Out there in the cold water, far from land, we waited every night for the coming of the fog, and it came, and we oiled the brass machinery and lit the fog light up in the stone tower. Feeling like two birds in the gray sky, McDunn and I sent the light touching out, red, then white, then red again, to eye the lonely ships. And if they did not see our light, then there was always our Voice, the great deep cry of our Fog Horn shuddering through the rags of mist to startle the gulls away like decks of scattered cards and make the waves turn high and foam.
It's a lonely life, but you're used to it now, aren't you? asked McDunn.
Yes, I said. You're a good talker, thank the Lord.
Well, it's your turn on land tomorrow, he said, smiling, to dance the ladies and drink gin.
What do you think, McDunn, when I leave you out here alone?
On the mysteries of the sea. McDunn lit his pipe. It was a quarter past seven of a cold November evening, the heat on, the light switching its tail in two hundred directions, the Fog Horn bumbling in the high throat of the tower. There wasn't a town for a hundred miles down the coast, just a road which came lonely through dead country to the sea, with few cars on it, a stretch of two miles of cold water out to our rock, and rare few ships….
You can find this story in The Stories of Ray Bradbury.