The wind and the waves

Niall tapped the barometer with a fingernail and frowned as the mercury dropped to 1010. An hour ago, it had been 1015.

“Storm on way,” he muttered as he crossed to the window on the north side of the living quarters.

Beyond the thick glass, the distant horizon was a forbidding wall of dark, purple and black clouds. Overhead, cloud outriders of the storm were scudding across the wan sky, driven by the growing winds. The sea was a gun-metal grey, mirroring the sky and earlier whitecaps were now crests of white riding the tops of every wave.

Nodding to himself that his observation was coming true he checked the barometer again before he headed to the stairwell. What he saw gave him pause. In the brief time he had spent looking out of the window it had fallen another four points. He tapped it again, hard. He’d never seen such a rapid drop in pressure in so short a period. Nine points in just over an hour, signified a real strengthening of the winds and a deepening depression.

He made his way up the spiralling stone steps, past the sleeping quarters and fourth floors mechanism level, up again through the kerosene room, then up the last set of open cast iron steps to the lantern room. He paused to catch his breath before stepping onto the grating, those steps weren’t getting any easier nor was he getting any younger.

“Angus, be ye there?” he called out once his breath was even again.

“Aye, roond here, whit fashes thee?”

“Do ye ken yon storm?”

“Aye, leuks nasty. Whar be Donal?”

“Is he nay wit ye?”

“Ah havna seen owt a he fur last hour, is’na he doon below?”

“Nay, ah juist come frae there.”

“Damn tha auld fuil! Whit be he playing at wit weather so wersh?” Angus appeared from behind the huge Fresnel lens he’d been cleaning, with a cloth in one hand, wiping sweat from his forehead with the other.

Niall shook his head and pushed open the door onto the outside grating circling the lantern room. It took some effort to open the door against the wind and when he turned to close the door it was almost snatched from his hand. As it was the metal of the door boomed as the wind tore it from his fingers, slamming it against the frame. He winced and through the glass saw Angus’s mouth working. He didn’t need to hear the words to recognise them. He shook his head and clinging to the iron railing, buffeted by the wind he peered over the edge to the ground below.

Swells were beginning to break on the rocks which formed the base of the tower. He moved around the gallery peering over the railing looking for Donal. He was there, just pulling closed the heavy door that allowed egress to the base of the tower. What he’d been doing outside on the rocks was anybody’s guess.

“Auld eejit, get ye arse intil,” Niall murmured and made his way back to the door. Just before he pulled it closed against the freshening wind, he looked to the north and the approaching storm. There was no longer a horizon, in its place a roiling black, purple and grey wall as far as the eye could see. He shook his head; this was going to be quite a storm by the looks of things. Angus was waiting patiently at the top of the staircase. A gust of wind rattled the door Niall had just shut, startling him with the noise.

“Need lamp to be lit early ti-nicht,” Angus nodded towards the growing gloom beyond the glass. Another gust struck the lantern room, harder than before, rattling the door and the storm proof ventilators in their frames.

Niall nodded and joined Angus on the stairs, following him down to the kerosene room on the floor below. They checked the settings on the valves and the gauges making sure the tanks were full, for when the lamp was lit. The voice pipe on the wall whistled and Angus answered it. He listened for a moment to the tinny sounding voice before replying.

“Aye, we’ll do ot noo Donal,” he put the cork whistle back into the tube and turned to Niall. “Donal rackons us shoud put flame to lamp now and ah canna say ah disagree wi him. Tis gonna be a dichtie nicht for shuir.”

Niall nodded and lifted down the igniter and headed back up to the lantern room while Angus opened the valves and pumped the pressure up. When Angus called out that the system was up to pressure Niall opened the valves at the base of the lamp and as the vapourised kerosene sprayed up into the mantles, used the igniter to start the vapour burning.

When it was well alight, he closed the door to the lamp, checked the mantles were shing bright. Satisfied he went back down the steps and nodded to Angus who disengaged the pawl holding the weight. As it slowly dropped the clockwork mechanism began to turn the lens in the room above and the light began its regular flashing across the sea.

As he followed Angus down the stairwell past the bedrooms, Niall looked out of the narrow windows at the now dark sky. The day had fled before the storm clouds and night had come a good two hours early. As he passed the last window before the living quarters landing, he caught a flash of light from the top of the tower briefly painting the clouds.

In the living quarters Donal was lifting a steaming kettle from the range to fill the battered black teapot. Three mugs were sitting on the table next to the plates and cutlery. A loaf of bread, half wheel of cheddar, pots of jam and meat paste had been put out for supper.

“Sit ye doon freens,” Donal said turning to them. “Tis gonna be a lang nicht ye ken?”

“Donal ye auld eejit, whit on earth were ye doing outside?” demanded Angus as he pulled out a chair.

“Eh? Och, dinni fash yesel, ah were juist wantin ta mak shiur,” mumbled Donal.

“Mak shiur of whit mon?” asked Angus.

“Ta be shiur yon palls were ticht. Whan, we gotten here ah thocht one be lowse. If’n yon blaister be as baud as it looks…. Ye ken?”

Niall puzzled over Donal’s words for a moment before their meaning became clear to him. Donal had thought there was something wrong with the boat mooring. If the boats couldn’t be secured during handovers or replenishments of the stores, then things could get awkward for sure. Angus was nodding his understanding as Niall went to check the barometer again.

“Damn me!” Niall could not believe his eyes as he tapped the barometer and watched the needle drop. 998, 996, 995. It finally stopped at 992 millibars.

“Guid in haven!” he exclaimed.

“Whit?” said Angus turning to him.

Niall tapped the barometer again but is stayed stubbornly on 992. “Its goon doon nigh twenty since I last spied it. Ah’ve nay seen it so low!”

“Whit be it?” asked Angus as Niall crossed to the window and peered through the thick glass.

“922 doon from 1010 and afore it 1015,” said Niall staring at the black wall where sky used to be. The earlier white crested waves were now growing in strength and height as the wind pushed them before the storm. Spray was beginning to be spun off their crests and the troughs were filling with foam.

“Ha ye suppa,” said Donal pouring tea into their battered enamel mugs. “Be nowt we can cheenge.”

As the three men ate their plain supper in dour silence, the wind grew in strength, whistles and a drone as it rushed past the tower increasingly loud. The crash of waves beating upon the rocks upon which the lighthouse rested was clearly audible above the noise of the wind.

“Tis gonna be wurse nicht than graet storm a 1881,” declared Donal.

“Whan aw they men frae Eyemouth be lost?” asked Niall.

“Aye,” agreed Angus.

“Mair tea?” asked Donal.

It had grown dark quickly and early, which had upset Niall’s sense of time. He was surprised when he checked the clock to find it was only six o’clock in the evening. By rights there should have been a good hour of daylight left. Outside the lighthouse, the sky was dark with roiling storm clouds reaching down to the churning seas. The waves were growing all the time as the winds strengthened. They pounded repeatedly on the stones of the reef, growing bigger with each passing minute.

Niall looked out of the window again at a scene of unbelievable turmoil and ferocity. It was now impossible to say where sea left off and the sky began. Steep waves were marching towards the lighthouse one after the other, steepening as they reached shallower water. Spray and spume torn from their white crests by the gale force winds filled the air. The anemometer repeater had peaked at 75mph which was hurricane force.

The wind buffeted the tower, whining and whistling through the grating and railings of the catwalk around the gallery loud enough to be heard in the living quarters. A rumble, felt as much as it was heard, vibrated the stones of the structure.

“Tym ta chack lamp,” said Donal.

“Aye, I’ll gang,” Niall offered.

“Gud on ye lad,” said Donal.

In the kerosene room, Niall checked the pressure gauge and the oil level before winding the weight for the clockwork back up. When he was satisfied all was as it should be, he climbed the steps to the lantern room to check on the mantles. They were burning evenly but when Niall peered through the door’s small glass window, the lantern’s beam seemed not penetrate the clouds for any great distance.

As he made his way down the steps from level to level, the sound of the wind was a constant roar, punctuated by slamming gusts which could be felt through the stones of the lighthouse. The tall slim structure was too firmly welded to the rocks with the double dovetail stones making up its walls standing firm against everything the sea could throw at it for the past sixty years.

Yet this storm was testing it already. While it would not sway or move the impact of the wind and waves was sending shudders through its thick walls which could be felt underfoot on the stairs and when a hand was placed on the walls. There were few openings in the structure which could admit the wind yet still it whistled and shrieked as it blew past the lighthouse.

On the living quarters level, nearer the base of the tower, the sound of the waves impacting the rocks and the base of the tower was now a relentless heavy thumping sound and vibration. When Niall entered the room, Angus and Donal were sat at the table cradling mugs of tea in their hands, with morose expressions on their faces.

“Aw be weel wit lamp, but I canna sei whit guid it be ti-nicht,” he announced crossing to the teapot and pouring himself a mug of the strong brew. He added a dose of condensed milk, gave it a quick stir and joined the other two at the table.

He’d just sat down when a wave slapped against the tower with a boom that made Angus and Donal look up. For the first time in all the years Niall had been on watch with the other two men they looked apprehensive.

“Whit’s tha maiter whit ye twa?”

“I’ve a feeling in ma bones aboot ti-nicht,” said Donal. He was the eldest of the three men, he’d be retiring in a year or two.

“Och, ye say such every storm we ha,” teased Niall.

“Tis na tha sam ti-nicht Niall,” responded Angus surprising him.

As if to underline their concerns, the wind slammed against the tower as a series of waves pounded the lighthouse.

“One… twa… tre… fouer… fiver… sax…,” Angus was counting the pounding of the waves against the tower. Each thumped against the lighthouse with increasing vigour, but the seventh wave crashed hard enough to vibrate the entire structure. Water slapped at the window which was some thirty feet above the rocks.

“Fuk mae,” said Angus, eyes wide.

Angus was counting again. Niall crossed to the window and looked out. Little could be seen; the glass was reflecting the light from the oil lamp in the room and beyond the glass the sea was the sky and the sky the sea. Each wave was foaming ever higher over the rocks and the sixth wave reached the bottom of the window. Seconds later the seventh wave engulfed the side of the tower and all that could be seen through the glass was grey, green water.

Niall stepped back in alarm, turning to the other men. He saw the amount of alarm he felt reflected in their faces. The wind was now a banshee wail underpinned by the rhythmic banging of the waves against the lighthouse. He understood now the concerns of Angus and Donal. This was a storm unlike any other the three men had experienced, such a storm as few men had seen from their circumstances and survived.

When Niall checked the barometer again it read 905 and he tapped it hard trying to get it to rise, but it stubbornly stayed where it was. He went back to the table and sat down picked up his tea and drank.

The three men sat at the table not speaking, just sipping their tea and listening. Listening to the wind, to the waves, listening as they pounded the lighthouse. Listening, waiting, for the wind to abate or for the structure to succumb. For nature, unforgiving, uncaring, to show its dominance over mankind or for it to relent, to allow life to continue.

Listening as the wind and the waves ignored the structures of man, ignored his capabilities, his attempts to overcome nature. Listening, waiting, for the wind to grant a reprieve or to seal their doom.