Anchored in Light: Tales of Coastlines, Calm, and Continuity

As a coastal boy , who donned the navy whites and sailed seas ,what draws me so powerfully to lighthouses is the duality of their presence: a ghostly sentinel by night, a pristine beauty by day. They carry the weight of countless generations with nothing but lightness—an unburdened glory and a purpose that defies time. What a spiritual existence this is, what a life truly lived; a beacon burning for the navigators who find their bends to the approaching shore  safely and surely.

Through the ages, it has withstood the tide and time: the relentless blue barnacles clinging at its base, as if to erase its origin, and the marine life brushing against its stones in gentle whispers. Creatures of the sea, from the calmest waters to the fiercest tides, all pass by in reverence. Some rubbing their backs to its barnacles, some to heal and some to harm. But it stands firm to its call of duty and asks no commendations to adorn its side walls. What more could I say, how much more prose should I pour in its praise? I will pause here, for night approaches, and it is time to cleanse the mighty lantern and let the light flow once more.

In days past, they say the lighthouse’s optic section lay exposed to the elements, with no glass panes to shield it, just the raw blaze of an open flame guiding the lost. Tell me, where are such men of valor now? Where are the gods of steadfast guidance? Show me the gurus, the guardians who could ever compare to a lighthouse, to any place where a light is kept solely to lead others in, to cut through the darkness before it claims them.

Lets Gyro down to some  fascinating detail ,before we zero down into its soul again: At the close of the 17th century, glass panels enclosed the lantern, with candelabras set as the optic. By the 18th century, banks of parabolic reflectors paired with hollow-wick lamps became the main source of light. Then, in 1820, the Fresnel lens was born, powered by a single, steadfast source—the lamp. The lamps themselves came in many forms; at first, they burned sperm whale oil, fueling multi-hollow wicks. But when prices soared in the 1850s, Europe turned to colza oil, while the United States moved from lard to kerosene in the 1870s. Eventually, the oil lamps gave way to electric bulbs, often 500 or even 1,000 watts strong....

The structure’s spine shifted through the centuries, yet the spirit of the lighthouse remained untouched. Torched in their digital avatar, its bits don’t bite—they illuminate. unwavering each night … the same guiding light for the navigator. Technology has not clothed it in arrogance; rather humbled it, making it an abode of abundance,  where light is  free and without pretense.

I meet an old buddy from the Navy at the US Club for a cup of tea and hot snacks, and through the evening haze, there’s a glimpse of Prongs Reef in the background—it’s pure nostalgia. That lighthouse has witnessed generations of men, from stripes to stars, guiding them through rough waters, yet always holding onto that calm core necessary for sanity across the ages.

It sure goes through its  silent maintenance, standing strong through storms and salt, and every now and then, perhaps, it rests in its own glow, content with the leisure it rarely takes. There’s something timeless in its resilience—a reminder of our own lives, of keeping the light on for others, no matter how turbulent the seas may become. And just as that lighthouse remains steady, so do we carry on, a beacon in the ever-shifting tides, finding our calm in the quiet moments, standing tall for the next generation who look to us for guidance.

And now to finally sign off with a Khalil Gibran note “ Truth is like the stars, which cannot be seen except beyond the darkness of night.”