Ten Past Three

You have been at the lens since dusk. The fog came at one. Now the clock over the door says ten past three, and the squall has come in on the wind.

The beam goes where you face. You turn your shoulders and it swings out over the water, and whatever it lands on is lit for as long as you stay. At dusk it was a hand and a half wide at arm's length. The squall is taking it down, and the wind shoves it two fingers' width one way and two the other.

Two lanterns are making for the rocks, and both will be on them in six minutes. To the northeast a smack is heading for the reef the Log calls the Teeth. She is slow, and she will turn only for five minutes of light, by the clock. To the south-southwest a clipper is heading for the other reef, and she will turn for three minutes of light. They are on opposite sides of the sea. Whichever you face, the other is behind you.