Keeper's Log

Frost on the gallery rail this morning, the first of the season. The seals have moved to the sheltered side of the rock and I do not blame them.

Cold and clear. The morning ferry came in twenty minutes early on the back of the swell. Trimmed the wick, polished the lens, and counted fourteen seals on the low rock.

Fog from before dawn until late afternoon. Horn sounded every two minutes. A freighter passed well to the east; we heard her long before we saw her lights.

Rough night. Spray reached the gallery rail twice. Nothing broken. The kettle took an hour to boil because the stove would not draw in that wind.

A flat calm. Repainted the lower stripe and the door. Two kayakers circled the rock around noon and waved; I waved back from the lantern room.

Supplies landed at the east slip: oil, flour, two crates of apples. Counted the steps again. Still ninety-one.

The first Saturday without visitors since April. Locked up the little shop, took the postcards in and swept the steps. The season is over; the light is not.

Last open Saturday of the year. Thirty-one visitors, one lost hat, and a child who counted the stairs aloud and arrived at ninety-two. I did not correct her.

Too much swell for the main slip, so the morning group landed on the east side. Everybody got a little wet and nobody minded.

A perfect day. Forty visitors by noon, the busiest Saturday of the year. Ran out of postcards at half past one.

The terns have left the north ledge and the rock is strangely quiet without them. Started the autumn list: gutters, hinges, lamp oil.

A school group of twelve came out with their teacher. They asked whether the lamp is still turned by hand. It is not, but I let them wind the clockwork anyway.

Showers off and on. Visitors sheltered in the lantern room and ate their sandwiches there. Found a single mitten on the stairs and hung it on the rail.

Nineteen visitors. A fisherman from the harbor stopped by with a bucket of mackerel and would not hear of payment. Fried them on the stove.

Clear and moonless. Counted forty meteors from the gallery before the cold drove me inside. Lamp lit at 20:41.

Squall at noon and the ferry turned back. Only the four visitors from the first crossing were on the rock, and they stayed for tea.

Hot and still. The seals are sunbathing in heaps. The paint on the south face is blistering and will need another coat in spring.

The last chicks on the north ledge have fledged. Cleaned up after the gulls. There was a great deal to clean.

A birthday picnic on the gallery. Twelve candles, and the wind took eleven. They left me a slice of cake.

Fog until noon, horn twice a minute. Fourteen visitors came anyway and said it felt like the real thing.

Windless, the sea like a plate. Watched a pod of porpoises work along the shoal for ten minutes.

Rain. Eight visitors in oilskins, all cheerful. The stairs were slick, so I put the sand bucket by the door.

Near enough the longest day. The lamp was lit after ten and out again before four. Hardly worth the oil.

The ferry brought the new door for the oil store. It took four men and a rope to get it up the slip.

Puffins on the south side, eleven of them standing in a row as if waiting for a bus.

A cold wind off the water. Eighteen visitors, and I lent out three scarves.

Scraped and primed the gallery rail. The first terns are back on the north ledge, and loud about it.

Gale. No ferry, no visitors. Kept the lamp trimmed and read the whole afternoon.

Thick fog and the horn all day. A surveyor from the council came out on the early boat to look at the roof and stayed for soup.

Spring cleaning. Washed the lens with chamois and vinegar, rehung the lantern door, and found a coin from 1938 under the stove.

Opening day. Hung the flag, set out the postcards and swept up after the winter. Nine visitors, one of whom brought a cake.