flashing on the gun still beneath her car
seat.
"What the fuck?"
"Hey! It's me. Where the hell have you been? Poor Hooker has
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