Keepers

Great complaint is made about the keeper of the light at this place. He is a habitual drunkard, frequently thrashes his wife and throws her out of doors. He has several times failed to light up till near morning - last night he did not light up until after midnight - it was a dark stormy night - three sail vessels and one steamer came in during the night.

Heceta Head was named to commemorate one Don Bruno de Heceta, a Portuguese credited with exploring much of the Northwest Coast. Historians generally agree that Heceta, a captain sailing for the Royal Navy of Spain, left for his exploration of the Pacific Northwest coast on March 16, 1775. He launched his ship, Santiago, from San Blas, Mexico, carrying a year's provisions and 45 men; he was joined in the expedition by Juan Francisco de las Bodega Y Quadra, who sailed the Sanora.

The Point Reyes Light Station held a reputation for many years as one of the less desirable assignments on the west coast. A combination of wind, fog and darkness, the unrelenting fog signal, the immense set of stairs, not to mention isolation and poor wages, took a severe toll on the keepers and their assistants. Incidents of insanity, alcoholism, violence and insubordination plagued the station during its first half-century of operation. Not until modern conveniences arrived, such as better roads, transportation and electrical power, did the working conditions improve to any extent.

The date was November 10. The anniversary of the wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald, the ill fated 729 foot ore carrier that had loaded at the docks in Superior, Wisconsin and headed downbound across the big lake past Split Rock Lighthouse to be swallowed up by Lake Superior during a massive storm on November 10, 1975 with the loss of all 29 hands. As historic site manager for the Minnesota Historical Society and resident keeper at Split Rock Lighthouse I have lit the beacon on the eve of November tenth for the last six years as a tribute to the ship and crew.

On July 1, 1937, we started north again, hiring a truck to take our furniture. Since the transfer was at Bill's request, we had to pay for transportation of our household effects. We went through several small towns before arriving at San Francisco, then we crossed the Golden Gate Bridge which had been completed the year before. The road was not too bad until we passed Jenner. In 1937, the Jenner Grade hardly seemed like a highway. It was fortunate we were driving during summer; in winter it was often closed because of slides.

Brant Point Lighthouse, marking the entrance to the harbor of Nantucket, on the island of the same name, and the second oldest light station in the State of Massachusetts, as well as in the United States, is unique among United States lighthouses in several respects. It was the first and also among the very few lighthouses erected and maintained at the expense of a township. Probably no other light in this country has been shown from so many different structures, or has been moved about so much, for no less than seven successive lighthouses have been built on Brant Point.

On a windswept point of land which stretches seaward from the rugged, verdant north shore of Kauai, Hawaii's westernmost inhabited island, there stands a stalwart member of the society of venerable lighthouses whose history is now characterized as near legendary in nature.  This station, the Kilauea Point lighthouse, marked its 75th anniversary last May with a day long celebration honorng its former keepers who are still alive and commemorating the remarkable milestone in the life of Hawaii's "landfall light."

We arrived at Pt. Sur Light Station on March 11, 1935. At that time, our family consisted of my husband Bill, myself and our five children: Shirley-seven, Sarah-six, Dixie-three, and the year-old twins, Jean and Joan. The ride was not nearly as long as our ride from San Francisco to Pt. Conception Light Station, where Bill began his service. The road from San Luis Obispo was unfinished and we had to circle around through Monterey and south to Pt. Sur, travelling partly on Highway 1 and partly on Highway 101. We had been expected, so the station gate was unlocked.

The coast of California sweeps along a giant curve for nearly 1,000 miles. It is dimpled with very few harbors of refuge and punctuated with a few promontories which mariners have bumped into over the years. For much of the summer months the intercoast is enveloped in a dense fog. This climatic condition, coupled with prevailing winds and currents that set vessels to the southwest, and onto the coast, has caused countless shipwrecks. It was especially so prior to the 20th century, during the age of sail and before electronic navigation devices.

Not one in a hundred Buffalo area sailors today could name the spidery metal framework that guards the entrance to the swift flowing Niagara River and marking the eastern end of Lake Erie. Fewer still would identify it as a place where men once lived and worked, lost in desolate solitude between two nearby cities. Long neglected and derelict, the offshore relic is seldom visited. Even local Coast Guard personnel, stationed within sight ofthe black iron platform, would be hard pressed to tell the casual visitor its history. No one visits, save the seagulls.