Flight to Paradise (Flight Trilogy, Book 1) (9 page)

As he turned into the cemetery, she said, “I never expected our romantic date to include a visit to a graveyard.”

He smiled, but offered no response. A feeling of quiet reverence permeated the silence.

“Look,” she said. An older couple was placing a wreath on a grave. “That could have been their son.”

“Might even be a father or grandfather,” he added. “Some of the graves here date back to the battle of San Pasqual in 1846.” He pointed off to the left across the green lawn and rows of white markers. “Do you see that large boulder?”

“You mean that big rock in the middle of the cemetery?”

“Yeah. It was brought here in 1922 by the San Diego chapter of the Native Sons and Daughters of the Golden West. A plaque is attached to the face of the stone listing the names of those who died in the battle.”

“How do you know all this stuff?”

“I love military history.”

Although Ryan enjoyed reading about military history, the details of the Rosecrans National Cemetery were mostly uncovered in his research and preparation for his date with Emily. He hoped a short drive through the cemetery would allow him to point out, in a visual way, the brevity of life and the need to live each day to the fullest—something he had embraced since the death of his father. The trip to the cemetery served two purposes: to see how she would respond to a more serious side of life and to encourage a sense of urgency to take their relationship to the next level—marriage.

They drove slowly along the smooth, black lane as it wound through the acres of white grave markers. Wind rustled the leaves as a single crow cawed. The eerie quiet held the voices of the decaying bones and mortified flesh of lives once lived, as if to the visitors they said: “embrace the present—make each day count.”

The markers were identical except for the chiseled inscriptions listing the specifics of the deceased: name, dates, branch of service, home state, and more. Emily read the states as they drove by: “Alabama, Virginia, Tennessee, Texas, California….”

Occasionally they would drive by a marker with freshly turned dirt at its base; the sign of a new grave.

He pulled the car to the side of the narrow road, rolled down his window, and turned off the engine. Whispering winds rustled the branches of the towering trees. A crow cawed, breaking the silence.

Without saying a word, he pointed out beyond the front of the car at a small gathering of people seated in front of the casket. He and Emily sat quietly and watched.

Three Navy soldiers dressed in dark uniforms stood at attention beside the casket. While two of the soldiers held a stiff salute, the third soldier raised a bugle to his lips and played “Taps”; the smooth, tender, touching farewell, lasting less than a minute.

When the bugler lowered his bugle, the other two soldiers marched to a point in front of a woman dressed in black. One soldier presented the woman with an American flag, neatly folded in the shape of a triangle. A brightly polished wooden casket—the eternal bed for a brave soldier—rested on the sturdy straps of a grave-lowering device.

Emily whispered, “Makes you wonder what happened. I mean, why they died and how old they were.”

“Yeah. When I see things like this, I think about the people who loved that person. How painful it must be for them to live with the loss and separation.” Ryan paused in silence for a moment, remembering the grief that followed the death of his father. “I’m reminded of my dad. I wish I had spent more time with him before he died.”

He had not talked much about his parents with Emily.

“Were you and your dad close?”

“Not really. He wasn’t much of a family man. I think that’s why I wound up an only child. Mom said he never wanted children.”

“What about your mom? Is she still alive?”

“Yeah. She lives near Atlanta. We have always been close…that is…until I left home.”

“What happened?”

“It’s mostly my fault. I’ve never been good at writing.” The thought of Keri popped into his mind. He had lost her for the same reason—not writing. “I guess I should call her more.”

Since leaving for the Academy, his communication with his mom had waned. During the six months since he’d met Emily, he had stopped writing her completely. He hadn’t even told her about Emily.

Deep down he knew she would not approve. He didn’t want to deal with her probing questions, starting with her family: “Ryan, does Emily come from a good family?” He could only imagine his response. “Not really, mom. Her dad is an alcoholic and her mom is a recluse. And I’m not sure, but I think her mom might even have a drug problem, nothing illegal, just the run-of-the-mill sedatives and tranquilizers.”

Next, she would surely ask if Emily had brothers or sisters. Again, he imagined himself telling her, “Her older sister is a stripper in Seattle, and her younger brother is in prison for selling drugs—the not-so-legal kind.”

He loved Emily and wanted to marry her regardless of what his mother thought.

“You should call her more often,” Emily said. “I’m sure she misses you.”

“Yeah, I know. I’m sure the lack of contact has changed things…hard not to. Even though we both know we love each other, over time the relationship is destined to take-on a whole new dimension.”

Emily sat quietly in thought. He hoped his words made her think about how devastating a separation would be to their young relationship.

“Ready to go?” he asked, reaching for the key in the ignition. They needed to stay on schedule. Seeing an actual service in progress had provided an effect he had not expected.

“Ready,” she said.

“I always see life differently after I attend a funeral, or even when I visit a cemetery.”

“How can you not?” she asked.

“I think it’s important to be reminded of the brevity of life.”

After a moment of silence, she responded, “I agree.”

Hearing her words gave him hope.

He left the cemetery, and within minutes they were parked in the lot next to the visitor center.

He jumped out and raced around the car, hoping to open her door. She beat him to it. She looked up at him and jokingly said, “What’s a lady got to do around here to get a little respect these days?” They both laughed.

A cool breeze reminded him to grab the extra jacket.

“First, let’s go take a look at the lighthouse,” he said. He took her hand.

Not only did the lighthouse offer an unbelievable 360-degree view from the highest point on the peninsula—422 feet above the water—it was his second visual illustration.

As they walked up the paved pathway to the lighthouse, he heard the roar of a military jet departing from the North Island Naval Air Station, just below Point Loma on the tip of Coronado Island. He turned, watching it climb-out over the Pacific.

“You gonna miss it?” Emily asked, looking up at the jet streaking through the sky.

“Some things I’ll miss, but it’s time to move on. The Navy has been good to me. I don’t know where I would be today if it weren’t for the Navy.”

The thunderous sound of the jet subsided.

“I’ll bet you can’t guess the one thing the Navy gave me I am most thankful. I call it my pearl of all pearls.”

“What?”

“You.” He looked at her and smiled. She smiled back, putting her arm around his waist and pulling him close while they walked. “If it weren’t for the Navy, I never would have found you.”

The old Point Loma lighthouse was originally built in 1854, but in the 1960’s the National Park Service refurbished the interior to its historic 1880’s appearance, as a reminder of a bygone era.

The lighthouse had a short life. The seemingly good location concealed a serious flaw: fog and low clouds often obscured the beam. When it was decommissioned in 1891, a new light station was built at the bottom of the hill.

It was not the lighthouse Ryan wanted Emily to focus on but rather the life of the “keeper” of the house and his family.

Climbing the steps and entering the front door of the small, white, two-story house took them back in time, over 100 years. Life for the keeper and his family was simple and lonely.

A descriptive message mounted on the wall behind a protective layer of acrylic stated it was not uncommon for several weeks to go by between visits to town by horse-and-buggy over steep and rutted dirt roads.

The keeper’s school-age children attended Mason Street School in town, the first public school in Southern California. But instead of being picked up by a local “buggy pool”, the five-mile journey was made across the San Diego Bay in a rowboat. While away at school, the children would stay with relatives who lived in town.

The raw simplicity experienced by the keeper and his family presented a sharp contrast to modern day life, especially to the life Emily had grown accustomed. Ryan used the visit to the lighthouse to encourage Emily to focus on the simple and lonely life the keeper and his wife had
willfully
accepted—a life he would soon ask Emily to accept as his wife.

“You’ve seen all this before, haven’t you?” he asked. He was specifically talking about the interior of the lighthouse where the keeper and his family lived.

“It’s been a long time. The few times I’ve come up here, I mostly walked the trail or hung-out over by the monument. You know…with my good friend J.R.” She smiled, nudging him with her elbow. “But to be honest, the time you and I came up here on our first date six-months ago, that was the first time I’d seen this place in years.”

“Really?”

“It’s just no fun coming up here unless you’re with someone special.”

He wondered how many other guys she had introduced to J.R.

“It’s always fun to bring someone up here for their first time, like you.” She gently poked her finger into his stomach followed by a hug.

It was as if she could read his thoughts. It gave rise to an unjustified premonition. Could she possibly know his motives and just be playing along? Surely not. He dismissed the presage and continued with his plan.

“Do you think you could live like this?” he asked, looking at the simple, tiny room: a fireplace beneath an oak mantle; a wooden rocker sitting ghostly to one side; thin translucent drapes covered the small window diffusing the light.

“This would be a prison,” she said, looking around the room. “How could anyone live out here on this rock in total isolation from the rest of the world for weeks at the time?”

Not
exactly
what
I
had
hoped
to
hear
,
but
at
least
she
is
being
honest
.

They climbed the spiral stairs in the center of the small house. Two bedrooms were located on the second level; one at each end of the house. The cozy master bedroom had a double bed with a solid oak headboard and a barley-twist footboard. A homemade quilt was spread atop a thin mattress with two white pillows. A fireplace, similar to the one in the downstairs den, sharing the same chimney flue, took up most of the far wall. A light blue drape was pulled back from the window revealing a spectacular view of the ocean.

She slipped her arm around his waist. “If I were up here living with the person I loved and had everything I needed, well…I can see where it might not be so bad…maybe even a good thing,” she said.

His ears perked up. Maybe it was the intimacy of the bedroom that sparked her romantic reflection. He could only hope.

She said, “When I think about it, these folks had a good thing going up here. They could sleep as late as they wanted; their kids were off at school living with relatives in town; her husband was always at home. The more I think about it, it looks more like paradise than a prison. To answer your question, yeah, I think I could do this.” She looked up at him and smiled. “If I were with you.”

He wasn’t sure how to interpret her comments. He heard two undertones in her response—one good, one not so good. She wanted to be with him; that was good. But how could she be happy sending her children off to live with relatives? He was certain she would think differently if they were her children.

For the time being, he concluded the trip to the lighthouse had served its purpose. Time to move on to his third and final visual: the monument of J.R. Cabrillo.

They walked back down the hill toward the visitor’s center. Sunset was thirty minutes away. Perfect timing, he thought. The view out over the ocean and toward Coronado Island would be spectacular.

The temperature had dropped a few degrees as the sun lowered in the sky. He cloaked the extra jacket across her shoulders helping her slip her arms into the sleeves.

“Did you bring that for me?” she said, snuggling in the new-found warmth.

“I thought you might need it.”

“You are so thoughtful.”

The jacket hung down below her waist with her hands hidden in the sleeves.

The last object was the Cabrillo National Monument which was built in memory of Juan Rodriguez Cabrillo: the first European to set foot on the West Coast of, what is now, the United States. He set out on his epic voyage fifty years after Columbus landed in America on the opposite coast.

Holding hands, they walked out to where the monument of Cabrillo was located. The view was breathtaking: San Diego harbor, the skyline of the city, and Coronado Island with the Hotel Del Coronado in the near distance.

“There’s your good buddy J.R.,” he said, attempting to remind her of the first time they talked on the beach, when she had agreed to give him a tour of Point Loma. She had jokingly mentioned in a later phone call she wanted to introduce him to her good friend, J.R. Cabrillo—who lived up on the hill. It didn’t dawn on him until they were standing in front of the monument for the first time that, “good old J.R.” was a block of stone.

“Yeah, J.R. and I go way back. I think he’s ashamed of himself.”

“Should he be?” They stood in front of the statue looking up at his face, some fourteen feet above them.

“See how he has his head turned. He just can’t look me in the eye. I can’t stand it when a guy can’t look me in the eyes. And I never have understood why he has his back turned to the ocean. Shouldn’t he be looking out for a new place to go conquer? He even looks like he’s hiding behind that pole.”