The lens is big compared to most. Just to our right, in various states of disrepair, is the first of three World War II pillboxes that dot the hill curving up. We turn and jaunt past the first pillbox and, at the top of the puu, reach another. The sun is setting and the wind is gusting and we drop our packs and, for shelter, sit on the ground at the south side of the building, sipping water and eating turkey and tomato sandwiches. After dinner, I stand and snap a couple of pictures, then look at the beach below as the last of the body boarders paddle-in.
Night edges in.
The wind whips, whistles, and howls, then dies down, the sound of surf rising up before the wind again bursts to life. Mrs. Koho puts on a jacket while I tug a long sleeve over my short sleeve and then stroll down to the third pillbox, which has a big white 'X' painted on its roof. I stop and watch the lighthouse beacon slowly blink on and off and then begin to mosey back to base station. Along the way, my mood lifts as a relatively bright gibbous moon creates a magnificent channel of smoky white light on the water and, too, in the air as ocean spray whirls upward. Waving my arms, bending a leg, twisting and pointing at my shadow, I dance around on the top of the hill.