The light house: A love story

The sun spilled the last of its light in a riot of color that glinted across the tops of the waves, as the far-off headland began to distill into the haze of a smudged horizon. High overhead a gull hung on the currents of the wind, its cry like a lost and lonely lament. The crest of a cold green wave rolled relentlessly towards the rocky shoreline – and at that very instant, Connie Dixon took the photo.
The surf detonated around the bleak stark rocks, a sound like thunder that seemed to rumble through the ground beneath her feet. She lifted her face to the heavens as the mist of spray fell pure and soft like pearly rain. Connie closed her eyes and gave herself over to the vast grandeur of nature – the roar of the surf and the whip of the wind through her hair, as though this isolated piece of Maine coastline could cleanse her troubled soul – wash away the doubts and uncertainties of a life that had become entangled. She felt the cold slap of the breeze and the undulating tug of it like claws at her clothes. She filled her lungs with the crisp sea air and felt the grime and desperation of the city shed from her like a dark heavy coat.