Have you ever been to a lighthouse? I have. Ten days. The Adriatic Sea, a bare rock covered in caper bushes, a lighthouse keeper who didn’t bother me, and I didn’t bother him. Each of us in our own world. My friends dropped me off by sailboat and left. It was just me, the chickens, a white cat with green eyes, and the sea. And there was no signal. It was - perfect.
The first night, I couldn’t sleep. The sea was so loud that I just lay there and listened. And then I wrote in my notebook: the sea doesn’t talk to you. The sea speaks, and you listen. There is a difference.
The chickens roamed freely, laying eggs in the caper bushes, each time in a different place, as if they never felt safe enough to call one spot their own. They were also the loudest on the island, constantly 'talking' to one another. One morning, I recorded them and played the sound back to them. Chaos followed, and I laughed like a child. The cat attacked everything, except me. Slowly, day by day, we got to know each other.
The nights were magical. A beam of light stretching miles into the darkness. And that feeling when you stand on stone built in the 1800s and realize, someone stood here before you. Looked at the same sea. Felt the same night. No matter the technology, no matter the centuries, that feeling remains the same. And only then do you see how small we are.
The first lighthouses date back to ancient times. The most famous, the Pharos of Alexandria, built in the 3rd century BC. One of the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World. But it wasn’t just a lighthouse. It was a fortress. A technological marvel. It had statues with mechanical devices: one showed the direction of the wind, another mimicked the movement of the sun, a third marked time. There was even a figure that produced sound when enemies approached - the first recorded sound alarm. Fuel was carried up by donkeys through spiral ramps inside the structure.
It was everything at once. Sometimes, I feel the same.
In the office, behind closed doors, solving crisis after crisis, I am that Pharos. A fortress that protects, a clock that counts deadlines, an alarm that senses danger. Everything at once. And in that multifunctionality, it’s easy to forget the primary purpose: simply to shine. And that can be hard. And lonely.
Lighthouses are not built for beauty. They are built for rescue. They stand in the hardest places - on rocks, cliffs, in storms. They work at night, when they are needed most. And they are always there for others. Every lighthouse has its own signature, its recognizable rhythm of light. It’s not random. It’s how you recognize it in the dark. And maybe that’s the only question worth asking: not how much light you have, but how far it reaches.
The sea transcends everything. The lighthouse remains. And solitude, it is not a punishment. It is the space where the light is maintained.
This summer, I’m going again. Another lighthouse. One week.
I can’t wait.
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