Spring 2024
By Matthew Cohen
Lighthouses are distinctive, diverse and have deep archives of sea stories that would cast a shadow on any sailor’s adventures. These lighted towers are dealt challenging cards: ancient construction, monotonous maintenance, continuous land erosion, tenacious weather, and advancing technology. But, manned or automated, government- or privately-owned, they continue to be rebuilt, restored, sold, refurbished – and remembered – so that their centuries-old tales can be told.
The lights these structures cast for many miles, the groaning emissions of their foghorns, and their unmistakable physical profiles bring confidence to weary navigators when wrapping up a delivery, timing a Newport-to-Bermuda race start, or hunting for hurricane holes along the foggy Maine coast.
Each structure has a number of characteristics and architectural features that have saved countless seafaring lives, dating back to about 280 B.C., when the Egyptians blazed a fire atop the Pharos of Alexandria tower, estimated to have been between 338 to 387 feet high. Their tall presence and memorable color schemes provide constant reference points as to where we are, whether on land or sea.
As a mariner for most of my life – the last two decades as a professional sailor, photographer and builder – lighthouses have served to bring together my three passions: the sea, lighting and architecture. My admiration for these function-specific structures goes further than most. I’ve studied their construction for years, relied on them when avoiding rock ledges at sea, and have been able to sleep in them for days.
When tourists and amateur photographers head down for dinner, I make my way up the narrow and steep ladders with safety gear, emergency protocols, heaps of camera equipment and a couple snack bars.
If you web-search images of Sakonnet Light, in Little Compton, R.I., these days, you’ll find over 4,500 of them captured from helicopter, drone, or from a mile away, around lunchtime in ideal conditions. None are found that were shot at 0-dark-30, when a storm is brewing on the horizon, from the top of the tower – and inside the lens. No images are found showing how the lens sees the Sakonnet River, the Atlantic Ocean, and their grateful seagoing passers-by.
In the following pages is a collection of images – many shot from outside, some taken from within – that were captured solo, in the dark, for multiple days high above New England waters. These shots were accomplished by overcoming three major challenges: 1) quality communication with the authorities that maintain them; 2) having access granted; and 3) understanding the diverse characteristics of each structure, not to mention the inherent risks each one presents.
When capturing these iconic towers, many variables must be factored in: slippery and jagged rocks, wildlife and pests, rusty metal components, moisture, storms, tight quarters, and condition of the structures. Also adding to the complexity of my experiences are the hundreds of reflections, varietal timing, extreme temperatures, and the motion of either the lenses or bulbs, which must stay constant for the welfare of mariners.
Gaining access is extremely laborious from an administrative perspective. Most lighthouses these days are maintained by the U.S. Coast Guard or civilian volunteers who do quarterly checks on the automated structures. Nowadays, most of the kerosene flames and incandescent bulbs have been replaced by LEDs (light-emitting diodes) and are autonomously powered by solar panels. “Wickies,” as lamp-wick tenders were nicknamed, no longer maintain the traditional duties of operation. Many of the lighthouses are now in the possession of private homeowners, after being sold from the Coast Guard due to budgets and software availability. Simply contacting anyone who maintains these lighthouses is the proverbial needle-in-a-haystack scenario – never mind getting in them and working on them in the dark.
Once inside the structure, I must make sure the environs are safe while walking along skimpy catwalks, climbing up and down ladders, dodging moving parts, or maneuvering around sensitive government property in tight spaces with limited lighting. When the subject is secure, and I’ve mapped everything out, then comes the stages of setting up equipment, doing some cleaning, and then studying the timing of both the bulb and the lens.
Some are equipped with stationary pulsating beams; others rotate but have reflector shields so as not to blind nearby peninsula residents. In many cases, the lenses rotate around the bulb, but the bulbs can even rotate inside a stationary lens. Sometimes the lenses are made of inexpensive plastic-like materials. At others, heavy tempered Fresnel glass lenses that cost a small fortune to manufacture, install and maintain are employed. It’s vital that I be respectful of the lighthouse equipment and return everything better than I found it. This ensures the operation of the lighthouse will continue as if I had never been there.
It’s extremely limiting for me to make all lighting adjustments from just timing, the camera, my position, and the angles. It takes hours to perfect, with as many shutter releases as I can capture before the sun rises again, so I shoot from dusk to dawn and rest from dawn to dusk. As in the case of the Sakonnet Point lighthouse, I initially requested to spend a week on what is essentially a 70-foot-radius rock ledge in a steel can, to practice hundreds of long exposure shots at night. However, that was rejected by the keeper, who finally, four years later, agreed to a maximum of 48 hours.
I am by no means a doctor, but pressing the shutter button in this setup reminds me of Operation, the old battery-operated game of physical skill. I can’t really touch the lighthouse lens, and altering any of the property or processes would damage the equipment and undermine the trust of the staff. For that matter, I can’t even touch my equipment whether the shutter is open for 30 seconds or 30 minutes.
Remaining completely still – in a dusty, small lantern – and making sure to not bump the tripod, seems like three hours before the shutter finally closes.
Just like the days of 35mm film, I must get the shot right while shooting it. Taking a quick look at the LCD screen helps, but uploading to a laptop to view or edit before setting up another shot is a waste of precious time. And it means more gear to schlep around during the famous “witching hours,” which fade fast.
A photographer’s biggest asset are his or her eyes, and if the Fresnel light beam can be seen for 20 miles, just imagine how intense it is when a mere two feet away from your head. Not only can the luminosity be blinding, but also the warmth that some of these bulbs throw is one hell of a hot potato. In some cases when I enter during the day, the greenhouse effect can make the summer 80-degree ambient exterior feel like a sweatbox inside. There are also pests and insects that have sought shelter in these uninhabited structures. So you can bet I carry latex gloves, dust masks, and my trusty 9-volt tennis racket bug zapper for both health and sanity.
Not only is it a joy to cherish these properties for my art, it also provides monumental documentation to the public, the remaining “wickies” of the world, supporters, sponsors, and their biggest fans – the families of sailors who rest at ease knowing their loved ones can reach safe harbor. The importance of preservation and showcasing photography to future generations is similar in philosophy to what the storytellers have done with Egypt’s Pharos of Alexandria over the millennia.
Lighthouse keepers who’ve made the ultimate sacrifice, the trustees whose job is to source funding, and the reliable Coast Guard all strive to keep adventurous mariners safe. And they appreciate that I’ve archived these big lanterns and have left them in a bit better condition than I found them. The generosity that has created the rare opportunities to commune photographically with these structures – the trust that allowed access to their treasured icons and added impetus to reverse the aging of these withering spectacles – does not go unnoticed.
So the next time you book a trip to experience the seacoast, stay a bit longer to admire the power of the beacons’ beams, appreciate the lives they have saved, imagine how much weather they’ve endured over the centuries, and leave your shutter speeds open a bit longer to create better photographs, memories, and rich tokens of history.
Matthew Cohen, of Newport, R.I., is a nautical photographer who has been messing about in boats before he could walk. A 20-year instructor at Sail Newport, he logged over 35,000 ocean miles in a decade as yacht-delivery crew and bowman on racing boats. His photography can be seen at cohenphotography.com and, on social media, at matthewcohenphotography.
