The Last Boat to Lantern Bay

Roman pressed his nose against the window of his grandmother’s beach cottage, watching the fog roll in like a blanket of cotton candy. He was supposed to be sleeping, but the soft glow of lights across the water had caught his eye.

“The lanterns,” he whispered. “They’re lighting up Lantern Bay!”

Every year on the shortest night of summer, the people of Lantern Bay released a thousand floating lanterns into the sky. Roman had always watched from the mainland, but tonight—his last night at the cottage—he wanted to see them up close.

He tiptoed down the creaky stairs, careful not to wake Grandmother. The old grandfather clock in the hallway showed half past nine. Outside, the dock swayed gently in the breeze.

That’s when Roman saw it: a small wooden boat tied to the pier, painted the color of moonlight, with a lantern hanging from its bow. And carved into its side were the words: Last Boat to Lantern Bay.

“I didn’t know there was a boat here,” Roman said, though no one was around to hear him.

As if in answer, the lantern flickered three times—almost like a wink.

Roman looked back at the cottage. He looked at the boat. He looked at the distant lights of Lantern Bay twinkling across the water like earthbound stars. His heart thumped with the kind of excitement that only comes from adventures that start after bedtime.

“Just a quick trip,” he promised himself, stepping carefully into the boat. The moment his foot touched the wooden deck, the rope untied itself with a gentle swoosh, and the boat began to glide across the calm water.

“Wait! I didn’t even row!” Roman gasped, gripping the sides.

The boat seemed to know exactly where to go, cutting through the fog like it had made this journey a hundred times before. The lantern at the bow glowed brighter, casting golden ripples across the water.

Soon, Roman heard singing—soft and strange, like the sound of wind chimes mixed with bubbles.

From beneath the waves rose three heads with shimmering scales and curious eyes. Merchildren!

“Are you going to the lantern festival?” asked the smallest one, who had a crown of seashells.

“I think so,” Roman said, his eyes wide. “I’m on the last boat!”

“The last boat is the best boat,” giggled the middle merchild, who wore spectacles made of sea glass. “It sees things the other boats miss.”

“Like us!” added the tallest one, doing a backflip in the water.

The merchildren swam alongside the boat, their tails leaving trails of sparkles. They sang a song about the deep places of the ocean where whales told jokes and octopuses played hide-and-seek. Roman laughed so hard his belly hurt.

As they traveled farther, the fog grew thicker, but the boat never slowed. Suddenly, Roman heard a different sound—a sad, low humming.

“Someone needs help,” Roman said.

The boat turned gently toward the sound, and there, sitting on a half-sunken buoy, was a pelican with a wing wrapped in seaweed bandages.

“Oh, hello,” the pelican sighed. “My name is Captain Cottonfeather. I hurt my wing, and now I can’t fly to Lantern Bay to see the lights. I’ve never missed a festival in thirty-seven years.”

Roman’s heart squeezed with sympathy. “You can come with me! The boat has plenty of room.”

“Really?” Captain Cottonfeather’s eyes brightened like two small moons.

Roman helped the pelican aboard, making sure he was comfortable on the cushioned seat. The boat seemed pleased with this new passenger and picked up speed, bouncing gently over the waves.

They passed a family of otters floating on their backs, holding paws so they wouldn’t drift apart in the current. They waved at Roman with their free paws.

They glided under an archway of glowing jellyfish, who pulsed with soft pink and blue light, illuminating the fog like nature’s own nightlights.

“Look!” shouted Captain Cottonfeather, pointing with his good wing.

Through the fog, Lantern Bay emerged like something from a dream. The island was covered in trees wrapped with tiny lights, and people lined the shore, each holding a paper lantern. But what took Roman’s breath away was the sky—filled with hundreds of lanterns already floating upward, carrying wishes and dreams toward the stars.

The boat docked at a small pier covered in flowers. A kind woman with silver hair and a coat made of patches greeted them.

“Welcome! You made it on the last boat!” She helped Captain Cottonfeather onto the dock. “We’ve been waiting for you.”

“For me?” Roman asked, confused.

“The last boat always brings someone special,” she explained. “Someone brave enough to trust the journey. And someone kind enough to help others along the way.”

She handed Roman a lantern—but not just any lantern. This one was larger than the others, painted with boats and waves and stars, and inside it glowed with a light that seemed to pulse with warmth.

“This is the final lantern,” she said. “When you release it, the festival is complete.”

Roman looked at Captain Cottonfeather. “Will you help me?”

Together, even though the pelican had a hurt wing, they held the lantern between them. The entire crowd counted down: “Three… two… one!”

Roman and Captain Cottonfeather released the lantern into the sky. It rose slowly at first, then faster, joining the others in a river of light that flowed toward the heavens. The sight was so beautiful that Roman felt his eyes get watery, but in the best possible way.

Music played—fiddles and flutes and drums—and everyone began to dance. The merchildren splashed in the shallow water, and the otters did somersaults, and Captain Cottonfeather clapped his good wing to the beat.

But then Roman yawned. It was a big yawn, the kind that reminds you that adventures, while wonderful, can also be very tiring.

“Time to go home,” said the silver-haired woman, as if she could read his thoughts. “The last boat knows the way.”

Roman hugged Captain Cottonfeather goodbye. “Will your wing be okay?”

“Oh, yes. The island healer will fix me up perfectly,” the pelican assured him. “Thank you for bringing me here, young Roman. I won’t forget this kindness.”

The boat waited patiently at the dock. Roman climbed in, and as before, it began to move on its own. This time, the journey felt shorter. The boat rocked gently, like a cradle. The lantern light grew softer. Roman’s eyelids felt heavy.

He thought he heard the merchildren singing a lullaby about the sleepy sea and the dreaming moon. He thought he saw shooting stars that looked remarkably like floating lanterns. He thought he felt a blanket being tucked around his shoulders, though he couldn’t remember there being a blanket in the boat.

When Roman opened his eyes, he was back in his bed at Grandmother’s cottage. Early morning light filtered through the curtains. Had it all been a dream?

But when he looked at his bedside table, there was a small seashell he’d never seen before. And tucked under it was a note in handwriting that looked like waves:

Thank you for taking the last boat. —Your friends at Lantern Bay

Roman smiled and hugged the shell close. He’d keep this secret safe in his heart, along with all the magic of the shortest night of summer.

And from that day on, whenever he saw a lantern glowing in the distance, he remembered that the best adventures often begin when you’re brave enough to step into a boat that knows the way—and kind enough to bring others along for the journey.

The End

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• Adventure and Exploration