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Although automobiles and trucks were in common use in 1919, and the Portsmouth Depot [Virginia] had a light truck for general hauling, the inspection of light stations required twice a year was best done in a group by a tender without warning. Coastal stations east of Pamlico Sound were reached by the inside tender, Juniper.
As the tender dropped anchor with lighthouse pennant flying at the mast head, the keepers became aware that a formal inspection of the station was imminent. I made one of these inspections each year to every lightship on its station (4), every shore station (7), every offshore station (50), every depot (7) and every tender (7) in the district.
Imagine me at Cape Hatteras. Here, I was greeted by the head keeper with a broad grin and a hearty handshake. He had just finished buttoning the last button of his neat blue uniform which he had just had time to take out of the closet.
The two other keepers were similarly attired, grinning at the entrance of their quarters. I gazed with pride up at the beautiful spiral-painted, 200-foot lighthouse tower to which the keeper conducted me. Clanging up hundreds of winding steps, we started.
A rest to the lungs and pounding heart was required once or twice before reaching the lantern deck, [giving] opportunity to observe that the cast iron treads were freshly painted metallic brown. The first order lens mounted on the cast iron clock case was large enough to crawl into.
Were all the prisms shining and free from dust? Were the brass astragals making the lens sections shining bright? Did the keeper give a demonstration of his ability to start the incandescent oil vapor light? Thrice, yes.
He pumped the air pressure tank with the hand pump to some 60 pounds, preheated the vaporizer tube with the alcohol lamp, turned on the kerosene oil valve and lighted the mantel which gave a blinding white light. Much heat was generated but no smoke.
Then, I went outside on the lantern gallery. I feasted my eyes on the view to seaward. From the line of breaking waves on shore to the speck of Diamond Shoal Lightship on the horizon, the world was at my feet. The ribbon of the barrier sand strip stretched both ways in a curve to the horizon. The pigmy tender and tiny roof tops of the keepers’ dwellings appeared as in a toy shop.
Coming back to reality with forced effort: the astragals of the lantern and the copper roof shone with fresh black paint. Ah, but it was time I should pull myself away from this lovely view to meet the keepers below, go through their quarters and sign the inspection book.
The keepers welcomed this social contact. They wanted to talk and show me everything. Some had hobbies. The dignified Chesapeake dog showed the duck hunters among them. All were fishermen.
There was no fog signal building to inspect at this station so far from the track of ocean vessels. The keepers said that a light truck could reach the station by the beach route at low tide when the sand was hard but it was risky.
I tried this truck route once from the Portsmouth Depot. A crude ferry crossed the inlets to the sea. There was nothing exciting these days that I would not try once, anyway. Supposing that truck had stuck in a soft spot at low water. What then when the tide came up?
I do not remember ever finding a station in unsatisfactory condition at time of inspection. The keepers were loyal, contented and loved their kind of life and work.Although automobiles and trucks were in common use in 1919, and the Portsmouth Depot [Virginia] had a light truck for general hauling, the inspection of light stations required twice a year was best done in a group by a tender without warning. Coastal stations east of Pamlico Sound were reached by the inside tender, Juniper.
As the tender dropped anchor with lighthouse pennant flying at the mast head, the keepers became aware that a formal inspection of the station was imminent. I made one of these inspections each year to every lightship on its station (4), every shore station (7), every offshore station (50), every depot (7) and every tender (7) in the district.
Imagine me at Cape Hatteras. Here, I was greeted by the head keeper with a broad grin and a hearty handshake. He had just finished buttoning the last button of his neat blue uniform which he had just had time to take out of the closet.
The two other keepers were similarly attired, grinning at the entrance of their quarters. I gazed with pride up at the beautiful spiral-painted, 200-foot lighthouse tower to which the keeper conducted me. Clanging up hundreds of winding steps, we started.
A rest to the lungs and pounding heart was required once or twice before reaching the lantern deck, [giving] opportunity to observe that the cast iron treads were freshly painted metallic brown. The first order lens mounted on the cast iron clock case was large enough to crawl into.
Were all the prisms shining and free from dust? Were the brass astragals making the lens sections shining bright? Did the keeper give a demonstration of his ability to start the incandescent oil vapor light? Thrice, yes.
He pumped the air pressure tank with the hand pump to some 60 pounds, preheated the vaporizer tube with the alcohol lamp, turned on the kerosene oil valve and lighted the mantel which gave a blinding white light. Much heat was generated but no smoke.
Then, I went outside on the lantern gallery. I feasted my eyes on the view to seaward. From the line of breaking waves on shore to the speck of Diamond Shoal Lightship on the horizon, the world was at my feet. The ribbon of the barrier sand strip stretched both ways in a curve to the horizon. The pigmy tender and tiny roof tops of the keepers’ dwellings appeared as in a toy shop.
Coming back to reality with forced effort: the astragals of the lantern and the copper roof shone with fresh black paint. Ah, but it was time I should pull myself away from this lovely view to meet the keepers below, go through their quarters and sign the inspection book.
The keepers welcomed this social contact. They wanted to talk and show me everything. Some had hobbies. The dignified Chesapeake dog showed the duck hunters among them. All were fishermen.
There was no fog signal building to inspect at this station so far from the track of ocean vessels. The keepers said that a light truck could reach the station by the beach route at low tide when the sand was hard but it was risky.
I tried this truck route once from the Portsmouth Depot. A crude ferry crossed the inlets to the sea. There was nothing exciting these days that I would not try once, anyway. Supposing that truck had stuck in a soft spot at low water. What then when the tide came up?
I do not remember ever finding a station in unsatisfactory condition at time of inspection. The keepers were loyal, contented and loved their kind of life and work.
This excerpt is taken from “Lighthouse Engineer: January 9, 1918 to September 7, 1920” in The Making of a Lighthouse Engineer, the unpublished memoirs of Commodore Frederick P. Dillon.
This story appeared in the
Jan/Feb 2020 edition of Lighthouse Digest Magazine. The print edition contains more stories than our internet edition, and each story generally contains more photographs - often many more - in the print edition. For subscription information about the print edition, click here.
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