Lighthouses hold deep archives of sea stories that would cast a shadow on any sailor’s adventures. These towers have dealt with challenging construction, difficult maintenance, land erosion, wild weather, and advancing technology. Before the internet, images of lighthouses canvassed gift shop walls on postcards and were marked on road maps as points of interest for landlubbers who seldom experience the sea. In fact, I’ve never heard of anyone that doesn’t like them. Many will travel from all over to admire them from an adjacent harbor or at their bases. Along with their short encounters, visitors take home a handful of smartphone “pics” or nice shots with a decent camera.
The light that these structures cast for many miles and the visual day shapes they produce bring confidence to weary navigators when wrapping up a long delivery, finishing a Newport to Bermuda race, or hunting for hurricane holes in foggy Maine. Each structure has a number of unique characteristics and architectural features that have saved countless lives, dating back to 280 BC when the Egyptians blazed a fire atop the 420-foot Pharaohs of Alexandria tower. Their tall presence and memorable markings also give us constant reference points as to where we are when Mother Nature activates her perilous conditions.
As a mariner for most of my life and for the last two decades as a professional sailor, photographer, and builder, lighthouses are the joining of my three passions: the sea, lighting, and architecture. I’ve studied their construction for years, relied on them when avoiding rock ledges, and have even earned special access to sleep in them for days. When tourists and amateur photographers head home, I make my way up the narrow and steep ladders with safety gear, heaps of camera equipment, and a couple of snack bars.
If you search the web for “images” of Sakonnet Lighthouse in Little Compton, RI, you’ll find over 4,500 of them. Most are captured from a helicopter, a drone, or a mile away around lunchtime in ideal conditions. None are from 2 in the morning, from the top of the tower, and inside the lens.
Enclosed is a collection of images that were captured solo, in the dark, over multiple days, and with a lot of camera equipment. These shots were accomplished by overcoming three main challenges: communication with the authorities who maintain the lighthouses, gaining access, and navigating the unique characteristics of each structure. There are many variables to factor in when capturing these iconic towers, including slippery and jagged rocks, wildlife and pests, rusty metal, moisture, storms, and tight quarters, to name a few.
Gaining access is laborious from an administrative perspective. Most lighthouses these days are maintained by the Coast Guard or civilian volunteers who do quarterly checks on the automated structures. Now that most kerosene flames and incandescent bulbs have been swapped for LEDs (Light Emitting Diodes) powered by solar panels, “Wickies”—as the keepers were nicknamed for tending to the lamps—no longer exist. Due to budget cuts and new software, many lighthouses have been sold by the Coast Guard and are now owned by private homeowners. Just getting a hold of anyone who maintains them is tough, let alone getting on board to work in the dark.
Once inside, I’m tasked with making sure everything is safe, especially on catwalks, ladders, or sensitive government property in very tight spaces with limited lighting. When it’s secure, I set up my equipment, do some cleaning, and then study the timing of both the bulb and the lens. Some lighthouses have limited lighting. Some are equipped with stationary but pulsating beams. Others rotate but have reflector shields so they don’t blind nearby residents. In many cases, the lenses rotate around the bulb, and the bulbs can even rotate inside a stationary lens. The lenses can be made of inexpensive plastic-like materials or, on the other end of the spectrum, heavy Fresnel glass towers that cost a small fortune. It’s also very important to be respectful of the equipment and leave everything better than I found it. This ensures the operation of the lighthouse will continue as if I was never there.
With that being said, making all lighting adjustments based only on timing, the camera, my position, and angles is extremely limiting. It takes hours to perfect with as many shutter releases as I can capture before the sun rises again. I shoot from dusk to dawn and rest from dawn to dusk. With Sakonnet Lighthouse, I wanted 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 a hard pass from the keeper, who four years later finally agreed to a maximum of 48 hours.
Pressing the shutter button in this setup reminds me a bit of the nostalgic surgery board game, “Operation.” I can’t touch the lighthouse lens, and altering any of the property or processes would damage the equipment and the trust of the staff—not to mention my own equipment when the shutter is open for either 30 seconds or 30 minutes. Remaining completely still in a dusty, small lantern and making sure not to bump the tripod makes it seem 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 means more gear to schlep during the witching hours. A photographer’s biggest asset is their 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 the warmth that some of these bulbs throw is hot. There are also pests that inhabit them.
So, next time you book a trip to the coast, stay a bit longer to admire the power of the lighthouse beams, appreciate the lives they’ve saved, and leave your shutter open a bit longer—creating better photographs, memories, and tokens of history.
