We do not know with certainty what was the staff, or crew, maintained on one of these first lightships, but there were few lights to trim and manage, and there is reason to believe that, when everything with regard to coast lighting was done as cheaply as could be, there was but one man to perform the tasks. Surely the loneliness of his life is too awful to contemplate. Even at the Eddystone and other isolated lighthouses the keeper was changed but seldom, and it is not likely that the lightship guard was oftener relieved. The effect of such economical management must have been disastrous to the interests of navigation. Sudden death, illness, or accident might, at any moment, have rendered the single keeper incapable of lighting his lamps, and dire disaster to vessels, trusting to see the light, must, almost of necessity, have followed; but before long things were better ordered, and two men were kept in every lightship. The immobility, so far as _progress_ is concerned, of a lightship renders life upon one particularly tedious. Roll or pitch she may, but forward she never goes—that is, if all keeps well with her anchor and chains. It is of this that present-day dwellers on lightships most complain—the dull monotony of a life at anchor. Even the Flying Dutchman’s penance had advantages over it; he, at any rate, witnessed continual change of scene, he was permitted to enjoy the rest of progress. But monotony is about all that a modern lightship keeper has to complain of, and even that is reduced to a minimum by the latest regulations. A keeper nowadays has never less than three companions; the Trinity House boats pay him frequent visits, bringing fresh water, fresh victuals, and a supply of books and papers; and he can now, in many cases, by means of the telegraph or telephone, speak with the shore whenever needful. Besides, by her build, finish, and fittings, a modern lightship is, to a sailor, a really comfortable home. Each of these vessels costs between three and four thousand pounds to turn out complete and equipped for service. Of course some lightship stations are much more lonely than others. The ever-passing stream of traffic in and out of the Thames renders the Nore one of the ‘gayest’ lightships on which to be stationed, and consequently one of the most popular. Life there is free from that singular and almost overpowering melancholy so wearying to the men at, say, the Seven Stones lightship, anchored midway between the Scillies and the Land’s End; indeed, the two stations cannot be for a moment contrasted. You might as well compare life ‘lived’ in Piccadilly with life ‘passed’ in a by-road at Finsbury Park. CHAPTER VIII THE GOODWIN SANDS AND THE FORELANDS