1985 (9) – The Lighthouse Keeper

Tropic Moon at anchor, Isla Conejera.
The island of Ibiza is visible in the background.

To go to the beginning of this book, Tropic Moon: Memories, click HERE.

A less pleasant aspect of cruising was keeping up with the boat maintenance.  Our topsides paint had suffered grievously over the winter from oil spills in the Gibraltar harbor, chafing fenders when we were sandwiched in between other boats, and the occasional rude encounter with a marina dock.  We decided to repaint the white hull while at anchor in our peaceful cove.  Ed spent one day cleaning and sanding the hull, and epoxying over a few of the scars.  Unfortunately, on the following day when we were ready to paint, our cove was less than peaceful.  The wind had shifted, and Tropic Moon was rolling in response to a gentle swell.  After setting a stern anchor, Ed and I climbed into the dinghy.  With me hanging on to the cap rail as the dinghy rose and fell, Ed proceeded to paint his way around the hull.  He had some competition from the swells as to who would wet the waterline first.  Occasionally, when Ed was the winner, a wave would then come along and playfully wash off some of the new paint.

The lighthouse, visible on the top of the promontory.

We were anchored near the middle of Isla Conejera, while the lighthouse was located at the northern end.  Before our hike up to the lighthouse, (which we found deserted), we had enjoyed some interesting speculation about the keeper of the light.  It was Ed's opinion that the keeper was locked away up there in the tower.  Ed mentioned his possible presence when we took to sunbathing nude on the deck.  I couldn't believe that anyone would be living in the lighthouse when there wasn't even another boat at the island.  I chose to elect a man as keeper when he showed up in a small boat, and then disappeared for a time.  Ed took him to be a fisherman. 

A beautiful stone wall.

I then elected a second man, who came in a powerboat with his family, which he moored at the landing dock.  He also disappeared (he was probably napping on the boat), while an older woman, robed in a somber black dress, stood atop a rocky abutment, and wielded a fishing rod with considerable success.  (I watched her catch fish while she watched us paint the boat.)  Two younger women in bikinis were sunning themselves, and keeping an eye on a couple of youngsters, while a frisky black dog gamboled about the cliffs, no doubt bringing terror to the resident lizard population, and consternation to the sea gulls attempting to sun themselves in peace.

At the lighthouse.

Conejera may translate to "rabbit-warren," but it was lizards we saw everywhere, and nary a rabbit in sight.  The lizards scurried from rock to rock, most of them colored in a drab gray-green to blend in with the landscape, while others were arrayed in intense blue-greens, appearing iridescent in the bright sunlight.  There seemed to be almost as many seagulls as lizards.  I remember one particular gull that, unlike his friends, didn't fly off at my approach, and who seemed unconcerned by the loud-sounding snaps on my camera case that broke the quiet when I opened it.  The gull appeared to straighten his neck, and then stared straight ahead at the camera.  I wanted a shot of the gull turned sideways, and madly waved one arm in the air.  I didn't expect the gull to understand what I wanted, but I thought my actions might cause him to prepare for flight.  He was having none of it, and insisted on posing stiff-necked, face forward, until I had taken his picture.

My seagull...