The Maiden and the Lighthouse

It was the blackest of nights when the young maiden entered the harbor, the pint-sized rowboat she occupied, tattered and thrown by lashings of the sea. From the deepest and darkest waters she called out to the lighthouse in the distance.

“The storm is great and the water is darkest where I drift,” she cried. “My oars have abandoned me and the anger of the deep beckons my death, shall I go to it?”