Point Arena Lighthouse
A day out on the California coast with family
Horny doggies and children play around her skirt while tourists photograph her, the sun adores her, and lovers, long after midnight, do their courting beneath her. Yet, come what may, she remains stoical, serene, standing alone above the meringue topped waves, and there’s no denying her beauty.
She’s watched a century of ships go by, seen many a tragedy, she cannot lie.
Slender, curvy, she carries her height with dignity, neither shivering nor retreating in the face of nature’s onslaught. Arena is excited only by the north wind, the requiems of passing leviathans, full sails fighting the gale.
She needs no extra bedclothes, nor has any appetite for sleep, come the fogs her horn she will weep.
She’s as much at home with tragedy and catastrophe, as she is with tranquility. Those men not blessed by the sympathy of seeing her Fresnel glance, run the risk of journeying to hell for beyond her skirt man is no longer in control.
In comes the fog like a thief in the night, seeking to smother her life saving light.
Rough seas, swift currents and unpredictable winds, nothing moves her from where she stands. Seas rise and fall, while sulky squalls, like angry mobs, attack her aloofness.
‘Come close at your peril.’
That’s Arena’s message, every six seconds, of every day, looking out for sailors because that’s her way.
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