Stargazing: Memoirs of a Young Lighthouse Keeper
by Peter Hill
Overview
From the Publisher
Peter Hill was nineteen, it was 1973 and, with his head fed by Vietnam, Zappa, Kerouac, Vonnegut, Watergate, Hendrix and Coronation Street, he was to spend the next six months working on various remote lighthouses off the west coast of Scotland. Working with all manner of unusual and fascinating people, learning the habits and lore of the lighthouse and its crew, and experiencing a way of life that was soon to disappear altogether, Hill's account of his career as a relief lighthouse keeper is a beautifully written memoir that succeeds in being both of its time and yet somehow timeless.
My thoughts
This is a GREAT book! I really like the writing style of the author! It's a little bit hard to describe what the book is about except to say that the author gets a job working in a lighthouse! Halfway through the book we knew that, well, other than getting the job, training for the job, and finishing one assignment, that's all there was. And yet it's so intriguing! For the author to be able to write about his experiences day-to-day in the lighthouse, and to share the stories of his fellow keepers and still keep me on the edge of my seat -- I think that's remarkable writing! Not to compare it to other books and other authors, but I recently read a book that would have been FANTASTIC had the author stuck to the subject in the title of her book rather than adding 2 other stories that wandered off course (and out of my interest.) I picked up this book wanting to read about being a lighthouse keeper and that's exactly what I got!
The author makes lightkeeping sound like so much fun I'd like to give it a go, if, that is, women were allowed to be lighthouse keepers! The comaradarie of keepers is quite interesting, as are the chores involved in keeping the lights going in the pre-computerized age.
Definitely a book worth reading for educational purposes and great entertainment! Thanks, Aussie John, for the referral!
Favorite Passage
The three of us were to be together for a month. Although the sun shone constantly it was a dark, brooding period psychologically. Few words were spoken unless they had to be, or unless it was two in the morning.
Then something happened which bonded the three of us together. One after Jim Codey had asked me to go out and help bring in the lobster creels. We left Jack in the kitchen preparing the evening meals.
Jim took the oars and I guided us towards the marker buoys. I can still remember the rich, sweet smell of pipe tobacco that seemed to seep through his skin. We had just reached the most distant creel where we would start to pull up in the crayfish and their unwilling house companions the conger eels, when I looked over Jim's bull-broad shoulders and saw a huge wall of water blowing out from the side of the island. Behind me, at the other side of the island it was the same.
I later learned that Ailsa Craig is so high and wide that a strong gale can be blowing directly behind it yet the water in front will remain flat calm, completely sheltered by the mass of rock. That is what was happening to us.
"Time to batten down the hatches," Jim boomed in his best submariner's voice. "Leave the creels for tomorrow. We've got to get back before the wind veers."
I saw it happening and felt its full force in my face at the same time. It was like being in a snow shaker rattled by an angry gorilla. The blue sky that had watched over our sheltered lagoon was washed aside by a thousand tones of grey as Gauguin became Turner and silver foam stippled against a torpedo black canvas.
I tasted salt on my lips and felt as if a fairground carousel had sheered off and was hurtling across empty space with us clinging to the sides.
