Most lighthouses I visit are silent now. The horns were switched off years ago, but the little brick houses that held the compressors are still there, sitting next to the tower like a forgotten sibling.
A fog signal was never meant to be beautiful. It was meant to be heard over wind and surf, a long low note repeated on a fixed pattern so that a navigator could count the seconds and know which headland was hiding in the grey.
Standing next to one of those empty houses on a foggy morning, you notice how much the silence has changed the place. The sea still makes its noise. The gulls still argue. But the rhythm is gone, and with it a kind of conversation between the land and the boats.
Two blasts every sixty seconds. You could set a clock by it, and some people did.
I do not miss the noise, exactly. I miss knowing that someone was paying attention.