The Lighthouse

His eyes woke up first.
Then his feet, hands, and gradually the young sailor eased out of the comforting blanket of unconsciousness, spurred on by the biting chill of the harsh wind whipping his face.
He sighed deeply, but was caught halfway through his exhalation by a tiny grain of sand which was sucked down his throat. The Sailor gagged and instinctively leapt to his feet, coughing violently until the invader has been expelled from his sea-wracked body. Drops of saltwater stung his tongue, shooting out of his mouth onto the silvery sand below.
The Sailor looked up and gasped involuntarily. His legs froze, rooted in place as he at once wondered where in God's name he was. At the moment, the inclement weather concerned him far less than his whereabouts. The sand looked familiar; however, his surroundings did not remind him of Cornwall. May I be damned, the Sailor thought swelling with patriotic pride, if a born and bred Cornishman could not identify his ancestral homeland from a foreign one. The Sailor surveyed the landscape around him. To his right, rolling hills brushed against the horizon, blanketed by fruitful farmland soaked in the squall that had brought him here. The sight gave him hope that he was still in England, at least. To his left was a lonely, decrepit structure, a faded beacon of days past. The Sailor's heart sank, realizing that the lighthouse was obviously abandoned and along with it any certainty of assistance. Lighthouse keepers were noble men.
The young Sailor trudged through the dunes of ivory to the pitiful ruins ahead. An unfamiliar lighthouse could only mean that he had strayed far from his home. It was composed of stone, and what was once the work of proud craftsmen had crumbled into total disrepair, held together only by the relative absence of Mother Nature's wrath. However, by the time the Sailor arrived it seemed she no longer wished to spare the structure.
The Sailor approached the lintel of the lighthouse and found a sign so unremarkable that if not for the foreign, French text carved rudimentarily into the wood, he would have overlooked it entirely. After cursing his rotten luck, the Sailor guessed that the placard was a careless replacement of a grander original.
The heavy oak door groaned at its first use in what seemed to be at least a century, heavy gusts of wind assisting the Sailor as he retreated from the drowning ferocity of the torrent behind him. In front, complete and total darkness. This he very much preferred from the maelstrom outside. In fact, he enjoyed the peace and tranquility darkness brought; he stood in the black, taking it in for just a moment until an unknown instinct reminded him of his need for sight. The Sailor reached in his coat pocket saturated with seawater, pulling out a tiny box of matches that partially dissolved in his hand. He liked to fish at dawn, and setting a lure proved difficult during a new moon. He wondered if the matches could also be used to cauterize a wound if he happened to hook himself. The Sailor searched the matchbox until a dry one was found. He struck it quickly, and it glowed fiercely, the pitch-colored surroundings instantly flooding with vibrant detail. Tiny black dots scurried away on the floor at the sudden sight of light. It was made of wood, rotting and creaky at the Sailor's every step. The beginning of a spiral staircase stretched across a wall to his left. To his right was a wooden desk adorned with musty books and yellowed paper strewn about the surface. A lamp reclined pitifully against the wall, bent at an angle and of no further use.
With a surge of curiosity the Sailor pressed on, cupping the glowing match with his right hand as he ascended the black staircase. Each slow footstep echoed a metallic tone, producing the only sound he could hear except his rapidly-beating heart. After a score of steps, the Sailor stepped on a landing in the stairs and raised his match to find what seemed to be the sleeping quarters. The sight of cots suddenly reminded him of his present fatigue, and he very nearly chose to end his night there, but his adventurous spirit could not rest with the expedition still in progress.
He again ascended the black metal steps, quicker this time and with more certainty. As he began to see faint moonlight ahead, his pace quickened once more and his match snuffed out abruptly. The Sailor grabbed the railing and with inspired haste rushed to the end of the staircase. In front of him was a crowded room with a strange contraption in the middle which he perceived to be a giant lamp. It was caked with cobwebs and lined with dust in every inch and crevice. He was surrounded by a massive glass cylinder, and sheets of rain warped the view of the chaotic squall outside.
He saw movement in the sea, a faint flicker of light acting as a beacon steadfast in the perilous inclemency. It was a large ship, struggling fiercely in the maelstrom, bobbing up and down, in and out of sight as the Sailor watched intently until it had disappeared. He then sat down against the aged wall, fatigued by the evening's events.
A few hours later, the Sailor was awoken by the gleaming sun peering over the horizon, running its daily course over the spotted sky. He stretched with the crackling of tired bones, and stood slowly to the magnificence of the open sea, the expanse of Poseidon's power filling his line of sight. With low tide came a quiet tranquility, and the Sailor almost wished to stay. He walked down the stairs slowly in his ragged clothing, emaciated and cold but grateful for the protection of an ancient structure he credited with saving his life. Before moving on, he took one last look. He thought to himself that the combination of nature and man was an all-powerful union.