Climbing The Towers

(Excerpt from Salt and Roses by May Davidson)

Submitted by Island Port Press

Many people are drawn to the sea either because they were brought up next to it, as it was for Jim and me, or for its endless fascination. Exploring it, making a living from it, enjoying its beauty, challenging its danger, and being awed by its constant change pulls us to its shores. As all surface land water finds its way to the sea, so do most humans at some time in their lives.

There are things unique to the ocean and its coastlines that are found nowhere else, such as lighthouses. People are captivated by them even if they have no experience with boating or realize the importance of their existence.

Lighthouses have always had a meaning for us beyond their value when making a passage on a dark night. As teenagers, we were privileged to have the light keeper at Pemaquid Point take us up inside that wonderful old tower. It was not very high, but history seeped from its walls.

Anywhere we find a lighthouse in our travels we have to see it, walk around it, read about its past, and hope we can be allowed inside. Few are open to the public. One that was open was Cape Hat- teras Lighthouse, that massively tall and black spiral striped spire on the Outer Banks in North Carolina. It has rested upon that flat and boundless sandpit for many decades. (cont. on page 14)

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(cont. from page 13)

A few years ago we climbed two hundred and forty-two steps to its top. On the way we observed with vague concern the many deep, long, darkened cracks in its walls and marveled that the whole thing hadn’t given up in a hurricane. It looked ready and waiting for one.

When our weary bones arrived at the top, a uniformed attendant was greeting the breathless who had completed the struggle. He looked to be quite fit and in his forties. I asked him if he made this journey every day, thinking he must be almost able to jog up the great length of steps by now. He replied that he did, and that he dreaded the killing pain of it each day.

The view was far reaching. High surf pounded the interminable miles of sand. There was beauty in it, but also relentless monotony of sand, sea, and horizon unbroken by forested islands like the Maine coast. Going down the steps was almost worse than going up. My legs quickly turned to rubber.

A few years after our visit to Cape Hatteras, when the mammoth task of moving this lighthouse back from the encroaching sea had successfully taken place, we could only think of the tower’s great age and the stress cracks in its walls. We marveled at man’s ingenuity to ensure its survival of the move.

Our most cherished lighthouse visit took place on our own Maine Coast. The lighthouse is perched on the ledges of a relatively small, thickly spruce-covered island. There must have been a house by the light, but it has been gone for decades. There is no habitation on the island—it is completely wild, likely because landing on it is so difficult. It is all stone-jawed rocks. No coves or small beaches. Perhaps in the days of the light keeper there might have been a crude railway. We couldn’t imagine how they off-loaded supplies. With the light now automatic, this was no longer a problem.

As we passed this island, we often wanted to land on it and explore around the lighthouse, the spruce woods, and the shore, but there was always breaking water to deter us. One calm mid-summer day, we were not far from the island and saw there were only smooth swells sweeping the rocks.

We looked at each other with a glance that said This is the day. We dropped the anchor in the lee of another island, lowered the inflatable dinghy, and headed for a long flat ledge near the lighthouse that seemed the most logical place to land. The swells were long, but reasonably gentle enough to negotiate the ledge without tearing the bottom out of the Rubber Ducky if we timed the waves carefully. With the dinghy safely above the water line, we set out for the adventure we had been waiting for.

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The rock outcroppings around the tower had several indistinguishable, weather-worn initials and dates carved into them. The old dates showed that it had to be the light keepers who labored to put their initials here, perhaps as a way to leave their mark during those long and lonely days.

The island was on its own planet of sun, wildflowers, and pun- gent aromas of spruce and the sea. Profound silence reigned as well. But, oh, the lighthouse! In delighted awe we saw that its simple rugged door was half open, and there was no latch on it. We hesitantly peeked inside. The iron spiral staircase was heavily rusted, and the walls inside were darkened with age. The ancient past of this edifice was so penetrating we found ourselves whispering in reverence.

As we climbed the rust-encrusted stairway, it shuddered often, and every step we took echoed in a resounding clang. At the top we stood entranced for almost an hour by the astounding view of islands, ocean, and distant mainland. What made it so special was that we were the only two people on the island and in the lighthouse of this small, magical world. When we left, we searched for a large rock and propped it against the tower door so it couldn’t blow open anymore. We felt we had been allowed to be part of a beauty so deep and moving it was almost a religious experience.

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