The Keeper's Log

October 12, 2023 Eamon’s Log: Keeper’s Log, Harbor Point Light Wind: 15 knots, NE Sky: Overcast, light drizzle Temp: 48°F Barometric pressure steady. Seals hauled out on the rocks below—counted twelve this morning. Sent the weather report to the Aurora. No reply yet, but they’re probably mid-transect. Elias usually responds by 1700.

October 14, 2023 Eamon’s Log: Keeper’s Log, Harbor Point Light Wind: 22 knots, E Sky: Heavy rain, visibility 1 mile Temp: 52°F Barometric pressure falling rapidly. Storm warning issued for the coastal waters. Secured the shutters and doubled the lantern wicks. Radioed the Aurora to advise caution. Elias’s last letter mentioned they were tracking a pod of right whales near the shelf break. Hope they’re clear of this front.

October 16, 2023 Eamon’s Log: Keeper’s Log, Harbor Point Light Wind: 40 knots, ENE Sky: Storm force winds, driving rain Temp: 50°F Barometric pressure plummeting. Worst low-pressure system this season. Radio crackling with distress calls—coast guard dispatched to a capsized trawler near the shoals. Aurora checked in briefly; they’re riding it out in deep water. Sent Elias a note: “Storm’s worsening. Keep your hull down.” Meant to sound concerned, not curt. He hasn’t written back. Did I offend him?

October 18, 2023 Eamon’s Log: Keeper’s Log, Harbor Point Light Wind: 5 knots, W Sky: Clear, stars visible Temp: 45°F Barometric pressure rising. Storm passed. Repaired the damaged weather vane. Still no word from Elias. Unusual for him. Maybe my note was too blunt. He’s always so precise in his observations—his letters full of data on salinity gradients and plankton blooms. Mine are just weather and wave heights. What does he see in them?

October 20, 2023 – 23:47 [Transcript from voice memo recovered from Eamon’s recorder] Eamon: (clears throat) Testing. The recorder’s working. I never use this thing… but the log feels too formal tonight. (long pause) I shouldn’t have sent that note. “Keep your hull down.” What was I thinking? Sounded like I was dismissing him. (sighs) It’s just… when the storm hit, all I could think about was that trawler. And whether the Aurora was truly clear of the worst of it. (static crackles) I’ve been reading Elias’s letters for months. His descriptions of the bioluminescence along the continental shelf—the way he talks about the “living light” in the water… (voice softens) I look for it every night from the gallery. My beacon sweeps, and I imagine his ship out there, matching my rhythm. (quiet laugh) Maybe that’s foolish. He’s a scientist. I’m just… (recorder clicks off, then on again) I should tell him. When he writes back. If he writes back.

October 21, 2023 Eamon’s Log: Keeper’s Log, Harbor Point Light Wind: 8 knots, NW Sky: Partly cloudy, sunrise over calm seas Temp: 50°F Barometric pressure holding. Aurora hailed on the radio this morning. They’re en route to station. Elias sent a letter by proxy—a coast guard vessel dropped it off. His handwriting’s messier than usual. Said he misread my storm warning as disinterest. Apologized for the silence. I’m the one who should be sorry. I’ll reply tonight. Need to find the right words.

October 21, 2023 (Evening) Eamon’s Log: Keeper’s Log, Harbor Point Light Wind: 2 knots, variable Sky: Clear, first-quarter moon Temp: 46°F Barometric pressure steady. Finally sat down to reply to Elias. Took three drafts to get it right. Told him I’d been worried during the storm, that my note came out wrong. Admitted I listen for the Aurora’s position reports just to know where he is. Wrote it on the good stationery—the stuff with the embossed lighthouse. Dropped it in the mail pouch for the tender’s weekly run. Hope it reaches him before they’re too far offshore.

October 24, 2023 Eamon’s Log: Keeper’s Log, Harbor Point Light Wind: 12 knots, SW Sky: Scattered clouds, sun breaks Temp: 54°F Barometric pressure rising. Got a packet from the Aurora today—hand-delivered by young Peterson from the harbormaster’s office. Inside were two things: Elias’s usual data sheets (water temps, nutrient levels, whale sightings) and a separate envelope addressed to me personally. His handwriting on the outside—not the typed label he uses for official correspondence. Opened it after supper. Read it twice. He wrote back within hours of receiving my letter. Said he’d been carrying my words around for days, rereading them in his bunk. Confessed the isolation gets to him too—not the science, but the distance from everything familiar. “Your light is my lodestar,” he wrote. “Knowing you’re watching the same horizon… it anchors me.” He included a question at the end: “The Aurora docks in Portland on November 12th. I’ll have three days ashore. Any chance you’d consider meeting?” Underlined “consider” twice. I’m smiling like a fool. Just sent a radio message to the harbormaster to confirm my leave request. First time in seven years I’ve asked for time away from the light.

October 26, 2023 Eamon’s Log: Keeper’s Log, Harbor Point Light Wind: 20 knots, NW Sky: Gusty, whitecaps on the bay Temp: 50°F Barometric pressure steady. Finished repairing the lantern house glass after last week’s gale. Elias and I have been writing daily since his last letter. Little notes, mostly—observations about the migrating geese, the way the light bends in the salt air. He told me about the time he almost quit marine biology after his first winter at sea. “Felt like I was shouting into the void,” he said. “Until your logs started coming through.” We’ve agreed to meet at the old dockside café in Portland. Neutral ground. He described the Aurora’s approach to harbor last season—the smell of pine tar and fried clams, the clang of the buoy bells. I haven’t been into the city since before the pandemic. Nervous, but in a good way. Like waiting for a weather front to break.

October 30, 2023 Eamon’s Log: Keeper’s Log, Harbor Point Light Wind: 5 knots, NE Sky: Misty dawn, foghorn sounding Temp: 48°F Barometric pressure falling. Dreamt of the trawler again last night—the one that went down in the storm. Woke in a cold sweat, heart pounding. Got up and walked the gallery until sunrise. The fog’s thick today, but the light cuts through it—steady and sure. Thought about Elias out there in it, navigating by instruments and faith. He’ll be heading into deep water for the next leg of their survey. Won’t hear from him for at least ten days. The silence will be louder now. Found myself writing a poem in the margin of the logbook:

Beacon’s sweep on troubled deep, A pulse against the night. Two men wait where currents meet— One prays the other’s light.

Too sentimental? Maybe. But it’s how I feel.

November 9, 2023 Eamon’s Log: Keeper’s Log, Harbor Point Light Wind: 3 knots, S Sky: Clear, unseasonably warm Temp: 60°F Barometric pressure high and steady. Aurora made port early this morning. Got a text from Elias as soon as he had signal: “Docked safe. See you tomorrow, 10 AM, the Mermaid’s Mug. I’ll be the one wearing a nervous smile and a sweater that’s too warm for this weather.” Replied: “I’ll be the one in the keeper’s cap, looking lost.” Packed a bag tonight—my good wool coat, the book of maritime poetry he mentioned liking, an extra scarf in case he’s underdressed. The tender arrives at 0700 to ferry me ashore. Can’t remember the last time I was this restless. Checked the lamp three times before supper. Set the automatic timer just in case. The light will keep turning without me for a few hours.

November 10, 2023 – 06:15 Eamon’s Log: Keeper’s Log, Harbor Point Light Wind: Calm Sky: Pale gold sunrise Temp: 55°F Barometric pressure holding. Last entry before I go. The tender’s foghorn just sounded across the water—they’ll be at the landing soon. Elias sent one final message late last night, timestamped 23:59: “In case I forget to say it tomorrow: thank you. For the weather reports, the shared horizons, the light that never wavers. You’ve been my constant through all the shifting tides. Here’s to finding our way to the same shore.” I’ve copied his words onto a card to tuck in my coat pocket. Something to hold onto if words fail me when I see him. The beacon’s still turning as I write this, painting slow circles across the logbook. My hands are steady. My heart is not. Time to go.

Eamon’s Log: Keeper’s Log, Harbor Point Light Wind: Calm Sky: Pale gold sunrise Temp: 55°F Barometric pressure holding. Last entry before I go. The tender’s foghorn just sounded across the water—they’ll be at the landing soon. Elias sent one final message late last night, timestamped 23:59: “In case I forget to say it tomorrow: thank you. For the weather reports, the shared horizons, the light that never wavers. You’ve been my constant through all the shifting tides. Here’s to finding our way to the same shore.” I’ve copied his words onto a card to tuck in my coat pocket. Something to hold onto if words fail me when I see him. The beacon’s still turning as I write this, painting slow circles across the logbook. My hands are steady. My heart is not. Time to go.