northwesterly direction; to my right or eastward the vast curve of Monterey Bay dipped farther than my eyes could follow; and to the left or south lay the shallow curve of Spanish Bay and the jutting outline of Point Joe. The scene was breathtakingly bizarre. To the left was darkness, to the right was light, with Point Pinos the line of demarcation … but not for long. In this battle ofdark versus light, the dark was winning. One could watch its progress either in the sky or on the water, where waves responded to the creeping darkness overhead by turning black in their troughs, and spurting forth whitecaps. A flock of seagulls, trying to fly southward, encountered a wall of wind that brought them to a standstill in midair, wings flapping frantically to no avail.
I confess a sort of sneaky fascination with wild weather. As a child, I thought a storm on the cape was better than any trip to the amusement park—including a ride on the Ferris wheel, which in my childhood was everybody’s idea of the ultimate thrill. But this approaching storm would have to thrill me later. For now, I had work to do. I took the procedures book from the shelf and read through the storm protocol, then proceeded to follow it.
The main thing was not to let the light go out. The same earthquake that rocked San Francisco in April of last year had jangled the Fresnel lens and sent the lamp’s flame soaring, but the only real damage had been to the tower structure. A crack opened up in the round wall, which had since been rebuilt with reinforced concrete. I checked the oil tank, which continuously supplies the lamp by means of a pump, and the water tank in case there should be a fire. Both were full.
Quincy had already closed the exterior shutters on the keeper’s quarters, and he had secured the horse and Hettie’s Holstein cows in the barn. I saw him out at the edge of our little oasis of grass, walking slowly around the storage building and making it secure. I caught his eye and waved, and he waved back as he started across the grass toward his lean-to beside the barn.
The wind was tearing me to pieces—it was most exhilarating! I went back into the lighthouse, put on the kettle, and tidied my hair while waiting for the water to boil, then fixed myself a cup of tea, which I took up to the watch room. There by the light of a kerosene lantern I read every word of
The Wave
and watched the storm come on. Long after total darkness fell and I could no longer quite watch, I listened. The wind howled around the tower and pushed against its walls like a frenziedthing. The sea crashed so violently on the rocks that I was glad this lighthouse had acres of dunes around it. The foghorn regularly emitted its doleful sound even though it was not precisely foggy. And the ships stayed away. Not a single little light bobbed on the bay.
In the midnight watch I climbed into the lantern itself. Shielding my eyes, I looked out into the wild night. It was a hypnotic experience to follow the broad white beam, which seems to turn, an impression produced by a metal drum that revolves around the constant, stationary light. Hypnotic to catch glimpse after glimpse of foaming waves, strands of sand borne on the wind like ghostly, gossamer scarves, scraps of uprooted scrub scudding over the dunes like fantastic crabbed creatures. And in the midst of it all I thought again about the Poor Drowned Woman, for I had found not a mention, not a single word about her in the newspaper. She might as well not have existed, for all anyone seemed to care.
“At least we found your body before this storm,” I said aloud, and then I made her a promise: “Even if we never know who you are, I will see to it that you get a decent burial.”
KEEPER’S LOG
January 16, 1907
Wind: W moderate
Weather: Mild and humid, high overcast
Comments: Tender off-loaded supplies in a.m.
The storm had done no damage to speak of, and three days later I survived cooking dinner for Misha—not to
I confess a sort of sneaky fascination with wild weather. As a child, I thought a storm on the cape was better than any trip to the amusement park—including a ride on the Ferris wheel, which in my childhood was everybody’s idea of the ultimate thrill. But this approaching storm would have to thrill me later. For now, I had work to do. I took the procedures book from the shelf and read through the storm protocol, then proceeded to follow it.
The main thing was not to let the light go out. The same earthquake that rocked San Francisco in April of last year had jangled the Fresnel lens and sent the lamp’s flame soaring, but the only real damage had been to the tower structure. A crack opened up in the round wall, which had since been rebuilt with reinforced concrete. I checked the oil tank, which continuously supplies the lamp by means of a pump, and the water tank in case there should be a fire. Both were full.
Quincy had already closed the exterior shutters on the keeper’s quarters, and he had secured the horse and Hettie’s Holstein cows in the barn. I saw him out at the edge of our little oasis of grass, walking slowly around the storage building and making it secure. I caught his eye and waved, and he waved back as he started across the grass toward his lean-to beside the barn.
The wind was tearing me to pieces—it was most exhilarating! I went back into the lighthouse, put on the kettle, and tidied my hair while waiting for the water to boil, then fixed myself a cup of tea, which I took up to the watch room. There by the light of a kerosene lantern I read every word of
The Wave
and watched the storm come on. Long after total darkness fell and I could no longer quite watch, I listened. The wind howled around the tower and pushed against its walls like a frenziedthing. The sea crashed so violently on the rocks that I was glad this lighthouse had acres of dunes around it. The foghorn regularly emitted its doleful sound even though it was not precisely foggy. And the ships stayed away. Not a single little light bobbed on the bay.
In the midnight watch I climbed into the lantern itself. Shielding my eyes, I looked out into the wild night. It was a hypnotic experience to follow the broad white beam, which seems to turn, an impression produced by a metal drum that revolves around the constant, stationary light. Hypnotic to catch glimpse after glimpse of foaming waves, strands of sand borne on the wind like ghostly, gossamer scarves, scraps of uprooted scrub scudding over the dunes like fantastic crabbed creatures. And in the midst of it all I thought again about the Poor Drowned Woman, for I had found not a mention, not a single word about her in the newspaper. She might as well not have existed, for all anyone seemed to care.
“At least we found your body before this storm,” I said aloud, and then I made her a promise: “Even if we never know who you are, I will see to it that you get a decent burial.”
KEEPER’S LOG
January 16, 1907
Wind: W moderate
Weather: Mild and humid, high overcast
Comments: Tender off-loaded supplies in a.m.
The storm had done no damage to speak of, and three days later I survived cooking dinner for Misha—not to
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