Author's Note: I've written about lighthouse keepers a bunch. I dunno, there's just something about them. Anyways, trigger warning for suicide on this one
I think that the only viable career path left for me is as a lighthouse keeper, living beneath the beacon on some distant rocky outcropping, on an island that is barely worth of the name.
I think I am mad enough already that the constant sounding of the waves would not bother me, and neither would the gulls and their pained and piercing cries.
I think I am thoroughly unsuited for any other kind of work, and so I think that I would pack my bag and board a bus and take it all the way to the sea. I think that the air by the sea would be cool and salty and sting a little bit.
I think that the agency that hires lighthouse keepers would probably be pretty desperate to find someone, they’d been through three keepers in four years and the post couldn’t very well stay vacant for long. I think they would call me up right away when I replied to their classified advertisement with a letter of interest. I think they be eager to find anyone at all.
I think that last keeper would pass me the keys with a wild look in his green eyes and salt spray in his wiry beard. I think he would have put all his belongings into a sack and I think that mine would be in a beat-up old leather suitcase with one of the handles falling off. I think he would wish me luck as he got on the little old man’s little old boat and made for shore as quick as he could.
I think I am alone enough already that the mainland being a boat ride away would not bother me. I think I wouldn’t miss the busieness of life on shore. I think that the tops of the far-off hills peeking in out and of the mist would be good company and I think I would have my books, too, paperbacks and hardcovers, fantasies and romances, and I would read whenever I had the chance.
I think that the little old man who comes out every week in his boat to bring me my mail and barrels of apples and bottles of whiskey and cans of sardines would be about as much human contact as I would need and would be about as close to a friend as I would get. I think we would talk about the weather sometimes, and I think he would bring me newspapers that I would never read.
I think that when the mail did come, there would be a letter from a great aunt somewhere to the south, wondering if I am married yet. I think I would write back and tell her I was getting married to a nice girl from the coast, that we had a dog and farm and were going to start a family. I would not be married, there would no nice girl from the coast, no dog, no farm, and no family, but I think that my writing all of that would satisfy her gossiping curiosity. I think she’d be able to tell the other old ladies at bridge how well I was doing, how well I’d pulled myself together.
I think that at first I would think often of the past, of brothers and sisters and railroad tracks and mugs of beer and missing teeth and the inside of jail cells. I think that at first I would try to pray but that I would fail. I think that after I while I would stop thinking of God and of men and women and white washed churches with bent steeples. I think I’d be too busy to think about all of that.
I think I’d have a clock radio, but after the first week I wouldn’t turn it on. I think that the tinny voices and scraping static songs would start to scare me, and that I would turn the radio off. I think I might end up smashing it to pieces.
I think that I would quickly become accustomed to the smell of salt and seaweed and decay and life and death and rebirth and mud. I think that I’d spend a lot of time kicking dead things washed up on the island back in the sea where they belonged, back into the deep dark depths.
I think I wouldn’t be quite rugged enough at first for the manual labor required of all lighthouse keepers, but I think that my hands would get callused quickly and my face would grow ruddy with time. I think all the hauling of crates and ropes up and down, up, down, up, down, back and forth would make me strong and rough like a piece of mutton, its toughness poorly disguised by a fragant sauce.
I think that the skies above the island would be perpetually gray, the sea perpetually rushing, the waves coming and going, coming, going, coming, going.
I think night on the island would be the darkest night I ever saw, the heavy blackness broken only by the lighthouse’s beam sweeping out over the water. I think I would have a small lantern up in the lighthouse, creating a smaller island of warmth and golden light for myself in the endless abyss of dark and cold.
I think whatever was left of my humanity would go away pretty quick, as if the rope that holds it taught and tied down had snapped. It would drift away in the ceaseless wind, a windsock pointing west and east, east, west, west, east.
I think that I would quickly become a bit of a local legend, the man who lives out on the island, who keeps the light burning when the storms clouds gather overhead, who orders novels from the little bookstore in the square by the crateload.
I think that after a while my hair would begin to go gray at the temples and my teeth yellow at the roots. I think I would wear a lot of thick, wool sweaters, most pretty worn at the elbows and pockmarked with holes, and an pair of old boots, thickly crusted with muck and hard work.
I think that I would be a pretty good lighthouse keeper, all things considered. Afterall, the light would stay on. But I don’t think anyone be surprised when I throw myself from the top of the light and let my body go out to sea, taken by the waves, taken down to the depths.
I think the little old man would be the first to notice I was gone when I don’t bring him my trash and my mail when he came on the boat to bring me my apples.
I think that he would knock on the door of the lighthouse and, finding it unlocked, let himself in. I think that he would climb the stairs almost all the way to the top, huffing and puffing as he went, and then he would find the note I had left for him on the table by the window.
I think he would open the note and make the sign of the cross, even though he was never a religious man. I think he’d take the note and slip it into the pocket of his coat and go all the way back down the stairs and go back to shore without dropping off the apples.
I think the police would come back to the island in their own boats, looking for some sign of me, of my body, but all they would find would be my motheaten sweaters and my comb and all my books, lined up on a shelf and my note. I think the chief of police would call up the agency and tell the secretary who answered the phone that another keeper was needed as soon as they could send one.
I think the note would be short. I think it would say “goodbye, good luck, goodnight” or something along those lines. I think my handwriting would be neat. I think I would take off my boots before I jumped, leaving them neatly lined up by the railing.
I think that the coroner would decide that I must have jumped-afterall, there was no body and no blood. I think he’d sign my death certificate and make a quiet joke regarding burials at sea. I think he wouldn’t be sad, I think coroners get used to sorrow pretty damn fast.
I think that the next keeper would come out to the island that night, a young man with dark eyes and big ears and a cap. The agency had sent him right away. “He’s been to college,” the people in town would whisper, “He’s an educated man, from the city,” they’d say. “He said he always wanted to be a lighthouse keeper.”
I think that he would light the lamp carefully, and light my lantern, too and then he would take stock off my collection of books. I think he would have read most of them already.
I think that my great aunt would keep writing, no one having bothered to tell her I was dead. I think there would be no funeral-there would be nothing to bury. I think she’d send me a check as a wedding gift and the money would be put towards the maintenance of the light.
I think the island wouldn’t just fall into the sea after I was gone. I think it would stay rocky, stay muddy, stay just barely above the surface. I think the knots I tied would be replaced by better, tighter knots, I think I probably wasn’t that good at knot-tying to begin with. I think the light wouldn’t go out.
I think that the gulls would still circle overhead and cry out to each other, hello and goodbye, hello, goodbye, hello, goodbye, and I think that the waves would still come and go, come and go, come and go. I think that the sea would still pulse, in and out, in and out, in and out. I think that the sky would stay gray, the water blue, and that the night would be as dark as ever.
I think that the only viable career path left for me is as a lighthouse keeper, living beneath the beacon on some distant rocky outcropping, on an island that is barely worth of the name.
I think I am mad enough already that the constant sounding of the waves would not bother me, and neither would the gulls and their pained and piercing cries.
I think I am thoroughly unsuited for any other kind of work, and so I think that I would pack my bag and board a bus and take it all the way to the sea. I think that the air by the sea would be cool and salty and sting a little bit.
I think that the agency that hires lighthouse keepers would probably be pretty desperate to find someone, they’d been through three keepers in four years and the post couldn’t very well stay vacant for long. I think they would call me up right away when I replied to their classified advertisement with a letter of interest. I think they be eager to find anyone at all.
I think that last keeper would pass me the keys with a wild look in his green eyes and salt spray in his wiry beard. I think he would have put all his belongings into a sack and I think that mine would be in a beat-up old leather suitcase with one of the handles falling off. I think he would wish me luck as he got on the little old man’s little old boat and made for shore as quick as he could.
I think I am alone enough already that the mainland being a boat ride away would not bother me. I think I wouldn’t miss the busieness of life on shore. I think that the tops of the far-off hills peeking in out and of the mist would be good company and I think I would have my books, too, paperbacks and hardcovers, fantasies and romances, and I would read whenever I had the chance.
I think that the little old man who comes out every week in his boat to bring me my mail and barrels of apples and bottles of whiskey and cans of sardines would be about as much human contact as I would need and would be about as close to a friend as I would get. I think we would talk about the weather sometimes, and I think he would bring me newspapers that I would never read.
I think that when the mail did come, there would be a letter from a great aunt somewhere to the south, wondering if I am married yet. I think I would write back and tell her I was getting married to a nice girl from the coast, that we had a dog and farm and were going to start a family. I would not be married, there would no nice girl from the coast, no dog, no farm, and no family, but I think that my writing all of that would satisfy her gossiping curiosity. I think she’d be able to tell the other old ladies at bridge how well I was doing, how well I’d pulled myself together.
I think that at first I would think often of the past, of brothers and sisters and railroad tracks and mugs of beer and missing teeth and the inside of jail cells. I think that at first I would try to pray but that I would fail. I think that after I while I would stop thinking of God and of men and women and white washed churches with bent steeples. I think I’d be too busy to think about all of that.
I think I’d have a clock radio, but after the first week I wouldn’t turn it on. I think that the tinny voices and scraping static songs would start to scare me, and that I would turn the radio off. I think I might end up smashing it to pieces.
I think that I would quickly become accustomed to the smell of salt and seaweed and decay and life and death and rebirth and mud. I think that I’d spend a lot of time kicking dead things washed up on the island back in the sea where they belonged, back into the deep dark depths.
I think I wouldn’t be quite rugged enough at first for the manual labor required of all lighthouse keepers, but I think that my hands would get callused quickly and my face would grow ruddy with time. I think all the hauling of crates and ropes up and down, up, down, up, down, back and forth would make me strong and rough like a piece of mutton, its toughness poorly disguised by a fragant sauce.
I think that the skies above the island would be perpetually gray, the sea perpetually rushing, the waves coming and going, coming, going, coming, going.
I think night on the island would be the darkest night I ever saw, the heavy blackness broken only by the lighthouse’s beam sweeping out over the water. I think I would have a small lantern up in the lighthouse, creating a smaller island of warmth and golden light for myself in the endless abyss of dark and cold.
I think whatever was left of my humanity would go away pretty quick, as if the rope that holds it taught and tied down had snapped. It would drift away in the ceaseless wind, a windsock pointing west and east, east, west, west, east.
I think that I would quickly become a bit of a local legend, the man who lives out on the island, who keeps the light burning when the storms clouds gather overhead, who orders novels from the little bookstore in the square by the crateload.
I think that after a while my hair would begin to go gray at the temples and my teeth yellow at the roots. I think I would wear a lot of thick, wool sweaters, most pretty worn at the elbows and pockmarked with holes, and an pair of old boots, thickly crusted with muck and hard work.
I think that I would be a pretty good lighthouse keeper, all things considered. Afterall, the light would stay on. But I don’t think anyone be surprised when I throw myself from the top of the light and let my body go out to sea, taken by the waves, taken down to the depths.
I think the little old man would be the first to notice I was gone when I don’t bring him my trash and my mail when he came on the boat to bring me my apples.
I think that he would knock on the door of the lighthouse and, finding it unlocked, let himself in. I think that he would climb the stairs almost all the way to the top, huffing and puffing as he went, and then he would find the note I had left for him on the table by the window.
I think he would open the note and make the sign of the cross, even though he was never a religious man. I think he’d take the note and slip it into the pocket of his coat and go all the way back down the stairs and go back to shore without dropping off the apples.
I think the police would come back to the island in their own boats, looking for some sign of me, of my body, but all they would find would be my motheaten sweaters and my comb and all my books, lined up on a shelf and my note. I think the chief of police would call up the agency and tell the secretary who answered the phone that another keeper was needed as soon as they could send one.
I think the note would be short. I think it would say “goodbye, good luck, goodnight” or something along those lines. I think my handwriting would be neat. I think I would take off my boots before I jumped, leaving them neatly lined up by the railing.
I think that the coroner would decide that I must have jumped-afterall, there was no body and no blood. I think he’d sign my death certificate and make a quiet joke regarding burials at sea. I think he wouldn’t be sad, I think coroners get used to sorrow pretty damn fast.
I think that the next keeper would come out to the island that night, a young man with dark eyes and big ears and a cap. The agency had sent him right away. “He’s been to college,” the people in town would whisper, “He’s an educated man, from the city,” they’d say. “He said he always wanted to be a lighthouse keeper.”
I think that he would light the lamp carefully, and light my lantern, too and then he would take stock off my collection of books. I think he would have read most of them already.
I think that my great aunt would keep writing, no one having bothered to tell her I was dead. I think there would be no funeral-there would be nothing to bury. I think she’d send me a check as a wedding gift and the money would be put towards the maintenance of the light.
I think the island wouldn’t just fall into the sea after I was gone. I think it would stay rocky, stay muddy, stay just barely above the surface. I think the knots I tied would be replaced by better, tighter knots, I think I probably wasn’t that good at knot-tying to begin with. I think the light wouldn’t go out.
I think that the gulls would still circle overhead and cry out to each other, hello and goodbye, hello, goodbye, hello, goodbye, and I think that the waves would still come and go, come and go, come and go. I think that the sea would still pulse, in and out, in and out, in and out. I think that the sky would stay gray, the water blue, and that the night would be as dark as ever.
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