In the Dec. 27, 2006 Herald (now don't tell me you threw it out) I wrote a story that described several dreams of things I've always wanted to do in West Seattle. Things I thought would never be possible.

One of these was to spend the night in a place we all know, a place many would consider the best spot in West Seattle. It is an historic place, and one often used as a symbol of the area. So come along with me now as, thanks to the kindness of strangers, one of those dreams comes true.

It is early evening on the last Sunday of April. I carry my sleeping bag up a narrow circular staircase. At the top of the stairs I come to a steep set of metal steps that lead to the lantern room. I start climbing. As I rise through the opening I grasp a post for support. The post is tightly wrapped with intricate rope work. It is a work of art, the kind of thing you'll sometimes find on a sea-going vessel. And where I am now has the feeling of a ship's wheelhouse. I am surrounded by glass; glass that keeps the wind out, and provides a glorious view over the Sound and Elliot Bay.

I push open the heavy door that gives access to the balcony and step outside. Thankfully, there's no rain. But a stiff north wind is blowing, so I lay my sleeping bag out on the leeward side of the tower. I slip into the bag and, protected from the wind, watch as night falls on the Sound. After an hour of enjoying the best view in West Seattle I force myself to try and sleep.

Just as I start to doze off a blast of icy wind wraps around the tower, hitting the sleeping bag from both ends. So I decide to mummy-up, zipping the bag to the top and cinching it around my face. Shielded from the wind, I lie on my side and take a last look at the dark waters below. I close my eyes and let the sound of wind and surf lull me to sleep.

I awake at 4 a.m. Fuzzy spots of glittering light dot the isles to the west. I find my glasses and put them on. The predawn world sharpens, and I can see there's a slight fog hanging over the water, making the rays of light that spin around me visible. It's as if I am hovering above the sea in a slow motion helicopter, rotors of solid light sweeping overhead every five seconds. The beams are not aimed horizontally, as I had always assumed they would be, but slightly downward. And I can see their far ends brushing the shoreline of Blake and Bainbridge islands. My light isn't the only performer in the dark sky. Other lights, flashing red ones, stab skyward from various points on the horizon. In the darkness I can imagine them to be the tall masts of sailboats anchored in hidden coves. In reality they are the masts of radio transmitters, most of them seeming to sprout from Vashon Island.

I have spent the night atop Alki Lighthouse, which will celebrate its 100th anniversary in six years. The first light here was a lantern hung on a post by the property owner, Hans Martin Hanson, in the 1870s. In 1887 the U.S. Lighthouse Service replaced Hanson's lantern with an official lantern, on an official post. But the days of post-lanterns ended in 1913, when the tower and fog signal building were built. The keepers, in alternating 12-hour shifts, kept watch. When the Coast Guard took over this was changed to three eight-hour shifts. But all those hours of constant tending came to an end in 1984, when the lighthouse was automated.

I watch the pre-dawn panorama of sea, sky, and islands for a while before falling back asleep. I awaken two hours later. The city is starting to wake too. But the only sounds I hear are those of the surf and the cawing sea gulls swooping past the tower in the grey morning light. I roll up the sleeping bag and carry it down the stairs. After stowing it beneath the giant air tank that once blew the foghorn, I climb back up the tower for a last sit on the balcony. The tide is in, and small waves are splashing on the boulders 40 feet below; the same boulders on which I had proposed to my wife 20 years ago.

It is time to cast off. It is time to sail away. It is time for me to cross the waters, to fight my way across the Duwamish and Lake Washington. I'll have to navigate a sea of cars on my commute to the Eastside, and there won't be a lighthouse to guide the way. But it's good to know that this one will be here to mark the safe harbor of my home port. The real world is calling, and I need to pick up. But what a glorious night I'd had.

Postscript: I would like to thank Patricia and Mark Huebschman, and their children: Kelsey, Kurt, and Kenzie. They live in one of the Coast Guard houses at the point, and kindly invited me to spend the night in the lighthouse. They will soon be moving away, and I'm sure it will be hard for them to leave this special place. The large front yard of their house, which was made for children, has an incredible vista over the Sound. Set back from the road, a road prone to noisy summertime cruisers, their house is an oasis in a busy city. Long may it remain a real home, and not a museum piece.

If you are interested in seeing the lighthouse up close, public tours start Saturday, June 2nd. They run through August, every Saturday and Sunday, from 1 to 4 pm. Group tours can be arranged by calling 217-6203.

Marc Calhoun may be reached via wseditor@robinsonnews.com

Marc Calhoun

A Night at the Light

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