Austere, solitary, filled with sea spray and silence—what’s not to love? Lighthouse keeping, that analog profession long since replaced by automation, was never for the extroverts. But for those content with solitude and steady purpose? It was perfect.
Out of the more memorable lighthouse keepers close to home, Ida Lewis of Rhode Island officially saved eighteen lives (Bird will tell you more about her soon). Out west, Santa Cruz’s Laura Hecox became one of California’s first marine biologists, cataloging snails, anemones, crabs, and more on her daily rounds and building not just a beacon but a scientific legacy.
My favorite, though, is Emily Fish, keeper of Point Pinos Lighthouse at Monterey Bay from 1893 to 1914. Widowed, she arrived at the lighthouse at fifty with worldliness, taste, and a servant named Que. Where others saw a bare dune, Emily saw possibility. She decorated the conical keeper’s house with Turkish rugs, silver, art from afar, and shelves of books. Outside, she and Que hauled in tons of topsoil to plant orchards and flowers, adopted chickens and cattle, and even kept poodles. Meanwhile, she polished the lantern lens with the meticulousness of a jeweler, ensuring that the light never faltered.
Point Pinos lighthouse
Her lighthouse became more than a beacon; it was a salon. Artists, writers, and thinkers gathered in the glow, swapping ideas while the Pacific battered the shore outside. She lived through the 1908 earthquake, through tempests and long nights, and yet she built a life that was equal parts grit and grace.
Lighthouse keeping was lonely, but never dull, and often beautiful. Much like writing: endless routine, the occasional tempest, and the quiet gamble that what you send out will be seen.
-MH
