The lighthouse was bathed in rainwater and brine, the pure and the salty, season in and season out. Around it were the rocks both proud of the waves and submerged. It had been a long time since there were real steps to the door, ones that could be traversed with ease, and so they waited for the tide to pull the sea out a little further, to wait until all the rocks could breathe fresh coastal air.
On top of the lighthouse with the sun streaming into the windows they sat cross legged on the floor, leaning forward to reach the sandwiches and lemonade. There was something about that place, the light coming from every angle yet cast diffuse by the spring clouds. Though the stairs were steep it was worth every step - peace and quiet, the sounds of nature, a view fit for a king.
In the darkness the only sign of the lighthouse was the brilliant white light -and even that almost failed in the thick air. Between black cloud and black ocean it gave illumination to the waves, sculptured by the wind, dancing, powerful.
The lighthouse stood tall on the rocky shore, the paint black and white as if it were a prisoner there - standing alone in its jailhouse clothes. Yet there could be no finer place to be, for with that view of the ocean and fresh salty air, being at the top was as close to flying as Carla ever came.
The lighthouse was stark against the sky, newly painted white against ominous clouds of deepest charcoal. From the top came the light, a wide beam that swept across the choppy waters in arcing sweeps, immobile as the briny air lashed the outer walls.
Inside the lighthouse the stairs twisted upward, damp from the moisture laden air that poured in through the naked windows. Each footfall let out a metallic clang that echoed and all the while the wind whipped around in a howling scream.
Over the hill was a lighthouse. Years of salty air had reduced the once gaily painted walls to a pitted grey and red, like nail varnish mostly worn off. Kayla reached out her hand to touch the walls, feeling both the roughness and the softness of what little paint remained. With each breath she could taste the brine in the air and close by the ocean pounded rocks as if it wished to scatter them.
Chayla had always thought lighthouses should be red and white striped. Now of course she realized that she'd only ever seen them in children's books before. This one was black and white. The smooth black cylinder that rose from the rock and sand was punctuated with small white framed windows on the path of what could only be an internal spiral staircase. At the top was a huge light encased in a white frame and around the edge was a white fenced external walkway. She passed through the double doors into the dim of the lighthouse and peered up. The windows had the effect of being brilliant stars in a twilight sky.
The lighthouse was isolated from the mainland. It was a tall tower of white with a single red band near the top and narrow windows. It was built on a great rock made all the more coarse by the barnacles that clung to it's weathered surface. On a fine day the operator could row across in a boat, but in the storms he stayed there, marooned until it abated. He fixed the light and kept it's motor running. He manned the radio and hailed ships that strayed too close.