The game the boys had come to play was as stupid as it was daring, and more than once in Duluth’s long history the dares had proven deadly. The object of the game was simple: Sprint out the long walkway after a retreating wave, leap up the wide steps, tag the lighthouse, and then race back to shore before the next monster wave could wash over you. The concrete was wet, so the footing was treacherous. Debris washed over the walk. The strong northerly wind was right in your face. Worst of all, year round Lake Superior had only one temperature. Freezing. Paralysis could occur in seconds. Hypothermia took only minutes. If you timed it right, and you could run really fast, you could get back to the safety of the lift bridge without ever getting wet. But if your luck ran out—
These storms with the killer waves were at their deadliest in the early weeks of November. “My dad said, never challenge the lake.”
Pudge Abercrombie smiled at his lifelong friend, the revolving beam from the lighthouse sweeping over his snow-soaked face. “But that’s what makes the game so much fun, Jack. There is the real chance we could be killed.”
Jack Start shook his head. “How many beers did you have?”
“Just two.”
“Was she worth two?”
“You tell me.”
Standing and shivering alongside Pudge Abercrombie and Jack Start that fateful night was Tommy Robek. Where Pudge and Jack had been the halfback and the quarterback, respectively, Tommy Robek didn’t play sports. He was just the skinny kid from the neighborhood. The three boys had run together all their lives.
A malicious grin broke over Pudge’s round red face. “Let’s all go together. I mean, same time. One big wave.”
Jack Start glanced out at a lake gone crazy. Glanced over at his friend. He shrugged his wide, athletic shoulders and smiled. Then he looked into the storm and quoted a line from one of their favorite movies,
They waited for a real live one, gambling that the wave that followed it, the wave that would be chasing them back to shore, would be the smaller of the two. They didn’t have to wait long. A big black monster came crashing over the lighthouse like an invading army. Tons of freezing water splashed over the canal walls and raced up the walkway with a speed and rage the boys had never before seen. The angry lake water reached all the way to the tips of their toes. Washed over their ankles. Then suddenly the wave began its fast retreat. The two other boys echoed their quarterback’s sentiments. “It is a good day to die.” And the three boys were off and running.
They ran after the wave as fast as their young legs would carry them. Out onto the canal they ran. Out into the great lake. They hurled over the storm-strewn debris and struggled to keep their balance on the slippery concrete. They were screaming. They were laughing. They were so filled with adrenalin, youth, and beer, that all of the reasoning in the world could not have stopped them from challenging the lake. They were just seventeen, they were incredibly healthy, and their whole adult lives lay before them. And so what if they got a little wet.
Pudge Abercrombie reached the lighthouse steps first. Jack Start was right on his tail. The skinny kid brought up the rear. Pudge and Jack slapped the lighthouse wall, turned, and leapt back down the steps. That’s when Jack Start slipped and fell. Pudge put on the brakes, barely keeping his balance. He turned and helped his friend to his feet. Now Tommy Robek tagged the lighthouse, jumped down the steps, and crashed into them. All three of them went rolling through the icy slosh. Their laughter was almost hysterical. They were having a real time of it because they knew it was going to be close. So now they were up and running. Running through the wind-driven sleet and snow. The Aerial Lift Bridge bathed in silver-blue spotlights looked like a giant goalpost, and they were about three-quarters home when the enraged lake caught up with them. It slapped them down onto the concrete and then buried them in freezing water.
