There were always many seagulls to be heard, though one never saw more than a few, as could sometimes be spotted flying to nowhere. Just the same, no matter where you walked you were never far enough from the waves that you couldn’t hear them calling.
Just as the gentle hush of the shore seemed to fade away behind you as you came up over the windswept hillocks, you’d quickly find yourself drawn toward the same song when you heard it again. Of course, depending where you started, you had to stop short of the edge, lest you might fall from the low cliffs, past the gull roosts and to the jagged weedy rocks for the crabs.
The sky was always overcast, though every now and again - way out beyond everything - a few rays would break through and light a distant patch of sea. The clouds, you would find, were always reluctant to open up except to let the rain through, but it was always too brief to route the birds, and too light to wash the empty crab shells and the stink of fish from the rocks - in a way it seemed to make it stronger - though the salty air tended to numb one’s nose to it all. 
With the inward sea breeze little old Skarloey would lean up against the bank in which she rested, standing amid the infant surf to get your attention and apologize. At night though, when the winds retreated, she’d always tilt herself away from the barren beach - her broken mast pointing out to sea where she really longed to roam.
If you stood on that beach at night and turned back toward the cliffs, you should’ve been able to see it, but by your design: only when it wasn’t needed could the lonely thing be spotted, standing on the farthest reaching prow of rock. It had always been there, of course. You’d merely found it where another had left it long ago. Every night you would likely find yourself standing on the widow’s walk having climbed the spiral stairs, peering out into the dark after the grey sun had finally set. You might spy the flukes of a wandering whale - but no matter how much you might’ve wished it - you’d never spot the dim approaching light of a faraway hanging lantern or the dark silhouette of a nearing sail. The great lamp would work if you wanted it to - but oh, how you longed for company.

You might even think to yourself sometimes:

Ought I sharpen the rocks?

So this is chapter 2, full of thrilling new plot developments.