The Art of Solitude

The ocean wind blew in chilling gusts. Tall grasses waved toward the sea and the sea waved right back in a swirling of foam. Mounds of coarse sand lined the shore’s edge in rolling dunes, a fortified wall to the isolated city that was the isle. If the sand was held up closely to one’s eye, microscopic shells and shards of rocks of all colours and kinds could be identified, millions making up the expansive beach. The surf was rough as it crashed repeatedly in a never-ending pushing and pulling exchange. The whistling of wind could be heard funnelling through the dunes, as well as the piercing call of gulls, soaring over the water as wind filled their outstretched wings.

She was truly at peace, nestled between the grasses atop the tallest dune; the air laden so heavily with sea salt, you could taste it. It overwhelmed her senses with an oddly comforting sting. She watched over the water like the moon supervises the night, finding clarity and chaos in the quiet of isolation. Her eyes scanned the distant horizon with the surety of practice. The sky remained a brilliant blue.

This was her daily sacrament, to sit and observe her island home if only to find peace in her solitude. Each morning, she would quietly pad down the steps of the lighthouse from her small bedroom to the kitchen. She would boil herself a cup of coffee, climb to the highest point the beach could offer and watch. And wait. And dream.

Her coffee cup, which had minutes ago been warming her hands, was discarded in the sand. Her arms were hugging her knees, pulling them to her chest. And her fingers reached to tug at the hem of her simple white dress, the skirt continuing to flow and flutter in the wind. She sat like this until the sun had risen high enough to hide behind the clouds.

She rose, sand tumbling from beneath her bare feet with each step she took down. She glanced back towards the sea once more before making her way up to the limestone steps.

The kitchen was on the second level, just as she left it – quiet, still – now with the addition of shimmering sun rays filtering through the window. A baler shell balancing on a shelf glinted with reflected light. The empty coffee pot sat on the counter, waiting to be used again. She turned on the stove, put the kettle on and began to prepare breakfast.

The delicate quiet was shattered by the closing of a door somewhere above her. Heavy footfalls thumped down the stairs. Before long, he was standing before her. She handed him his coffee, turning to plate up breakfast. She placed a dish in front of each of them, sitting in her respective seat at the small round table tucked against the wall.

‘Good morning, Grandfather.’

‘Good morning, Clementine.’

They ate in silence, though not uncomfortable in any way. Her grandfather liked silence; it allowed space for thoughts.

He spent the afternoon on the top step of the lighthouse, watching the sky. At first it seemed fruitless, the sky remaining blue and bright. She knew her grandfather thought, and as the clouds darkened and the waves began raging in a violent churning, what his seasoned eyes were watching for became clear.

She spent the afternoon in the window seat of her bedroom, a book in her hands. It was one of the many volumes her grandfather had collected for her over the years. The binding was frayed, the pages were worn, and her nose filled with the faint scent of vanillin. She loved to read – her lack of experience was constantly compensated for with knowledge. For that was how she saw the world: through another’s regard.

Their mealtimes were slightly skewed from the norm, adjusted to suit her grandfather’s nocturnal activities. Breakfast was late – closer to noon than anything – activities were paused for dinner at 4 o’clock and supper was eaten at 9 o’clock, right before she went to bed. When they had finished their last meal, she took both dishes to the sink and cleaned them.

‘Clementine.’ Her grandfather’s voice was rough and weathered. His gaze piercing, but not unkind. She looked at him in acknowledgement. ‘The weather is turning. It’ll be storming by midnight.’

‘Yes, Grandfather. Would you like any assistance tonight?’

‘No. You may sleep at the regular time. If necessary, I shall wake you.’

She went to sleep soon after that, her grandfather wishing her a simple goodnight from the door before closing it with a click. The wind was picking up and the waves pounded the shore. As her mind slipped into the land of dreams, she was lulled by the resounding clap of booming thunder that she had grown so accustomed to.

The pounding knock on the wooden door was echoed by the billowing storm. It reverberated up the spiralled steps; the tapered walls of the pharos carried the sound. It reached her door, jolting her awake with a start. The pounding persisted with intervals of mere seconds.

She rose from her bed, pulled on her worn brown coat, and padded down the stairs to the front door. The volume of the noise increased with every step. Her grandfather appeared from the stairwell just as she hauled open the door. The wind and rain poured through the opening, and backlit by the lighthouse’s glow stood a shadowy figure. Their chest was heaving, body was drenched, and face was a ghostly pale.

A strong hand came to rest on her shoulder from behind, her grandfather pulling her away from the stranger.

‘Mariner.’ His gruff voice didn’t waver as he nodded to the man. ‘Come in.’

The mariner staggered into the room, slumping into a nearby chair. He appeared to be past his prime, with a large beard and browning, wrinkled skin adorning his face. She knew though, he could be much younger. She saw this reflected in her grandfather’s appearance, weathered by sun and sea.

‘My crew wreck’d on the reef off the shore o’ver island.’ The mariner’s accent was thick, and his raspy voice worsened her comprehension.

‘Clementine, go fetch my coat.’

‘Yes, Grandfather.’ She nodded at him, understanding he wished to speak in private.

She heard him ask the mariner more about his crew as she climbed the first steps to the floors above.

When she returned with the coat, her grandfather was pulling on his boots. The mariner stood by the door. She walked up to him, handing over the coat.

‘Grandfather? What are you doing?’

‘Clementine,’ he leaned down and grabbed her shoulder once again. ‘I need to go. This man and his crew need my assistance. I’m taking the boat and will return before noon tomorrow.’

‘What are we to do with the lighthouse; we cannot leave it!’

‘You will tend the light until I return.’ He held her gaze, steadying her racing heartbeat.

‘But I cannot! I’ve never done so alone.’

‘You can, and you will.’ He raised his hand to hold her face for a moment before straightening. ‘I will return.’

He sounded so sure, and she wanted so badly to believe him. The wind and rain swallowed the figures as they disappeared into the surging storm.

She stood for a moment, embracing the familiar feeling: isolation. Real, overwhelming isolation. She had felt alone many times in her life – rejected by the world – but never like this. Even in her ritual solitude every morning, her grandfather slept nearby. Never had she been absolutely and utterly closed off from the rest of the world.

She stared at the wooden door, mind spinning. She straightened, turned, and began once again to climb the spiralling stairs she knew so well. It was all she could do; her grandfather had trusted her with the lives of every crew along the horizon.

The last level of the lighthouse was accessible by a small, steep set of stairs. When she had reached the top, she began checking all sections of the lifesaving apparatus. She had watched her grandfather complete these tasks thousands of times, staying awake to join him often over the years. Every three hours the weight would need to be wound up – the clockwork mechanism kept the lens turning. She would also have to routinely check all the machinery and replenish the fuel for the lamp. That was if everything went to plan.

Upon inspection, she found her grandfather had refilled the fuel but had yet to rewind the clockwork mechanism. She gripped the handle just as he had shown her, pushing it forward with all her strength. It was heavy but it was manageable. She continued the repetitive pushing and pulling until she heard a click. The mechanism had been reset.

She spent the next hour keeping herself busy with whatever could hold her attention. She didn’t trust herself to read in case she fell asleep, so she found other things to do. She organised and reorganised the collection of seashells she kept in her room – sorted by size, sorted by colour, sorted by kind. She had collected many through the years and much like her books, each one was a treasure – a message in a bottle with thousands of stories to be whispered into her listening ear.

She checked and rechecked the lighthouse machinery, rewound the clockwork, and refilled the fuel. She stood and watched the Fresnel lens spin, slipping into a hypnotic trance as the light fell onto each staggered pane.

And again, and again she watched both the sky and the small jetty through her bedroom window; all the while her mind ran circles around itself. Questions about her grandfather returning danced around in her thoughts, and she tried to ignore the dread forming a knot in her stomach. What would happen if he was lost at sea? The ship which brought supplies every week would arrive to find her alone. She couldn’t bear to think. She curled up once again in her window seat and watched the undulating sea. The wind howled on and at times she could hear the wailing of previous lightkeepers: crying out, spinning their unsung tale of formidable madness. She sat and waited.