Originally published by The Writers Guild of Astoria as part of the 2026 Astoria Column Writing Contest
It’s been 12,183 days. My little boat lifts and drops with the waves. Occasionally, I patch a hole or mend the sail. I built it and I can repair it.
A few years ago, the current carried me to an island. It fed me, its waterfalls slaked my thirst, and the trees kept me dry. For a short time, I rested in the sand while the sun warmed my body.
But the food diminished and the water became undrinkable. I took what remained from under my trees and set sail again.
Now, I hide my face from the sun breaking endlessly across the waves. I never know which direction I am drifting.
Tonight, I lie on my back and count the stars that crash to the ocean’s floor. Other than the moon, it’s as much light as I get.
In the distance, a faint flash returns again and again. I sit up.
That’s no shooting star.
The water seems to urge me toward it, so I reach for my oar, dip into the salty sea, and push. Left, right. Left, right. It looks like a lighthouse, impossibly far away. I keep paddling.
In the morning, thick fog surrounds the horizon. There’s no evidence of a lighthouse anymore. I spend the daylight squinting into the distance, questioning whether I’d seen it after all.
When the sky finally darkens to the water’s edge, I scan the horizon. There it is, a little brighter now. I pick up the pace.
Weeks pass. I can see the dark outline of its land against the moonlight. Its tower is a shadow stretching toward me.
The sun breaches the ocean waves. A drumbeat pulses in my ribcage. There, a morning’s passage away, is an island holding a pale lighthouse.
It’s smaller than I imagined.
The nearer it gets, the duller the ache in my shoulders. My boat seems to glide twice as far with each stroke.
The rising sun reveals walls embedded with starfish and sea-glass.
I’m surrounded now by mirrors.
My eyes scale its height and stop near the top at a window. A figure moves just behind the glass, and I imagine her waving me ashore.
The land’s edge finds my boat, and I leap from inside its safety. Warm water swirls around my ankles as I wade to shore, each step dragging through sand.
This place feels hushed. For the first time, I’m not sure I should disturb it. But her constant movement draws me forward. I run.
Almost immediately, I smack into something hard. Stunned by resistance, I look down the shore each way. In the half-light, a reflection of the sand and water curves around the land in both directions.
My hands drag across the vertical glass surface, searching for an opening until my legs shake. Eventually, I collapse into my boat and paddle around the island perimeter.
I look to the woman in the window. Her hands still move side to side. But now that I’m closer, I see her head doing the same.
That can’t be right. But I’ve circled this island and found no way in.
Her hands never stop.
I drop my oar. My body hurts. My boat and I bob in the water. It’s all right there, just on the other side. The current begins to carry my oar beyond the island.
I reach for it.
Erin Power 