The banks had been battered by the oceans waves, day after day, for years longer than I remember.  I lived here, so the rage of the water crashing against the boulders lying on the shore were commonplace to me.  To the occasional stranger, the sounds may seem deafening, but they played the sweetest symphony in my ears.  After twenty three years on this island, I could almost anticipate when each instrument would hit, in a composition that even the greatest composer would be jealous of.  This was my home, my auditorium, if you will, and on earth, there is no other place that I would rather be.

My home on this lonely island, was a two-hundred year old lighthouse.  Standing tall, in the midst of this salt filled air.  A magnificent piece of architecture that fit the land perfectly.  I always thought that these rocks poking their heads from the water, were put here, just for this towering structure of painted brick.  It’s the kind of place you’d dream of while you were dying, sort of a place where you’d imagine spending eternity, and then maybe a few more days.

     I wasn’t alone on the island, I got to spend each day with a gentle soul, named Boyd Hawthorne.  Boyd was once the keeper of the lighthouse until his death in nineteen thirty-three.  He was a kind fellow that helped me learn the ropes.  You could say that Boyd and I hit it off from the very beginning.  Strangely, I was comfortable in his presence, as was he, in mine.  I had never interacted with the spirit of another before, but Boyd made me feel welcome, as if we had been friends, long before I arrived here.

     We’d occasionally sit and talk for hours- about the lighthouse, about life, and about a little bit of everything else that would dull others to tears.  Boyd was a brilliant storyteller, but then again, maybe this was just because we had so much in common.  I’d close my eyes sometimes during his stories, and I could picture myself in that very place and time, right there with him.

     The lighthouse pretty much ran itself, which would leave plenty of time to watch each day pass by.  As long as I kept the lantern lit, I knew those in my vicinity of these weary waters were safe.  This alone, made the reclusiveness of my job, that much more satisfying.  Just knowing that I was doing something that mattered, for this had not always been the case during my younger years.  But now, people counted on me, and that gave me the gratification that I had so deeply been searching for my entire life.

     It was easy to see why Boyd had spent his last days here, and why he still continues to do so, in spirit.  It’s a life that only a few are cut out for, and I’m proud to say that Boyd and I are two of the best.  Oh, I admit, it’s not the most difficult of jobs, but it does take an iron will.  The isolation alone, is enough to break the common man.  That’s where Boyd, and myself, stood out from the pack.  The two best friends, only in search of solitude from our troubled past.  This being the right place to be to ease our pain.

     Life on the island was unparalleled.  As each year passed, my memories of life before started to fade.  I had became part of this place, and it was just as much of me, as I was of it.  Boyd knew exactly how I felt.  Still, as stupendous as my life had become, I knew there was more to learn.  My quest for knowledge was just as overpowering as those mighty waves crashing against the shore below.

     One late summer day, as Boyd and I watched the sun set, off into a hazy western sky, I had finally channeled the courage to ask Boyd a question that had always intrigued me, but at the same time, seemed much too personal to ask.

     “Boyd”, I said, “we’ve been friends for twenty plus years now, and please don’t take this the wrong way, but would you mind if I asked how you died?”  There was an awkward pause, and I had an immediate feeling that I had just crossed the line.  We had both shared stories throughout the years, even on a very personal level, but this time I felt I may have crossed the line.  Somehow though, I wasn’t getting the feeling that Boyd was angry.  It was as if he was reflecting back upon the event and reliving it all once again.

     He told me that he had been working in the lantern room, at the top of the lighthouse for those of you that may not know, and on his way back down, a rusty stair had given way, causing him to plummet the entire height of the lighthouse, down to the cold concrete floor below.  “I knew I was dead before I ever hit the ground”, he said.  Boyd told me that some times things are so invincible, that even the strongest of men, knows when it’s time to give up, and suffer that in which you are destined.  I came to the conclusion at that point, that he had passed away before his body ever had a chance to feel the pain of the fall.  Boyd Hawthorne, like always, never failed to amaze me.

     There was a confused, yet reinforced feeling in the air.  Something that I had wanted to ask the old man since meeting on the shore that very first day, and yet it had taken so long.  “Why was this”, I quietly asked myself?  It was such an immaculate existence that we had both grown to know.  A time and place so perfect for one’s soul.

     With the evenings sun having long now set, and the full moon starting to beam, Boyd turned to me and said “Since we’re on the subject, my friend, I’d like to ask you the same thing.”