The sea was angry that night, its waves crashing against the jagged rocks with a ferocity that made the lighthouse tremble. The wind howled like a wounded animal, rattling the windows and forcing the old structure to creak under its weight. Inside the lighthouse, Steph Curry, 63 years old and far removed from his days as a basketball legend, sat in his worn-out armchair, staring at the flickering flame of the kerosene lamp on the table beside him. His hands were clasped tightly around a faded photograph, the edges curling and the image blurred from years of handling.
In the photograph, a young boy with curly brown hair and bright green eyes stood on the beach, grinning from ear to ear. Beside him was a woman with a kind smile and a soft, weathered face. Ayesha had taken the photo decades ago, back when their son, Canon, was just six years old. Back before everything fell apart.
Steph’s gaze lingered on the boy’s face, his heart heavy with regret. It had been twenty years since Canon had left the lighthouse, vowing never to return. Twenty years since Steph had said words he couldn’t take back. Twenty years since Ayesha had passed away, leaving him alone with nothing but the sound of the waves and the weight of his mistakes.
The storm outside grew fiercer, the wind screaming as if it were trying to tear the lighthouse apart. Steph leaned forward, his joints aching as he reached for the radio on the table. The Coast Guard had warned him earlier that evening about the storm, advising him to stay alert in case any ships got too close to the rocks. It had been years since Steph had guided a ship to safety—most vessels relied on GPS and radar now—but he still kept the light burning, just in case.
As he adjusted the radio’s frequency, a faint crackling sound filled the room. Steph frowned, turning the dial slowly. Through the static, he thought he heard a voice—a faint, desperate plea for help.
“This is the cargo ship Mariner’s Hope,” the voice crackled. “We’ve lost control of our navigation. The storm is pushing us toward the rocks. Can anyone hear us? Please, we need help.”
Steph’s heart skipped a beat. He grabbed the microphone and pressed the button. “This is Lighthouse Keeper Curry at Blackwater Point. I hear you loud and clear. What’s your position?”
The response was garbled, but Steph caught enough to understand the situation. The Mariner’s Hope was drifting dangerously close to the rocks, its engines failing against the strength of the storm. He glanced at the clock on the wall—it was nearly midnight. If the ship didn’t change course soon, it would be torn apart.
Steph stood, his knees protesting as he moved toward the window. The beam of the lighthouse swept across the dark sea, illuminating the churning waves and the faint outline of a massive cargo ship in the distance. He could see its lights flickering, barely visible through the sheets of rain.
“Mariner’s Hope, you’re heading straight for the rocks,” Steph said into the radio. “You need to adjust your course immediately. Do you have power to steer?”
There was a pause before the voice replied, panic evident in its tone. “We’re trying, but the engines are failing. We can’t fight the current. Please, tell us what to do.”
Steph’s mind raced. He hadn’t dealt with a situation like this in years, but his training and decades of experience kicked in. He gave the crew precise instructions, guiding them toward a safer path. As he spoke, he kept his eyes on the ship, willing it to move away from the rocks.
The minutes dragged on, each one feeling like an eternity. The storm showed no signs of letting up, and Steph could feel the weight of the situation pressing down on him. If the ship didn’t make it, if the crew didn’t survive, it would be on him.
Finally, after what felt like hours, the voice on the radio spoke again. “We’re clear of the rocks. We’re safe. Thank you, Lighthouse Keeper Curry. You saved us.”
Steph let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. He sank back into his chair, his body trembling from the adrenaline. “Just doing my job,” he said, his voice hoarse.
The radio fell silent, leaving Steph alone once again with the sound of the storm. He stared at the photograph on the table, his thoughts drifting back to Canon. His son had always admired his work as a lighthouse keeper, often sitting by his side as he monitored the radio or tended to the light. But as Canon grew older, their relationship had become strained. Steph’s dedication to the job, his long hours and constant vigilance, had taken a toll on their family. He had missed birthdays, school plays, and countless other moments, always telling himself that he was doing it for them.
But Canon hadn’t seen it that way. He had wanted his father’s presence, not his protection. Their last argument, the one that had driven Canon away, still echoed in Steph’s mind.
“You care more about that damn lighthouse than you do about me!” Canon had shouted, his voice filled with anger and hurt.
“That lighthouse keeps people alive!” Steph had fired back. “It’s my responsibility. You don’t understand what it means to have people depending on you.”
“I’m your son, Dad! I depend on you, too!”
The words had cut deep, but Steph hadn’t known how to respond. Instead, he had let his pride and stubbornness take over, and Canon had walked out the door, slamming it behind him.
Now, sitting alone in the lighthouse, Steph wondered if it was too late to make things right. He had thought about reaching out to Canon countless times over the years, but fear and guilt had always held him back. What if Canon didn’t want to hear from him? What if he had moved on and built a life without him?
As the storm began to subside, Steph made a decision. He couldn’t change the past, but he could try to mend the future. He picked up the photograph and stared at it for a long moment before reaching for a pen and a piece of paper. His hands trembled as he wrote, the words coming slowly at first but then flowing more easily.
Dear Canon,
I don’t know if you’ll ever read this, but I need to say it anyway. I’m sorry. I’m sorry for all the times I wasn’t there, for all the moments I missed, and for all the ways I let you down. I thought I was doing the right thing by dedicating myself to this lighthouse, but I see now that I was wrong. I should have been there for you, and I wasn’t.
Tonight, I helped guide a ship to safety during the storm. It reminded me of the nights you used to sit with me, watching the light sweep across the sea. You always said you wanted to be just like me when you grew up, and I let you down by not being the kind of father you deserved.
If there’s any part of you that still wants to talk, I’d like to hear from you. No matter where you are or what you’re doing, I want you to know that I love you and I’m proud of you. I should have said it more often, but I’m saying it now.
I hope this letter finds you well. And I hope it’s not too late.
Love,
Dad
Steph folded the letter carefully and placed it in an envelope. He didn’t know if Canon still lived at the same address, but he would send it anyway. He owed it to his son to try.
The next morning, as the sun rose over the calm sea, Steph walked to the mailbox at the edge of the cliff and dropped the letter inside. The wind carried the scent of salt and seaweed, and for the first time in years, Steph felt a glimmer of hope.
Two weeks later, as Steph sat in his armchair watching the waves, the sound of footsteps on the gravel path outside caught his attention. He turned toward the door just as it opened, and there stood Canon, now a grown man with the same curly hair and green eyes as the boy in the photograph.
For a moment, neither of them spoke. Then Canon stepped forward, holding the letter in his hand.
“Hi, Dad,” he said, his voice soft but steady. “Got your letter.”
Steph felt tears welling up in his eyes as he stood and embraced his son. “Hi, Canon. I’m so glad you came.”
And in that moment, with the waves crashing below and the light sweeping across the sea, Steph knew that the most important thing he had ever saved wasn’t a ship or a crew—it was his family.