Chapter 4
Madness
The seagulls overhead circle my roof like a crown of thorns, mocking me for my somber existence here. They have been exiled along with me, to a purgatory of my own design.
It’s hard to not feel all ‘Oh, why me’, but how can I not? Does the whale caught in a lagoon not cry out for its freedom? Though it has food and water—and hardtack and itchy wool sweaters—doesn’t the swimming in circles drive it mad?
I can at least be alone in my thoughts and sorrows here. The sanity leeching lagoon is still better than being homeless, than being pod-less in a sea full of people. It is all better than having to marry a new master. Though it is not a good option, it is better than all of the other alternatives.
Back on the mainland I could have found work, but nothing that would’ve supported me enough to live independently.
At least, nothing any less shady than being an isolated lighthouse guard.
The mainland was its own fishbowl where I continued to bang my head into the glass.
The fishbowl seems to have just moved along with me though.
It feels that way at least, with the dome of low clouds hanging above the blackened rock, only the very top of the lit silo breaking through the atmosphere.
The stairs on days like today feel as if they could go on forever, like I could climb up onward into Heaven itself.
But, once again I reach the top and it’s just a strobing light out into the overcast distance.
Some days I feel I am truly losing my mind and not just haunted by momentary flutters in the corners of my eyes.
Via radio, on the last supply ship I requested some different yarn so that I may release myself from this itchy hell.
I admit I was never the most studious in my lessons on women’s crafts, but I figured I could pick it up again.
Unfortunately, I find myself not able to count the stitches, becoming lost on which way is the back or what pattern I'm even following. In the end, I'm wrapped up in a hole filled fish net and somehow I’ve knitted a single sleeve six feet long. I like to believe my mind is creating puzzles where there shouldn’t be any, a false enrichment for the caged zoo animal that lives on this rock.
On a blustery night wrapped in my failing attempts at woven garments...or piles which far off resembled them, that is when I really thought I had begun to fully lose my senses and drown in my delusions…
Usually the sky is only different shades of gray, changing in its tints and tones but still continuing to be an everlasting dullness. Yet, this morning I had been met with a harrowing shade of magenta. As the old mariners say:
Red sky at night, sailor's delight;
Red sky in the morning, sailor's warning.
The sky blushes knowing her consequences will be rolling across the horizon towards me. It appears a foul storm is likely brewing in the east.
Adjusting my brass telescope, I look out towards the edge of my little universe and I can just barely see a large nimbus beginning to bubble up, like sea foam overflowing and climbing up into the air.
I should be sure to latch up everything today and tie down anything that moves.
Despite the ominously beautiful color in the sky, the ocean reflects none of it back, right now it is eerily flat.
It’s matte blackness absorbing all of the crimson light from reaching within its depths.
No mirages shimmer across its surface; this morning it looks harrowingly like stale blood in the butcher’s bucket.
As the day continued, the foul churning only intensified.
The water moving with the patterns of tectonic plates rumbling beneath the waves.
The wind shaking the windows so violently it may burst through.
For once, I thank them for their armored coating of salt spray which reinforces their panes.
I scan across the ocean as I operate my lamp.
Any poor souls out in that inky blackness would be looking for this somber light to guide them, I shiver at the thought of being tossed around in that abyss.
I taste salt in my mouth, not from the sea but from tears backing up in my throat as I imagine my Eli’s final moments with no captain, no lighthouse, no star in the sky that could guide him home.
Maybe, I do this job for some cathartic purpose as well, not to just lick my wounds in peace.
The waves crash upon the rocks, seeping further and further towards my only exit.
They begin like a symphony of thunderous hooves against the bricks at the base but only grow stronger in their stampede.
The air is becoming electrified as the storm surrounds the lighthouse.
All the instruments in the radio room are humming in charged oscillation.
I turn down all their knobs as loud interference screeches through every speaker.
Less and less of my safe haven reappears after each wave’s lash.
The building shakes and I pray that they hired a real engineer to build this thing and not just a couple of backcountry contractors.
Rubbing my temples, I try to remember who was in office during its construction.
Please God, let them have cared about funding the upkeep of these outposts.
I silently count small coins dinging into imaginary coffers, how many would they have had to budget to repoint all this brick properly?
Another large wave crashes against the small dinghy moor. My light only illuminates it for a moment, but a quick reflection catches my eye.
This is where my judgement truly blurs away from the hard line of reality.
Were those shiny brass buttons I saw? Possibly a coat being hit against the sharp shore?
I hold my breath, a sharp pain rising in my chest as I am frozen looking out across the swirling darkness, but then again—like the copper coins I was just imagining I see a handful of bright glints among the rocks.
Could it be a man in trouble caught in this storm, aiming for my tiny dock with a fishing skiff?
I hadn’t seen any sort of boat all night, but a small enough vessel wouldn’t have had any lights, and any candlelit ones would have been completely dampened out from this torrential rain.
Could that have been the inconsistent orange flashing I’ve been seeing the last few days?
I quickly unwind my knitting project from between my feet, still tripping over it as I pull on my boots and waxed coat.
I run down the stairs with a plugged-in lamp light.
It only reaches the front door though, its cord pulled taught by the twists and turns down the corridor.
I leave it behind, wedging the door ajar so that I have a way to pull it open against the wind upon my return.
While running across the rocks, I trip and fall, desperately trying to squint my eyes.
The contrast of the pitch blackness and the overpowering circling beam make it impossible for my eyes to adjust. The sheets of rain cast a veil of disorder across the tiny landscape.
I thought I had memorized every stone and pebble on this little mound, but now I am lost among their slippery crags.
I crawl around, my bent knees are taking the blunt of the trauma but my hands are still turning into scraped and bleeding messes.
My eyes sting in tight squints as I finally reach the dock posts.
Clutching the slippery barnacle-covered monument, I fall again to my shins, trying to peek around it as some sort of cover from the oceans diamonds which are sanding layers off my skin.
I see the mysterious shape again as the light casts over… us.
Only now I realize that it could’ve been just a piece of gilded ship railing that I have risked my stumbling lamb legs for. I hope my stupid corpse will win some statesman award for most dangerous garbage retrieval.
Just as I turn to look back towards the glowing door, out of the corner of my eye I see it again!
Glimmers of burnt orange, and a hand reaching on the rock, holding on against the storm.
I pull myself down with mooring line unraveled from one of the dock pilings, fighting against the wind to keep my footing and not also be bashed against the cliff edge.
A pummeled mash of fish bait cannot save this man.
“Take my hand!” I scream. No response comes from him other than a soft groan. “Please don’t die out here, take my hand!”
Our fingers only brush as I try to reach with every stretch of my entire being.
I see them twitch in response. Oh God, they’re alive.
Suddenly, he grabs my wrist. I pull them up enough to tie them to me.
He’s soaked from the ocean and slippery in my hands while completely dead-weighting against me, but I can feel their heartbeat as I secure them against my back.
All this kelp is caught around them though, and I can’t seem to shake it off.
The weight is unbearable, but I find the strength somehow.
I wish I was stronger. I cry out in pain as the disks in my back compress under the burden of both our bodies.
Could I have saved Eli? Could I have lifted my husband out of the sea where even God failed to? I can’t have been too weak! That’s why I came out here, goddammit! To prove I’m strong, to prove that had I been there—I will not fail now.
I shake off the exhaustion, my hair and eyes dripping in downpour and tears. I inch us back towards the lighthouse. My wedged flashlight is a tiny beacon to find the front door.
He is so heavy.
I feel soaked under my clothes from the rain and from the sweat filling my boots.
I stomp against the storm, the weight of this man is holding me down from blowing away like a piece of paper but bringing me closer to collapse.
My thoughts are simple animalistic cries; I am so tired, I am so cold.
We make it in the door, the threshold has flooded with all kinds of ocean debris seeking refuge from the chaos.
I untie the belay realizing it has worn through my outer layer and now cuts into my flesh, the wound burning with tension. I collapse us both on the stairs.
All I see are his hands twitching, his face covered in dark curly tendrils and some red left in his lips. Before passing out I can only pray over and over, “Please live, please live…”