Letters from the lighthouse

Thirty-two days of weather, and the slow erosion of the speaker.

For thirty-two days the keeper wrote nothing. The wind, he said in the first page after, had argued each word out of him.

We arrived on a Tuesday, when the fog had finally lifted enough to make the crossing possible. The boat was small. The journey was longer than its length.

On the notebooks

What follows is taken from his notebooks, with permission, and with as little of our hand on them as we could manage. We have changed only the names of the ships, and one of the birds.

There is no loneliness in a place that is full of weather. The wind is a kind of company, if you let it be.