**A Light Against the Tide**
I first saw a lighthouse in a book when I was five. In the picture, it stood tall and solitary, surrounded by a sea dark as ink. I pressed my fingers to the page and whispered, *”I’ll live there one day.”* Mum and Dad laughed. Gran said, *”You’ve got an artist’s imagination.”* Aunt Lydia just scoffed, *”Dreamer. Better train as an engineer.”*
So I did. I studied electrical engineering—solid, respectable. But my heart still ached for the sea. Between lectures, I sketched lighthouses in my notebooks, reread “Treasure Island,” played wave sounds on my headphones, and spent every holiday by the water.
*”What nonsense,”* Mum sighed. *”Normal people go to Spain, and you drag yourself to Scarborough!”*
*”I like the cold,”* I’d say.
*”You should be settling down, not chasing fairy tales!”*
After uni, I joined a firm maintaining navigational equipment. It was steady work—schematics, soldering, repairs. Then one day, my manager said, *”There’s an opening. Remote. A coastal village in Cornwall, manning a lighthouse radio station. Interested?”*
I nodded, as if I’d been waiting my whole life to hear those words.
*”It’s rough living. Three-month shifts. Just you, the lighthouse, and the keeper. Locals drop by sometimes.”*
*”I’ll take it.”*
Mum erupted. *”You’ll freeze to death in the middle of nowhere! We scraped to give you a life, and you’re throwing it away!”*
*”It’s my chance, Mum.”*
*”For what? Loneliness and poverty?”*
Dad stared out the window, then said quietly, *”Let her go. Let her try.”*
The village was called Porthcrea—a clutch of cottages, a fishing dock, a corner shop, and the lighthouse on the cliffs. When I first stepped onto the shore, the wind nearly knocked me over. The sea roared, gulls wheeled overhead, and the sky hung so low it threatened to burst. But my heart—my heart sang.
*”You must be Emily,”* said a silver-haired man in a waxed jacket. *”I’m Tom. The keeper. This old tower’s my charge.”* He grinned, shouldered my bag, and led me to the cottage by the lighthouse. It smelled of paraffin, fresh bread, and beeswax. Books and seashells lined the shelves.
*”This’ll be yours. The lighthouse is your duty now. Old kit, but sturdy. Keep her running.”*
*”I will.”*
*”No doubt. You’ve got saltwater in your veins, I reckon.”*
The first weeks were hard. Storms, silence, endless evenings. I fixed the equipment, befriended the locals—especially Maggie, the frail shopkeeper.
*”Talking to you’s like a proper cuppa,”* she’d say. *”Warms me right through.”*
At night, I’d sit on the lighthouse steps and write letters—to myself, to the future. My past was littered with others’ expectations. Now, there was just me.
Then a parcel arrived. From home. Mum’s handwriting:
*”You’re a strange one. Lydia and I don’t understand it. But your dad’s proud. Come back if you change your mind. Or just write.”*
I exhaled. Somewhere deep inside, something thawed.
Three months later, I packed for home. The lighthouse felt like part of me now. Tom hugged me tight. *”Come back. It’s duller without you.”*
In London, the reception was frosty. Mum inspected my clothes; Aunt Lydia sniffed, *”This was a mistake. Get a proper job.”*
But I knew—I wouldn’t. The choice was mine.
Six months on, I stood by the lighthouse again. The storm was easing. Tom waved from the door. *”Made pasties. Knew you’d return.”*
Now I had my own corner in the cottage, a nameplate: *”Emily Seaborn, Navigation Engineer.”* The locals had christened me.
*”You’re like the tide,”* Tom said. *”Fierce at first, then you bring warmth.”*
Young Sophie from the village brought drawings—lighthouses, just like I’d sketched as a girl. Fishermen left fresh mackerel. Some even hinted at weddings.
*”Tom, why’ve you never remarried?”* I asked one evening.
*”Was married. She drowned. Years back. The lighthouse has been my company since.”*
*”I’m sorry—”*
*”Don’t be. You being here… it’s like hearing her voice again.”*
One night, the main transmitter failed. I worked 24 hours straight, called HQ, summoned help. A team arrived—among them James, mid-thirties, sharp-eyed.
*”So you’re the famous Emily of Porthcrea? They talk about you at the office.”*
*”Hardly. I just love what I do.”*
We drank tea, laughed, debated circuits. James stayed an extra day. Leaving, he said, *”I’ll come back. If you’ll have me.”*
*”I’ll mind if you don’t.”*
I stood on the cliff. Waves battered the rocks. Behind me, the lighthouse beacon pulsed. Mine. The wind tangled my hair. I stretched out my arms and yelled, *”World! I found myself!”*
And the world answered—with the sea’s rumble, the beacon’s glow, and a quiet voice inside: *”You’re home.”*
From then on, I never doubted. Because every night, when the light flared atop the tower, I knew: someone at sea would see it and know their way.
And that—that’s worth everything.
Spring in Porthcrea arrived abruptly. The snow didn’t melt—it vanished, as if slipping away unseen. I stood on the lighthouse steps, watching the steel-gray sea, feeling the peace I’d come here for.
*”Ready for the season, Seaborn?”* Tom handed me a mug of tea.
*”Nearly. Just a few wires to replace, then the automated signal’s set. HQ’s sending new gear.”*
*”You’ll manage?”*
*”Always. You?”*
*”Used to it. Been tending lights since ’78.”* He nodded toward the bay, shimmering in dawn light. *”But folks are worried. Rumours the station might close.”*
I knew. The village buzzed with talk—automation, budget cuts, remote operations. The lighthouse might become a relic, not the village’s heartbeat.
A week later, visitors arrived: an automation specialist, a councilman—and unexpectedly, James.
*”I requested this,”* he said, sitting by the beacon. *”Heard they’re ‘streamlining’ this place. Thought you shouldn’t face it alone.”*
*”I could’ve. But it’s nicer with you.”*
He smiled, watching me rewire the panel. *”You’re part of this machine. Not just the engineer—you *are* the lighthouse.”*
I flushed but nodded. Later, gazing at the water, he asked, *”If they close it… what’ll you do?”*
*”Find another lighthouse. Or build one. So long as the light stays.”*
The councilman—round-faced, in a jacket branded *”Maritime Navigation”—*pretended to check humidity levels but mostly savoured Tom’s chowder.
*”The system’s costly,”* he said, dabbing his mouth. *”Maintenance is unsustainable. Repurposing as a heritage site—tours, a museum, maybe glamping—”*
*”And during a storm?”* I cut in. *”If a boat runs aground? Will you lead a tour to wreckage?”*
The councilman froze. Tom slid another bowl toward him. *”Eat. Then talk.”*
Next day, the village gathered at the hall—fishermen, shopkeepers, kids, elders. I spoke, nerves taut but voice steady.
*”This lighthouse isn’t just a tower. It’s part of us. It’s saved lives, welcomed sailors home. Its light reaches not just the sea, but our windows. Shut it, and you don’t save money—you blind us.”*
Silence. Even the children stilled.
Old Pete, a retired sailor, stood. *”Twenty years, I steered home by that light. Leave it be, or we’ll toss you into the sea—without a lantern.”*
Laughter rippled. The councilman shifted uneasily.
That evening, James and I sat on the rocks. He laced his fingers through mine. *”I could stay. Find work here. Or freelance. If you wanted.”*
I met his eyes—they held the same sea he once feared. Deep, warm, endless.
*”I*”Then stay,”* I whispered, and as the lighthouse beam swept over us, I knew—some lights never go out.
