Thunder's Glory

F
our-year-old Cory Horton struggled to remain in bed. Too young to tell time on the old, analog clock, he stepped to the window. Dawn had not yet broken. Surely, the sun was out there somewhere. Returning to the twin bed he often rolled out of and onto the cold, hard floor beneath, he settled deep into the warm sheets, turned toward the window, and looked to the open sea.
Beyond the dock, running lights from a passing trawler lit up the Caribbean’s calm water. Pulling a thin, elastic strap over his mop of red hair, he covered his left eye with the pirate patch he received on his birthday. He already decided next year he would ask for a telescope.
Hoping to catch sight of a real pirate wearing an eye patch like his and a heavy steel hook at the end of his arm, he peeked through the binoculars he had forgotten to return to his father. Pressing his face against the glass, he caught sight of Spitty, his neighbor.
Standing with one foot on the dock, Spitty used the other to anchor On the Fly, a seventeen-foot Cobia fishing boat. Minutes earlier, when his flashlight went dark, he became tangled up in a mess of grapey seaweed. Before he could steady his feet, he fell face first into the cold, wet sand. Crawling along the beach, he muttered words he once read in a bathroom stall. Each time he tapped the temperamental flashlight against the palm of his hand, a quick flash lit up the shore.
Mesmerized by the light show, Cory threw the aluminum blinds over his shoulder. He pulled a sleeve over his hand and wiped at the gray fog his breath left behind. Tossing the heavy binoculars to the floor, he jumped across the bed. Grabbing a flashlight from the bedside table, he hurried to return to his post. Eager to join in Spitty’s game, he held the tubular flashlight to the window. Letting go a laugh, he slid the silver power switch up and down until his thumb grew tired.
Minutes away from pulling anchor and casting off for a morning of fishing the island’s best-kept-secret reef, Spitty was drawn to the flash of lights. Expecting Cory to be at his side in the coming minutes, he felt a pull at his heart. It was one of the many times he regretted not settling down and having children.
Watching Fenndus, an aging spaniel Spitty often described as long in the chassis, race across the sand, Cory was ready to dart. But rules were rules, and the first on his father’s list was to be followed. Wait for the morning sun.
Settling back into bed, he plopped down on his pillow. Humming a tune he learned while watching Saturday morning cartoons, he glanced around the room. Stacked on his bedside table was his prize collection of comic books. A vendor working near his father’s construction job traded these for cheap booze and cigarettes. On the cover of each magazine was an action picture of The Incredible Hulk—his favorite super hero. Having not yet learned to read, he flipped through the colored pages so many times, the smudged drawings had begun to blur. Strategically placed on the wall opposite his bed was a poster of The Hulk. Clad in torn and tattered clothing, the gargantuan hero bolted down busy streets, tossing matchbox cars against tall buildings, while stomping others into the concrete pavement. A determined look upon his green face let the reader know their hero was on a mission to right yet another villain’s wrongdoings.
Restless and bored, and having lost interest in playing flashlight tag with Spitty, he cracked his knuckles, a habit his father gave up trying to break, and then picked at a stubborn scab a slip on a bed of rocks had left behind. Looking toward the window, he was thrilled when a hint of morning finally shone through a slim crack in the blinds.
No longer able to ignore the ocean’s call, he rubbed sleep, a name his sisters called the crusty boogers that caked his long lashes, from the corners of his eyes. He tossed the lightweight blanket aside, jumped to the floor, and balancing on one leg, slipped out of his Dallas Cowboy pajamas and into the faded drawstring trunks his brother had outgrown years earlier. Tiptoeing through the sleeping house, he grabbed the yellow floaty wings he was required to wear every time he went near the water. Worried the day would start without him, he raced out the door so fast he nearly tripped over his growing feet.
A lazy sun created a halo around him as he sprinted barefoot over the white, sandy beach. Kicking a cloud of sand off his heels, he sank deep into the otter puddles low tide left behind. Forgetting his hurry, he stopped to gather washed up seashells and pieces of smooth sea glass, examine bits of broken coral, and looking over his shoulder to make certain no one was watching, trample the sand castles the tides left standing. Squinting from the sun, he worked the inflated water wings up his arms and over his elbows. Stepping onto the pier, he scanned the water’s surface for sharks. Finding the coast clear, he skipped along the weathered planks. Taking his usual place at the edge of the dock, he wrapped an arm around a post before stretching his big toe into the cool water.
On this morning, he shared the pier with Spitty, the only name he knew to call his island neighbor who always wore sunbaked skin and greasy lip balm. Each time Spitty spoke, saliva spewed from a widening gap between his front teeth.
“Good morning, young man,” Spitty greeted with a welcoming wave. “Tell me how it is you know Morse code?”
He ignored Spitty’s question. Instead, he grew interested in a raised bump a bite from a no-see-um had left on his leg.
In his hurry to set out on the water, Spitty appreciated Cory’s silence. “Anywho, Morse code was once a popular dot and dash form of communication.”
Eyeing the fishing rod and recalling the small gray and black fish Spitty caught off the dock and oftentimes returned to the water, he shot off the question he asked each morning. “What are you fishing for today, Spitty?”
“Reef donkeys.”
Twisting a floaty wing in a barrel motion, he forced a doubting frown. “That’s silly, Spitty. Donkeys don’t live in the ocean. Everybody knows donkeys can’t swim.”
“That’s another name for amberjacks. They call them that because they stay near the reefs. Don’t bother asking why.”
Growing quiet, a habit Spitty wished he would perfect, he ran his hand over the flashlight’s recently acquired dents. “I liked playing flashlight tag.”
Having once caught Spitty without a shirt, Cory’s eyes had grown wide when he saw the scars on his chest. “What happened, Spitty?” He asked not out of concern, but a child’s curiosity.
Forgetting the scars a charged defibrillator left behind, Spitty assumed he was asking about the letters tattooed on his chest. Just as he was about to answer, he looked toward Robert, Cory’s father. Locking eyes, he understood Robert didn’t want to reveal the raised scars remained after his heart needed a jump start, or that the tattoos were meant to inform first responders and emergency crews his wish not to be resuscitated.
“This here D stands for dream; something I think keeps me young.” Searching for words to describe the letter in the middle had Spitty at a loss. When an answer came to him, a smile crossed his tanned face. “The N stands for knowledge.” Pausing, he enjoyed a laugh. “Back in the day, I was a wide receiver for the Nebraska Huskers. This here R at the end reminds me to relax. That’s what I do each morning on this old fishing boat.”
While he continued with his line of questioning, Spitty filled the narrow boat with provisions he would need out on the water. A small cooler protected a bag of potato chips, a canister of salted nuts, and a ceviche sandwich made with a land crab he caught the night before. Wearing battle scars it had earned over the years, a larger cooler held a school of nervous minnows he would use to bait his dinner.