A contribution by Jesús3

Paul accepted the post of lighthouse keeper on Shipwreck Point on 1899. For years he lived alone, supplied every fortnight by the schooner Aurora. His logbook spoke of a meticulous routine: polishing the lens, noting the state of the sea, and sounding the foghorn whenever the mist thickened.

On the night of 15 March 1907, a furious gale swallowed the coast. Paul spotted a red flare—the Aurora’s cry for help. He blasted the foghorn, then raced down the 147 steps, launched his rowboat Bengolea, and vanished into the darkness. Months later a boat found the tower dark; on the table the logbook, open to the final line: “I’ll return as soon as the storm abates.”

Today, visitors hear the deep, ceaseless thrum of waves and an insistent drip echoing down the spiral stair. An invisible ember seems to flare and, rarer still, a low horn emerges from the fog. Everything hints that Paul still patrols his post: watchful, patient, guiding a schooner that may exist only in the ocean’s memory.

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