There are no lighthouses on the lake.
In the gloom of the coming darkness, the shoreline is black as it meets the dark water,creating a curtain that hides both the safe docks and the rocky shores.
The fisherman is tired from casting and maneuvering the boat among the waves. Eyes are dry from enduring hours of sun and wind.
Slowly, he makes headway as the wind has calmed, though he is wary of submerged rock piles.
The fisherman relies on memory and intuition to keep him in safe waters as he scans the shoreline ahead for his home.
He makes the turn between the Point and the Shoals keeping a discreet distance from the hazard buoy that he knows lies just beyond his running lights glow.
His eyes drift north and he sees a dim point of light in the distance. He blinks to be sure that it is not just his mind playing tricks.
The point of light flickers but remains steadfast. The fisherman guides his boat toward the light. He slows his engines to an idle as the boat enters the familiar bay. Shadows on shore begin to take on a shapes that he recognizes until at last, he sees the canopy that is home to his boat. The light is recognized as a candle. It rests on the railing of the deck that surrounds his cabin
He ties off the mooring lines, lifts the day’s catch, and makes his way down the dock to the loved ones who left the candle burning to guide his way home.