Vertical geometric arrow motif in gold line

Every dusk the fog rolled in off the Skerry like wet wool, and the boats came home blind. Tobias Quarrie climbed the signal mast with a tin of paraffin and a fistful of wicks. Up top he lit the stacked lanterns one above another, a column of little sunsets, and at the crosstree he hung a fan of glass so the glow spread over the water in curved bands. Nine boats were out the night the fog came thicker than anyone had seen. Tobias lit the top lamp, then the diamond of reflectors beneath it, then the two small brass suns either side that the men used for bearings. The lights were no use. The fog ate every one.

So he did a thing nobody had taught him. He climbed down, worked the rudder pin off the hut wall, and walked to the end of the breakwater. He swung it above his head like a pointing hand, the dots of his breath going up white in the cold, and he called the names of the boats in order, the way his grandfather had taught him to call the tide. Chevron after chevron of sound, he said later, going out into the grey like a line you could hold.

Eight boats came home by following his voice. The ninth, the Marigold, was found in the morning drifting off the Skerry with her crew asleep at the tiller, and they swore they had dreamt of a thin bright arrow pointing the way home. Tobias never climbed the mast again. Crane fixed the pin above the door, and there it stays, pointing at the sea, which is where you'll go one day, Nell, so mind it.