We head up the long, winding road to the pointe. Our old diesel bucks potholes, slips a few times, and sends rock careening down the cliff face. The jaunt takes a good fifteen minutes. It’s a ghost yard when we turn the corner to the top. Neither of us works in the morning. Two large standing rocks greet us. We follow the pendulum of light from the faithful lighthouse: left, then right, then left. It’s mesmerizing. She grabs my right hand and leads us toward a small building. It’s the size of a trailer and looks like military barracks. It’s built on the cliff’s edge. “Kick the door in, I have an idea.” she says.