It’s very sturdy, she reassures me.  It’s just that if more than five get on, it starts to swing.  Oh.  And I am the sixth person so she waves me on thinking I don’t want to be left behind.  The bridge does swing.  On the way back, I think, I will go with a group of five.  

Inside the lighthouse, I can’t imagine living here day in and day out with only wicks to change  and oil pots to fill.  I  envision the rotating light in the dark night driving people mad with their own thoughts of ships crashing and ghosts of dead bodies haunting the  sea.  

The fault line is just a few feet away...and earthquakes toppling the little station, I add.

Back on the bridge (with a group of five) I consider taking a picture, but feel it is more important to get on firm ground again.  The climb back up is invigorating.

A park ranger is standing at a wide spot looking over the edge.  "What’s going on?" Dub asks.  A guy is down there, the ranger says, looking more frustrated than concerned, as I would expect him to be.  But then he explains.  "It doesn’t make sense," he says.  "No one is allowed down there unless they are going fishing.  Then it’s okay.  If they get in trouble, guess who has to go after them?"  I shudder at the thought.