The fog horn

My new house is located a kilometre or so from the lighthouse at Quaco Head. "Head" is new geographic terminology for me; I've heard it, but have never seen a head before this one. Dictionary.com defines head as "a projecting point of a coast, esp. when high, as a cape, headland, or promontory". Okay, that describes Quaco Head pretty accurately. And explains why a lighthouse is warranted.

You can't see the lighthouse from my house... but you can hear the fog horn.  Last night, for the second time since I've been here, I awoke to its sounding.  I know fog horns from movies, descriptions in books or other artificial settings, never previously having lived where they were needed.  I think of them as having a deep bass bellow:  w-a-a-a-a-a-w-w.  But I'm guessing that modern technology has superseded the fog horn and replaced it with the fog signal, because this one's note is decidedly tenor, if not alto.  And the edges of the sound are crisp; no wallowing.

The sound is muffled, which makes sense of course, because the signal only sounds when the weather is inclement enough to obscure the lighthouse light.  In this case, as I discovered upon waking this morning, the weather in question was snow.

A number of seconds elapse between signals, just long enough for me to drift back to sleep only to be awakened by the next one.  I listened for a while.  I must have read somewhere a description of a fog horn's sound as "mournful", but this signal is confident and commanding: "listen up, you out there on the Bay, and steer clear of these rocks".  I found it comforting to know that if there were any lobster fishermen out on the water, hearing the signal they would be safe.  Lulled its repetitious tones and the warmth of my bed, I fell back into a deep, delicious sleep.

Here's what my backyard looks like in snow: