The Lighthouse

 

The Lighthouse

Since I was a little boy, all I ever wanted was to be a lighthouse operator.  My father and grandfather ran the lighthouse before me, ready to save ships from running aground and destroying our little seaside town.  The big storm never came, but we always stood ready.

Operating a lighthouse was no easy task.   I polished the lens, trimmed the wicks, wound the clockworks, and replenished the fuel.  When storms approached, I kept my eyes on the horizon and maintained radio contact with the coast guard.  I lived, worked, ate and slept in the lighthouse, with no time for family or friends.    

A large corporation swooped in, buying lighthouses up and down the coast. When they bought mine, they replaced our vintage oil lamps with modern electronic lights.  They replaced our fuel-driven engine with a sophisticated electric motor. Phone communications were replaced with internet messaging.  The new lighthouse no longer needed an operator inside.   It was instead operated from home by a young woman with computer skills but no knowledge of weather or the sea.  I was replaced by a cursor. 

Forced into retirement, I moved to higher ground, a house on a bluff that overlooked the town.  I still kept watch over the sea, unable to shake my greatest fear: the big storm that my father and grandfather spent their lives watching for. 

When the big storm came, I saw it first and called the town’s mayor and fire chief, recommending evacuation.  They scoffed.  I was just the old hermit who cried wolf.   

First came the winds, taking down the power grid.  The lighthouse’s beacon went dark and the operator’s computer didn’t work. She lost Wi-Fi, so she couldn’t message ships or the coast guard.  The new all-electric lighthouse was useless. 

When it came ashore, the big storm knocked down the lighthouse first.  Without a light to guide it, a giant tanker came ashore with great speed and power, slid a distance over land, and cut a vast groove through the middle of town.  The homes and shops were all reduced to splinters.  No one had evacuated, because they had been promised safety.

From my bluff above, I watched the destruction of the little town that my forefathers and I had protected for a century.  We had worked all our lives alone, up high in the lighthouse, anonymous and unknown to those we protected. But the townspeople were gone, and I was vindicated.  I had warned them the big storm would come, but they didn’t believe me.  

As I watched the destruction of the town I had dedicated my life to, I couldn’t control my feelings:  It was the happiest day of my life.