By dusk the lighthouse had set a thimble-sized mug on the gallery rail. The night beam took a sip, warmed its hands against the horizon, and only then began the slow nod toward each boat, as if cocoa were part of the job.
We asked at the kiosk by the pier. "I was folding nets," said Mr. Bramble, "and the light paused over my bow until I waved. Then it finished the cup and went on, polite as a neighbor with a lantern."
The keeper left a note in a careful hand: Please do not hurry the beam. He comes home when the mug is empty. Quiet thanks may be left on the mat.
The next evening a dinghy returned and waited until the cocoa steamed again, then left a coil of twine as thanks and drifted out to take its nod in turn.