Driven from his home by the Ku Klux Klan and still reeling from the death of his mother, Nathan moves with his father and grandfather to the desolate Pea Island on the Outer Banks of North Carolina to start a new life. Fortunately, life on Pea Island at the end of the 19th century is far from quiet.  The other island residents include the surfmen--the African American crew of the nearby U.S. Life-Saving Station--and soon Nathan is lending an extra hand to these men as they rescue sailors from sinking ships. Working and learning alongside the courageous surfmen, Nathan begins to dream of becoming one himself. But the reality of post-Civil War racism starts to show itself as he gradually realizes the futility of his dream. And then another dream begins to take shape, one that Nathan refuses to let anyone take from him. Driven from his home by the Ku Klux Klan and still reeling from the death of his mother, Nathan moves with his father and grandfather to the desolate Pea Island on the Outer Banks of North Carolina to start a new life. Fortunately, life on Pea Island at the end of the 19th century is far from quiet.  The other island residents include the surfmen--the African American crew of the nearby U.S. Life-Saving Station--and soon Nathan is lending an extra hand to these men as they rescue sailors from sinking ships. Working and learning alongside the courageous surfmen, Nathan begins to dream of becoming one himself. But the reality of post-Civil War racism starts to show itself as he gradually realizes the futility of his dream. And then another dream begins to take shape, one that Nathan refuses to let anyone take from him. From the Hardcover Library Binding edition. Elisa Carbone is a full-time writer and a part-time windsurfer, rock climber, and lindy-hop dancer. She is the mother of two college-age children. She is also the author of Stealing Freedom , an ALA Best Book for Young Adults. ONE It’s things we ran away from that got us here, and now there’s no place farther out to run except the wide, rolling Atlantic Ocean. December 27, 1895 Dripping. That’s what got my attention first. Cold water dripping right on my face while I was trying to sleep, two nights after Christmas and just four days after Grandpa and I had climbed up on the roof and done what we’d thought was a good patching job. Dripping, and the wind whistling through the cabin like it was a harmonica, then the sound of Daddy crashing in through the door, and the smell of burning fish oil as he lit the lamp and stood over me in its yellow glow. “Get dressed, Nathan,” he said. “A schooner’s run aground.” Beside me in bed, Grandpa grunted, rolled over, and pulled the blankets off me. “I guess that means he’s not coming,” I said sitting up. “Let the old man sleep,” Daddy said. I was already dressed. The storm had chilled the cabin too much for me to get undressed the evening before. I pulled on the heavy slicker and rain hat Mr. Etheridge had given me when the surfmen got new ones in the autumn. I was surprised when we stepped outside to find the rain easing up and the stars peeking out between the clouds. Daddy suggested the privy. No sense pissing in the bushes when a gust of wind could blow the wrong way and make a mess of things. I ran ahead of Daddy, and the wet sand about froze my bare feet. “They’ll need help with the beach cart,” I called over my shoulder. Daddy’s voice was swallowed in the wind, but he probably said that he’s catch up. In the dark up ahead, I could see the Coston flare, the signal from the Pesa Island surfmen to the stranded ship that help was on its way. Offshore, to the north, was the faint glow of a lantern–from the troubled ship, no doubt. The men from the Pea Island station–all seven of them–were already pulling the beach cart toward the wreck. Its wooden wheels creaked as it rolled through the deep sand, and its contents–the Lyle gun, the faking box filled with rope, the shovels, pickax, sand anchor, and breeches buoy–all jostled and rattled in the big open wagon. I grabbed hold of a haul rope and my muscles to theirs. “Will you look at what the cat dragged in, “said Mr. Bowser between panting breaths. Benjamin Bowser was the number-one surfman-first in rank after Mr. Etheridge, the keeper. He was tall and lanky, with hallowed-out cheeks and a bushy black mustache. I grinned at Mr. Bowser. “Can I light the fuse for the Lyle gun?” I asked, knowing no one would let me. “You hush and just pull”, said Mr. Meekins sharply. Theodore Meekins was the widest of the crew, with hands like baseball mitts and serious, dark eyes. My face went hot when he reprimanded me. He was right. With a crew of men, and maybe even the captain’s wife and children clinging to the grounded ship, I had no business jabbering like a fool. I tipped my head down and pulled with all my strength. Daddy joined us on the other side of the cart. Over our heads, the clouds parted and stars glittered. To our right, the ocean thunder