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Split Rock Lighthouse, Lake Superior, Minnesota
The wizened lighthouse keeper stooped and retrieved a broken plank from the waves lapping at the shore. Sunlight sparkled on the water, the tranquil weather belying the memory of the previous night's fierce storm. Sighing in resignation, the old man surveyed the stretch of rocky beach, strewn with more shards of splintered wood. He glanced up helplessly at the lighthouse on the cliff, berating its one weakness -- that the kerosene lamp in the tower wasn't bright enough to project through the strongest storms. There was nothing he could do besides watch in horror as sailors lost their lives to the rocks below.
Gathering up two pieces of the ship's hull, he turned from the wreckage and hobbled up the hill toward a small clearing in the trees. A scrap of twine was used to bind the boards together in a cross, and a pocketknife was produced from the man's pocket, which he used to carve the date into the wood. He knelt stiffly, his old joints creaking, and wedged the base of the cross into the soil. Straightening, he scanned the clearing and the dozens of wooden crosses that dotted it, and glared up at the heavens.
