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Question 147·Hard·Central Ideas and Details

My friends on the mainland liked to romanticize our isolation on the lighthouse island. They spoke of “unblemished horizons” and “poetic solitude,” as though silence were always merciful and the sea forever placid. I rarely bothered to correct them; a single shift of black water against the breakwall would have done the explaining for me. The lamp demanded hourly tending, the foghorn begged for fuel, and the salt wind drove iron to rust with a malice that never slept. Still, their envy persisted. Only when a gale pinned their ferry in the harbor for three days did they glimpse our ordinary: the sting of brine in every breath, the tremor of glass in the lantern room, the elastic stretch of night that work alone could keep from unraveling us. After that, some stopped calling the island a retreat. Others simply fell silent, as though words, too, had been blown offshore.

Which choice best describes the misunderstanding the mainland visitors have about life on the island?