The Todd's Point Lights

Someone had acquired bottle rockets--probably Cupcake, who also probably led the expedition to Todd's Point late at night, actually early the next morning, because we all worked the swing shift until after midnight. We had three or four pickups, a case or so of beer, and a bag of bottle rockets. Todd's Point was clear under a distant ceiling of stars, the only other light visible the glow from the mill, culminating mysteriously in an ascending squirrely vein of light attached to the jolting serpent of smoke and steam, rooted in the powerhouse, above and behind the north bluff, leaning in our direction; the town's permanent wind vane.

Since personal fireworks were prohibited and even the recently-instituted municipal show in July tended to be held in a fogbank, we were enthusiastic about launching the rockets. At first we prudently placed the sticks with colorful charges glued to them in beer bottles, as recommended, when that got dull we innovated by lighting and flinging the rockets as one might fling a rattlesnake, loosing them tremendously into the sky, where they would ignite some distance from our hands and then accelerate, whistling happily into the distance before flashing into brief showers of bright sparks with a bang, much farther out than those fired from bottles. Some exploded so far out over the ocean we could not, hear, or only dimly heard, the colorful ignitions.

We drank, flung lit rockets, and lit rockets in the bottle on the cherry of Cupcake's Marlboro Red, enjoying the experience: kicking pieces of the raw dusty earth over the crumbling side into the uneasy ocean; fire in the sky, the beer and liberation, damp wind smothering our voices, throwing our empties into the void of rocks and water. We were without doubt the baddest asses in town, primed on Big Mill dollars; living it up.

I remember staring into the stars after each rocket I tossed, seeing nothing in the deep chaos of light that made any more sense than spending my evenings with a pickaroon in one hand and doug fir pitch drooling down my arms. I spent considerable time in those years reflecting on the disagreeable aspects of laboring in the mill, but of course it offered benefits including a steady paycheck and the sense of being a part of something hallowed and appropriate. So there was plenty to celebrate with our beer and bottle rockets, standing on Todd's Point with no moon but that raw, silky void, backlit from light-years away: we knew who we were and where we fit in, right at that moment. For me it was true, at least at the time.

I don't know which of us noticed that certain stars, a rigid triangular arrangement in fact, seemed to separate themselves from the background. Almost as though in response to our feeble light show, something with a definite shape was out there, closing in, backing off, moving as though instantaneously from one spot to another but remaining out there. There must have been a half-dozen of us. By that point everyone there had consumed two or three beers, maybe more. So maybe we were not the most reliable witnesses. We argued over whether we saw anything or not. It was clear but the longer one stared the less substantial it seemed.

We ruled out airplanes and helicopters. There was no sound, and no way to gauge distance except against deceptive stars. Who could say how far out there anything was? But the lights were obviously connected: when they moved across the sky they blocked the view of stars behind them.

We laughed. It was impossible. Any one of us alone might have been awed, if he'd even noticed the lights in the first place, but as a group we were much too bold for that. We scoffed at the idea, but conceded there was no explanation, and technically anything you can't identify as plane, helicopter, weather balloon, or cheesy hoax, is a UFO. So we were accepting it, at first privately, then as a group, and remarking over how it continued, though as far as anyone could see there was no purpose or order to the movement. It was just lights, closing in, or seeming to, then drawing away, or moving laterally.

Just as we could not really gauge distance, I'd hate to say how long we spent staring, becoming convinced that we could not logically explain what was happening in the sky, before we noticed headlights moving in our direction. It was a pickup truck coming down the arrow of pavement, due west of the highway. At length it turned north at the dead end, in our direction.

The pickup turned out to be a military-issue Dodge, with Coast Guard markings. Someone in town had also seen the lights and summoned the coast's first line of defense, in those days probably still the most heavily-armed force for miles around. The shallow water sailors unhurriedly, blinking away sleep, listened to our explanation and looked at what we could see. They, also, were stumped.

Nothing really happened. But the official presence of men in military drag, who knew of no missile tests or other likely causes for our now quite well-documented show, meant that whatever had not happened had been peculiar enough to warrant attention, despite the fact that the .50 caliber machine guns on their cutter would have been a ridiculous response to anything those lights might have unleashed against us.

Years later, having seen nothing of the kind ever since, I might easily doubt or forget I had seen anything at all. But you could ask any number of people who were there: they have a record of it.