The crew assembling the Fourth of July fireworks show yanked tarps over hundreds of mortar racks poised at the end of the pier. If water fell into the plastic mortars, it would destroy the gunpowder-filled shells inside.

Should lightning strike, the crew wouldn't want to be on the pier, beneath a metal flagpole, surrounded by 1,760 pounds of explosives.

So they hustled to staple tarps to the wooden racks, slapping tape over holes ripped in the plastic. Drops began to fall as the last racks were covered. Cables and switch boxes were grabbed and rushed to the foot of the pier, then stashed in a truck moments before the downpour began.

This was the third year this crew from Pyrotecnico, an Atlanta display fireworks company, has put together Gulfport's show. John Lake has worked it every time.

And this year, he's the wizard.

Lake, 21, is a third-generation pyrotechnician. He's tagged along on his father Skip Lake's shows for years, but was unable to join the crew until he was old enough for insurance to cover him.

"I was just waiting to turn 18 so I could do it," Lake said.

Now, Lake is increasingly the one planning the shows - determining what kinds of shells will go off where, when. That had been Skip Lake's domain.

"John's been doing the last few shows, and his dad's been stepping back," said Manny Rivera, a crew member.

The crew retreated into On The Rocks, a bar across the street from the beach. Skip Lake stood just inside the front window, staring at the pier.

Meanwhile, four others on the crew � Lake, Rivera, Shawn Thompson and Kevin Bashansci � shot pool in the back of the bar. It wouldn't even take a direct lightning strike to set off the explosives, Lake said; the static in the air from a close hit would be enough. Still, there was nothing the crew could do about it � so Lake tapped a striped ball into a pocket, missed his second shot, and handed the cue to Bashansci.

The eight-person crew earns extra money by shooting off fireworks at shows all over the state. The rest of the time, Skip Lake runs a printing press; John Lake works at a hobby shop; Rivera is a waiter at a Hard Rock Cafe; and Danielle Zelenty, 25, a newcomer to the crew, teaches first grade in Plantation, Fla

Two pool games later, the rain stopped. The storm had moved southeast, and dusk was on its heels. Father and son were pleased to find the fireworks dry beneath the tarps. However, the thunderstorm had devoured valuable time and the next two hours were critical. After almost two complete days of preparation, Skip Lake didn't know if they would finish setting up for the 9 p.m. show. The rest of the crew picked up on his nervousness.

"Somebody gives you $20,000, you want to do it right," Bashansci said.

As the crew scrambled to load mortars and wire up fuses, a half moon floated in the sky, as another fireworks show sparkled across the water.

"Ours will destroy anything that's out here," said Rivera, looking at some multicolored puffs to the north. "Those are only 3-inch shells." He watched for a moment, then waved his hand in a gesture of dismissal. "Yeah, I'm definitely not worried about the competition."

The Gulfport show was scheduled to begin in mere minutes. Skip Lake held a flashlight as his son strung strobes � small, bright fireworks � along the pier's railing. He had wanted to line the entire pier with them, but there wasn't time.

"Wanna go with just the strobes we have?" Skip Lake asked.

"One more, one more," John Lake insisted, his hands flying as he set them up.

Setting up a show is a long process. In Gulfport, unloading and positioning the mortar-filled wooden racks and nailing them together in the proper configuration took all Monday.

Once in place, each mortar houses one firework shell. Each shell has two fuses. One, which hangs on the outside of the explosive, lights the gunpowder that propels the shell into the sky. Inside the shell, the flame ignites a second fuse, which burns for a time before hitting the stars, the chemical orbs that determine the color and shape of the explosion.

At the Gulfport show, the detonations are controlled by a central switch box with 12 channels; each channel is connected through a cable to a module with 45 switches, and each switch sends a spark down a wire to a fuse. Some of the fuses were connected to other fuses, which made the shells go off in sequence. Using this system, several hundred shells would blast into the air over the course of the show.

It was 9 p.m. � show time. The crew took its place 20 feet from the Roman candles farthest up the pier � everyone except John and Skip Lake, who remained hovering over the switch box. On the beach behind the crew, about 6,000 people waited for the show.

The strobes lit up the pier in blinding white. A torrent of shells pierced the sky. There was almost no pause in the explosions, which lifted off the pier with tails of fire and burst open directly over the crew members' heads. Within seconds, the Lakes were invisible, hidden behind smoke.

The crew whooped and reveled in the glory of their creation as it played out in the sky above them.

After 15 minutes of colorful claps and bangs and rumbles, it was time for the big ending. The Lakes have a signature finale, one they use in every show.

"It's like us saying, 'Thank you,' " Lake had explained.

One hundred salutes shot into the night � ba-boom, boom, ba-ba-ba-boom. Sparkling confetti explosions fell to the sea below.

The crowd rooted for more. The crew hugged and jostled each other. Then, they took off down the pier, running through smoke and over ashes to throw their arms around Lake.

Together, they walked in a rough formation over the pier toward land, toward those gathered at the barrier police had erected to keep them back.

"See this? This is why we do it," Lake said, grinning.

Like rock stars, they lifted their arms in victory and greeted their fans.