I remember it in a mist, really. When I was young, we went on an excursion to Block Island. It’s a tiny lump of dirt and rocks out in the Atlantic, just a short ferry boat ride from a couple of places around here. We bicycled around there. It was like another planet to us.
It seemed like Holland or something. Self contained. At the mercy of the elements. Obscure and isolate. No bustle like Martha’s Vineyard. It must have been four decades ago we went; I’m not sure going would be the same. Nothing is the same for very long.
On an island like that, a lighthouse is not a decoration. But like many things used to be, the utilitarian nature of the structure doesn’t mean it has to be industrial looking, or ugly. We used to be better at such things. I want to bicycle past this again, and wonder where all the ships that scan the foggy horizon for its beam are going.