When the lighthouse went dark

Text A: an original contemporary personal-essay-style practice extract.

For three nights, the lighthouse was dark. The harbour itself did not disappear: shop signs shone along the front, small lamps moved between the boats and windows climbed the opposite hill. Yet whenever I looked up, the headland seemed abruptly farther away. The tower remained as a black shape against the sky, but without the white sweep returning at regular intervals, it no longer seemed to answer the town.

In our house, that light had always been an interruption. It slid across the bedroom ceiling, briefly sharpening the wardrobe door before passing on. We fitted thick curtains and complained when a gap allowed it through. During the outage, however, I noticed the darkness it had previously erased. Stars appeared above the harbour wall, and the sea became a broad absence rather than a surface repeatedly disclosed. I did not simply miss the beam. Part of me wanted the headland to remain unlit.

On the fourth evening, the light returned while I was washing a cup. It crossed the sink, climbed the wall and vanished. I felt relief, followed almost immediately by irritation when it came round again. That double response seemed more honest than calling the lighthouse either a nuisance or a treasure. Its beam does not brighten our streets, and most nights I barely notice it. Even so, its repetition fixes the town in place, while its brief disappearance reminds me that darkness has a presence of its own.

Text B: an original contemporary commentary-style practice extract.

Whenever the lighthouse's future is discussed, one side points to modern equipment and asks why an old beam should still be maintained. The other produces postcards and childhood memories, as if affection alone could settle the matter. Both arguments diminish the light. One treats it as equipment that has outlived its usefulness; the other turns it into an ornament that must never change.

On winter crossings, I have watched passengers leave the warm cabin to find the beam. A screen inside already shows the route, but a position on a screen is not quite the same as a coast appearing in the distance. The light gives the arrival a shape: first a white stroke, then the harbour lamps, then individual buildings. Its value is not limited to providing information that could be obtained elsewhere.

Public affection, however, cannot excuse every inconvenience. People whose rooms are repeatedly crossed by the beam are not failing to appreciate local history. If the light directed towards the sea can be preserved while unnecessary glare towards houses is reduced, alteration would not amount to destruction. A tradition becomes fragile when any adjustment is treated as betrayal.

The lighthouse should continue to shine, but not as a museum piece defended from every question. Keeping it means deciding what still matters about it. The beam can remain a working signal, a shared landmark and a sign of arrival without requiring the town to pretend that nothing around it has changed.

Compare how the writers present their ideas and perspectives about the value of the lighthouse beam. Support your comparisons with detailed references to both texts.