The Lighthouse
Out on the point, past the garden, where the dusk finally gives up and goes dark. Somebody keeps the lamp lit. The light is saying something — in proper morse, on a loop. Watch the decoder.
the lamp blinks in real morse — the decoder below is reading it live. click a bottle in the water to read its note.
proper international morse, 150 ms a dot — the same loop ships hear, and the same one you’ll hear if you ever sail past a real light at night.
Sound the foghorn
The light is for seeing. The horn is for being heard — for the nights the fog eats the beam whole. One good blast, synthesized live, no audio files.
Cast a bottle
Write something short. The keeper seals it in green glass and sets it on the current. It’ll be floating out there when you come back.
your bottles live in this browser — the sea keeps at most six of yours.
Night watch
They ask me what the light says. It says the same thing every night, because the sea doesn’t need variety — it needs reliability. Two words, on a loop, until the bulb burns out or I do. The beam turns whether anyone’s watching or not. That’s the job.
What I like about morse: you can’t skim it. A dot is a dot; you wait for it, or you miss it. The whole universe could stand to be a little more like that — one thing at a time, said properly, on repeat.
Tonight’s entry, like every night’s: lamp lit, horn tested, sea behaving. — the keeper