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Ocracoke by Christmas

By Cindy M. Amos

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Change resisted coming to Ocracoke Island, but not today. Kettie Gaskill stood as sentinel at the ferry landing awaiting the shipment of lumber for expanding the lighthouse keeper’s quarters so two families could co-exist in the allocated federal housing on the island’s west end. At nineteen years of age, the fit constrained as of late.
If the carpenters departed at the first light of the dawning day, the thirteen-mile crossing from Hatteras Village should put the work barge at the landing under her feet within the next quarter hour. Greenhead flies buzzed her head, trying to duly stretch her patience. “Off with your bother. Go find the ponies on the north end and leave me be. Don’t you dare mess up my new dress.”
She swished her book to knock the pestilence away and then used it as a sun shield to better scan the sound’s horizon. There, a dark spot harkened with a promise of inbound arrival. What good portend. Perhaps the shipment wouldn’t press against lunchtime too late.
The book popped open to her marker and she scanned the contents to embark on her own adventure beyond the island’s monotony. The last crate of books sent by the U.S. Lighthouse Service contained fanciful stories from the Far East, an exotic land of foreign culture. Any deviation from her staid life as the keeper’s daughter would be welcome, in print or otherwise.
By the chapter’s end, the dark spot had grown into a detailed vessel, its bow flat to enable the loading and unloading of cargo. A puff of diesel exhaust from the boat’s engine diffused into the salt air, a force that drove improvement to the outer islands. Before long, she could make out two figures working amid the lumber stacks. More entertaining than the printed word, she snapped the book closed and watched their approach with keen interest.
Capable, the vessel overtook the distance and entered the shallows. With the year halfway spent toward a progressive new decade, such masterful movement made mockery of her stationary existence. A sliver of thrill overrode her dismay, so she focused on the two muscle-bound men securing the lumber.
Seconds later, a frantic reckoning birthed as the arrival distance shortened, but the boat’s exuberance failed to diminish accordingly. A maritime novice at best, unease prickled her forearms as she regarded the pending landfall. To protect the loaned book, she tucked it under one arm and began to wring her hands.
A diesel puff gave proof that the engine continued its vigor. The two men dropped back from the bow and joined the captain at the cabin. For all intents and purposes, the bow stood preened and pointed, ready for imminent acquaintance with the dock, an abrupt coincidence of inconceivable mating. With haunting clarity, her mother’s favorite nagging condemnation echoed to mind. Such a foot-dragger.
Dare she run for the safety of land at the last minute? And what manner of ridicule might that provoke when the visitors retold the events of the day? Stubborn to a fault, she resigned to hold her ground, a hand affixed to the book as to secure their fated meet-up.
~
Drey Parker stood on the quivering deck of the delivery boat, a man torn in two directions. With the captain’s consent, he’d rip out the malfunctioning engine with his bare hands, so help him God. Beyond the bow, the willowy feminine figure adhered to the dock proved an entirely different matter. Like a mythical Siren guarding his next port of call, the allure of her presence overrode his better judgment. Of more delicate construct than the engine, he lacked any know-how to rid her from the scene.
He broke for the bow, dodging his father’s last-second grab. Sharp words of warning filled his thoughts, yet got jumbled into a clog in his throat. At the captain’s aggravated moan, he gestured landward with sharp intent. “Save yourself, miss. Our throttle’s lodged at full speed.”
The boat veered into the imminent crash, exposing its port flank to the wooden decking along the landing’s edge. He knelt and held his breath as the gap lessened to a man’s height. A blur of yellow meant the bystander had begun to heed his warning to flee, but without proper haste. All too soon, a screech of wood-on-wood led to dock planks snapping with thunderous objection while the lumber cargo cascaded to level across the deck.
More stocky than nimble, he scrambled on all fours as milled two-by-eight boards shifted past him faster than he could react. The scent of fresh-planed pine sobered him to the reality of his plight. Though he’d never measured quicksand in terms of board-feet, the lumber swallowed him within seconds, casting him topsy-turvy. Two boards pinched the fingertips of his left hand, so he jerked it clear and hid his hands under his arms.
The captain growled from the stern. “Lady overboard. One of you gents go in after her.”
Closest to the gunwale, Drey stood at a crouch on the planks and searched the wreckage scene. Two pilings aft, a curious splashing captured his attention. As if to mark the spot, a soggy book flailed in the swimmer’s hand. He jumped into the sound feet first and leapt off the sandy bottom like a frog in her general direction. When a straw hat floated past, he flung it landward and stayed fixed on his target, a sopping wet female who appeared agitated.
She came up from the water sputtering. “How dare you ruin our dock.”
Shocked by the fire sparking from her simmering blue eyes, he hesitated for a cautious second. “I tried to warn you in time, but you waited too long.”
“My fault? Of all the numbskull insinuations.” She tried to wipe her hair clear from her face, affecting her ability to tread water.
Seeing her falter, he clamped an arm around her waist. “Drop the book and save yourself. Haven’t you any common sense?” Though she stiffened under his grip, he tugged her toward the shoreline fringed with marsh grass. In the shallows at last, he stomped through the mucky edge and forced their way back to the remaining tethers of the crumpled dock. “You stay put while we salvage the lumber.”
“No, I’ll run tell Father that his dock is ruined. Maybe he will be more disposed to do your bidding since he’s in the business of rescue. Let the record show that I am not.” With that declaration, she stomped off swinging the book in the salt breeze, a vision of yellow much like a festering mud dauber that had accidentally alit in the sea.
The captain gestured and offered him a hand aboard. “That’s a Gaskill for you—all fire and no bite. Carlton should be down in a minute. Be sure an offer to rebuild the dock sits on the tip of your tongue, leastwise you’ll make two foes with one blow.”
His father met him the moment his boots squished back onto the deck. “Should have cut our losses twenty feet ago and coasted in. Now as it stands, we’ll spend every cent of profit rebuilding their rickety dock.”
He shook his head. “Not so. I brought extra lumber, in case some got warped.”
The captain chuckled while shoving some planks aside. “Carlton’s wife Shirlene ranks among the best cooks on the island. At least try to stay on her good side. As for the rest, you’re on your own, young man.”
He glanced up to see a dot of yellow disappear inside a picket fence beneath the lighthouse. Mindful that the federal contract represented financial security for the rest of the year, he bit back his justifying retort and started piling the lumber back into stacks for toting ashore. Good or bad, they’d completed the perilous crossing from Hatteras intact. Now, he had a construction job to do, biting flies and mud daubers aside.

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