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A Grand Old Dame

America's 2nd Oldest Lighthouse, in Her Own Words

By Katy Doran-McNamaraPublished 3 years ago 7 min read
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Photo credt: mir-s3-cdn-cf.behance.net

A single ship on the horizon? Nay, I would claim many thousands and be so bold as to claim that an even greater number of the souls aboard ships, boats, yachts, schooners, canoes, kayaks and all manner of water craft have lived because of me. You may consider that an arrogant statement voiced in the vernacular of earlier times, and you would be correct on both counts.

I am, indeed, a bit arrogant, for I have earned my right to be the venerable and somewhat ancient lady standing here, grand and proud. Not as old as Methuselah, but older than Moses, and I look especially elegant and fine for my age, if I do say so myself. Oh, I’ve had my share of “cosmetic surgeries” over my lifetime, including improvements to my height and stature. My crown is more glorious than ever before; my commanding voice has never been stronger.

I have a magnificent view of the ocean and, except when weather intervenes, the most glorious sunrises and sunsets. I’ve enjoyed tranquility and calm, endured both the majesty and fierceness nor’easters, southeasters, hurricanes and blizzards. I’ve basked in sunshine and moonglow, marveled at the never-ending tides and mesmerizing waves. My stories of heroics and tragedies count in the thousands, many leaving no trace, witnessed by no one but me.

Sadly, my elder sister only lived to be sixty-years old, born on Little Brewster Island in the outer Boston Harbor in 1716. She was a mere two-years old, 1718, when she mourned a tragic loss. Her first keeper, George Worthylake, his wife Anne, their fifteen-year old daughter Ruth, along with a servant, George Cutler, Shadwell, a slave, and John Edge, were returning to the island from attending church services when their boat capsized and all drowned.

A feisty lad of twelve, by the name Benjamin Franklin, pocketed more than a few coins selling copies of his broadsheet, the ballad Lighthouse Tragedy, on the streets of Boston. Young Ben’s father, neither impressed or pleased, advised the lad to seek some other form of career. Franklin, himself, admitted the work was “wretched stuff”, but history has proven him to be quite the writer, after all, hasn’t it?

Sister served and survived a few more keepers, and even a disastrous fire that left only her walls standing. As a daughter of the British Colonies, she witnessed that costume party known as The Boston Tea Party which resulted in British troops seizing her. She suffered grievously from the conflict between the colonials and the British military . . . damaged by General Washington’s troops in an effort reclaim her island home, open the harbor and restore her to service. But those efforts contributed to her end, for as they withdrew, the British left behind a slow-burning fuse attached to a keg of gunpowder. She was utterly destroyed by the blast. The date of her demise was June 13, 1776.

Credit: Boston Tea Party Painting by English School

I wonder how many fell victim to the whims of the ocean before I came to be in 1783, to stand upon the stone and rubble of my sister’s grave, in what was now the United States of America. I soared seventy-five feet tall with hips seven feet thick and a delicate neck two feet thick. My lantern crown was a fetching octagon fifteen feet high with a diameter of eight feet.

My keeper, Jonathan Bruce and his wife witnessed a thrilling encounter during the War of 1812. In a single ship action between the USS Chesapeake and HMS Shannon, the captain of the American ship, Captain James Lawrence, uttered his dying command that is still a US Navy battle cry: “Don’t give up the ship!”

All ladies have physical flaws, I have observed, as have I. One of my important appearance and functional uplifts took place in 1809, when I was given six heavy iron band belts to secure the large cracks that threatened my erect posture. My flammable wooden stairs were replaced with an elegant winding staircase made of iron, and I grew from seventy-five feet to my present stately height of eighty-nine feet tall.

Never has my crown shone with greater brilliance or been seen, admired or welcomed by more seafarers. Considering how many tallow candles my sister required, it’s no wonder she was always in danger from fire. While the gleaming glass of my crown may sparkle in sunlight, glimmer in the rain and even glisten from snow and ice, it is the beacon of light from within that is the source of my beauty and worth. From those simple tallow candles, my light has gone through a number of improvements: sixteen oil lamps were exchanged for fourteen brighter Argand lamps and reflectors attached to a rotating base. (Some rather unladylike odors . . . fish oil, lard, kerosene, mineral oil, wafted from those lamps over the years.) Those lamps and reflectors were also improved upon until, finally in 1859, I was given the twelve-sided Fresnel lens. I was finally brought into modern times with electricity in 1948, and that same lens sends an intense beam of light across twenty-seven nautical miles of ocean, one flash every ten seconds. My light was dimmed during WWI, but has otherwise been continuous except for that time in history when the security of the people was best served by my going dark during WWII.

My voice, of course, has been almost as valued as my flashing beacon of light. My deep throaty horn may never have been especially dulcet, but no doubt most welcome when it repeatedly called out to sailors, penetrating the perilous and frequent blankets of heavy fog. Unfortunately, and despite frequent investigations, experiments and efforts, there remains a mysterious anomaly approximately seven miles to my east, called the “Ghost Walk.” No sound . . . not horn nor siren nor tolling bell, will penetrate this unexplainable barrier, resulting in numerous mishaps since the 1780’s, resulting in unsettling rumors of haunted waters nearby . . . another story for another time, perhaps.

I have lived an exemplary life, as it should be, considering I am practically the matriarch of my kind in this ‘land of the free, home of the brave.’ Can it be any wonder then, that it was an affront to my dignity that one of my keepers, Captain Tobias Cook, was a charlatan, a fraudster, or, as my visitors today would say, a scammer? He claimed the cigars he sold to Boston smokers were imported for the most discriminating smoking enjoyment. They were, instead, being manufactured right here, on my home island, by young girls brought over from Boston to work in Cook’s “Spanish” cigar factory.

Unlike the notorious captain, most of my keepers have been hard working and dedicated to the safety of ships at sea. Some have been true heroes who carried out gallant rescues that make this lady quite proud. The driving snow and ice of blizzards have put many a ship in peril and called upon the most valiant efforts of the keepers, especially Charles Jennings. After several failed attempts to shoot ropes to the USS Alacrity, wrecked among the ice-encrusted rocks off my island, Jennings and two naval reservists man-handled a dory across the ice and into the water. Four trips, through a gauntlet of ice, rocks and freezing surf, were required of the men in order to successfully rescue all twenty-four souls. (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Boston_Light)

Finally, what could be more fitting, more appropriate, than for my current keeper to be lady? While that may be somewhat unusual, wives and daughters have served ably and well as lighthouse keepers when husbands or fathers passed away. From 1776 – 1786, Hannah Thomas became the first such woman in America, taking over her husband’s position at Gurnet Point Lighthouse, Plymouth, Massachusetts, after he was killed in the Revolutionary War.

Sally Snowman, Lighthouse Keeper

So, my lady keeper is a member of a fine-but-infrequent tradition. And what a lady she is! Sally Snowman is quite brilliant, coming to be the Coast Guard’s only lighthouse keeper in 2003 after a career as a college professor with a doctorate in psycholinguistics. She carries out all my maintenance and that of the grounds, works with the Coast Guard for maintenance and safety inspections, as well as being the historian who conducts tours and tells my story.

Her own words from an interview with Gary Stoller for Forbes Magazine, 22 January, 2021, leave me confident and at peace to be in her capable hands: "Sunrise and sunsets are visible without obstructions from buildings, trees and terrain. It is amazing to witness the calm before the storms and the storms, followed by awesome rainbows. With nature around me all the time, it clears the head and heals the soul."

And thus has been my story. Each ship on the horizon is one of many thousands that have depended upon me, have watched and listened for me to guide them to safe harbor. I am three hundred and thirty-eight years of age. I am the 2nd oldest lighthouse in these United States of America. I am Boston Light.

Science
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About the Creator

Katy Doran-McNamara

Writing was always my plan, but having passed 3/4 of a century of living, things have gotten really real. If I don't do more than dip my toes in the water, I'll run out of life & time. I am ready, with some trepidation, to make the dive!

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