Marginalia: islands at the edge — Matinicus Rock
Memories of a lighthouse keeper at the end of an era
Marginalia is a series about enigmatic islands. They may be remote, isolated, and scarcely known, or they may be nearby, even in eye-shot of many. What they all have in common is that they exist beyond the edges of the ordinary. This is the third in the series. A new island story will be published every month or two. Subscribe to receive an alert when a new one is made available.
Personal Connection and Notes
When I was a teenager, I delivered telegrams for Western Union by motorcycle. Another one of my obsolete jobs was as the lighthouse-keeper on US Coast Guard (USCG) Light Station (LTSTA) Matinicus Rock, a mostly barren granite, tiny island at the outer edge of the Gulf of Maine. Serving as the Officer-in-Charge for a year in the late 1970s, I observed storms, a bitter winter, Atlantic puffins, and seasonal wildlife cycles. I will share a bit about life on the Rock and a few eerie encounters. If you just want to read about those, “skip to the end” (nod to Princess Bride devotees).
We’ll start with a look at the natural setting of Matinicus Rock, followed by a brief history. One focus of the history will be the Rock’s famous lighthouse keeper, Abbie Burgess. Lastly, we will take a look at changes since the light was automated in 1983.
The memories and reflections are from my distant (at the time of this writing, almost 50 years) past. Reflecting the passage of time, some of my memories and photos are faded, though I have only included what I clearly remember or is documented by historical record. Observations are of that time and may or may not reflect current realities. The structures and administration of the island have changed, as has the natural environment. Other than Dr. Carl and Mrs. Harriet Buchheister, and historical figures, names are pseudonyms.
Location
Matinicus Rock is in the Gulf of Maine, about 8 km (5 mi) SSE of Matinicus Island, (population about 50) and 37 km (23 mi) SSE of Rockland, Maine, USA.
Latitude: 43° 47′ 0.5″ N
Longitude: 68° 51′ 18.12 W
Population
Before 1827–0
1827–1939, 6 — about 20 (varies, due to the number of family members)
1939 to 1983 — 4 (USCG personnel)
1983 — present — 0 (light automated)
Name Source and Meaning
Matinicus (muh-TIN-ee-cuss) means “far out island” in Algonquian, the language of the Indigenous people of the region, the Wαpánahki (Abnaki). The name was given to the nearby Matinicus Island. In time, the much smaller (13 hectare, 32 acre) and farther out island became known as Matinicus Rock.
Setting
Natural environment
The island is mostly granite, with some intrusive basalt veins running north and south. The south-end ocean side of the rock is a nearly vertical 20 m (65 ft) cliff. There are two rocky beaches. There are no trees and little soil on the island. Early keepers said there was no soil at all, but eventually there were patches with enough to support a small lawn next to the house, grasses, and wildflowers. The development of soil is likely due to the construction of a seawall and other structures that reduced the impact of periodic storm-born waves washing over the island. Some soil was “imported” to allow for a grave (more on that later).
Birds
Until recent times, Matinicus Rock was the only US home to the Atlantic puffin (Fratercula Arctica). In the 19th and early 20th centuries, collection of bird feathers for women’s hats and eggs for human consumption led to drastic reductions of bird populations and the near extinction of the puffin from US lands. Puffins on Matinicus Rock were spared because the island was property of the US government. Efforts to reestablish puffin colonies on other islands in the Gulf of Maine have been successful.
Matinicus Rock is also summer home to the Arctic tern (Sterna paradisaea). They have the farthest known migration of any animal, with round trips ranging from 49,000 km (30,447 mi) to 71,000 km (44,100 mi). Each year, they return to Matinicus Rock from their trip from the Antarctic, circling the island for two-three days in the first week of May. To protect the birds and the helicopter engines, helicopter flights ceased in mid-April until September. The terns eventually land on the rock and “nest” on the open, bare granite, laying their eggs directly on the rock.
Matinicus Rock is also home to a number of other bird species, including, but not limited to, black guillemots, common terns, common eiders, laughing gulls, Leach’s storm-petrels, and razorbills.
Migratory forest birds land to rest in their northward and southward journeys. It is fairly easy to approach them as they are generally exhausted from being so far offshore. Various species of sparrows arrived in early March, followed by flocks of evening grosbeaks.
I saw a rose-breasted grosbeak land on the brick wall of the grave, not moving until an insect of some sort flew overhead, at which point, it flew straight up, grabbed it, and returned to rest in its original location.
Notoriously difficult to identify species of warblers landed in the spring and fall, perched in the open and not moving when approached, allowing time to study their subtle distinguishing markings.
Matinicus Rock is, in short, a birder’s paradise.
Plants
The first green appears on the island in late March, followed by wildflowers in May. Predominant plant life includes: angelica, aster, chickweed, red fescue, timothy, and witch grass. Irises bloom in the spring and summer, ending with asters in September. Cattails grow in the perennially boggy spots on the island. There are no trees or woody plants of any kind.
Brief History
The light towers and other aids to navigation
Since 1827, there have always been two towers and one or more houses on Matinicus Rock, though they evolved significantly over time. The first structures were two wood light towers and a house comprised of cobblestones. In 1848, the house and the two towers were rebuilt from granite quarried on the island. The walls of the house are two feet deep.
Attached to the house, the towers were fairly close together. In 1857, the towers were rebuilt and one was relocated 55 m (180 ft) to the north-northwest, and the south tower was rebuilt about 3 m (10 ft) from the house. The stone foundation of the former towers remain on the north and south ends of the house. Somewhat incongruously, the two reclining chairs we sat in to watch television were located in the protrusion that was the remnant of the north tower.
The north tower was abandoned in 1924, leaving only the light in the south tower.
The space of the former south tower housed a radio beacon, weather station, marine radio, and small office for the Officer-in-Charge.
The houses
There have been several houses on Matinicus Rock. Early structures were built of wood and served as homes to the keepers and their families. The structures were connected by wooden walkways to allow going from one to the other while staying out of the weather. Wooden structures, while vulnerable to wind, snow, and the wet weather, were no match for the seas which swept over the rock in times of great storms. Following a severe storm, what remained of the wood homes was removed in 1950.
Other structures
When I was stationed there, other structures included an engine room that housed three diesel generators (one in-use and two back-ups), a helicopter landing pad, a boathouse for launching and hauling out the “peapod” rowing dory, and a small cabin used in summer months by Audubon Society volunteers.
There were wooden walkways and a railway for the tram we used for moving heavy materials between the house, engine room, and the boathouse. Except for the helicopter landing pad, all the structures were protected by a wood seawall above the south cliff. The seawall reduced the intensity of waves hitting the structures on the island, but I was on the Rock during two storms that brought seawater flowing around the base of the house.
Administration
The lighthouse was administered by the US Lighthouse Service from when it was established in 1827 until 1939 when it merged with the USCG and all lighthouses were reassigned to Coast Guard administration. In addition to Coast Guard administration, LTSTA Matinicus Rock was also a reporting station for the National Weather Service and a US Fish and Wildlife National Refuge.
Abbie Burgess
Matinicus Rock is best known for its famous keeper, Abbie Burgess (1839–1892). The fourth of nine children, she was born in Rockland, Maine to Samuel and Thankful Burgess. Samuel became the lighthouse keeper in 1853, moving the family there when Abbie was 15 years old. Samuel augmented the family income by catching fish and lobster and selling them in Rockland.
At that time, light was provided by burning lard. Tending the lights meant keeping the lard supplied, trimming the wicks, polishing the lenses, and operating the fog signal when needed. Although only 15, Abbie took over the keeper’s duties when Samuel was away. Other duties included maintaining the house, cooking, and cleaning, all of which Abbie did while tending to her mother and younger siblings.
In 1855, when Abbie was tending the lights while her father was away, she came across some old logbooks from previous keepers. The logs described severe storms and their effects on the island and its structures. Abbie became concerned about their vulnerability in the wood house, so she moved her mother to an improvised room in the south lighthouse tower. A month later, in January 1856, her father set sail for Rockland to acquire supplies for the winter because a regularly scheduled supply ship had failed to arrive and their supplies were concerningly low.
Shortly after Samuel left, a gale developed and lasted for three days. Abbie’s foresight was keen, as the house they had lived in was completely destroyed and washed to sea by waves which swept over the island. During the storm, Abbie and her sisters reinforced the lighthouse windows to keep the waves out. Abbie ran out between waves to rescue their chickens. While doing all this, she never failed to maintain both lights. The seas remained too rough for her father to return for another three weeks, during which time the family survived on one egg and one cup of cornmeal per day.
Abbie has been the subject of historical accounts, children’s books, a play, and a song. Her grave in South Thomaston, Maine is adorned with an aluminum lighthouse replica provided in 1945 by Edward Rowe Snow, the maritime historian. In 1998, the USCG commissioned a 175’ Keeper Class buoy tender, the USCGC Abbie Burgess (WLM-553) in her honor.
At the time Samuel Burgess was assigned to Matinicus Rock, all lighthouse keeper appointments were made by the US President. He lost his job because he had not supported President Abraham Lincoln. He was replaced by John Grant. Abbie stayed to teach Grant and his family how to operate the lighthouse.
Abbie fell in love with Grant’s son, Issac and they were married. Isaac and Abbie became assistant keepers, staying on Matinicus Rock for another 14 years and having four sons before being reassigned as keeper and assistant keeper to Whitehead Light, a less remote island off the coast of Sprucehead, Maine.
1970s life on the Rock
The USCG classified service on Matinicus Rock as semi-isolated, but we were plenty isolated. In fully-isolated duty, personnel went out and stayed for a year. In our case, every two days on the Rock meant a day ashore. In the summer, two weeks on the Rock were followed by a week ashore. In the winter, we stayed for a month and spent two weeks ashore.
Transportation in winter was by helicopter. Summer commutes were by 44’ motor lifeboat from the USCG station in Rockland. The boat would tie off at our mooring buoy while a carvel planked, double-ended wooden rowing dory (called a peapod) was launched from the boathouse.
Launching involved shoving the boat out from the boathouse so that it would slide down wooden runners into the waves. Gear and personnel were transferred and the reverse took place. Because of rocks and the possibility of the waves washing the peapod off the runners, rowing-in needed to be timed between sets of waves. Once on the runners, the peapod was winched out, at an agonizingly slow pace if there was any kind of surf.
There was almost always surf.
Gear was brought down to the boathouse and taken up to the house and the engine room by a winch-powered cable car.
Routine duties included sending weather reports, checking and tending the generators, doing maintenance on the house, turning the fog signal on in times of low visibility, and of course, turning the light on and off.
The grave
In between the main house and the boathouse, there is a small marble headstone marking the grave of two-year-old Bessie Grant (1879–1881). The headstone bears a lamb at rest and her nickname, “High Pup.” For many years, it was incorrectly thought that the grave was for one of Abbie’s children. It was actually the grave of her niece, the daughter of her husband’s brother.
The grave was fashioned by bricking up the open end of a crevice in the granite and importing some dirt to fill it in.
Some Coasties were afraid to go near it, but I found it peaceful to occasionally sit on the rock to keep High Pup company.
The marble headstone was commissioned and donated by Carl and Harriet Buchheister. Carl, president emeritus of the Audubon Society, and his wife Harriet came out to Matinicus Rock every summer for many years, their last visit in 1979. It was a poignant honor to be the last Officer-in-Charge to welcome them to the Rock.
Moe’s Tower
The abandoned and unstable north tower was boarded up and entry was not allowed. However, that rarely prevented Coasties assigned to the light from checking it out. The iron stairs to the top were greatly corroded or missing, so climbing to the top was not possible. The tower was said to be the home of the Rock’s resident ghost, named Moe, and was referred to as “Moe’s Tower.”
Over the years, anecdotal reports of mysterious sounds and events were passed down like oral histories. Most could be described by natural causes. In times of severe winds, the front door would sometimes swing open without warning. When it did, the carpets would rise up several inches off the floor. There would also be periodic creaking noises that sounded like footsteps on the tramway. The noises were likely the result of dropping air temperature changes at night. Anytime something like this happened, it was blamed on Moe.
Things that go bump in the night
I experienced three events which defied explanation.
The engine room
The first was one night when I went into the engine room to check on the diesel generator. The generator was running a little faster than it should. The adjustment involved turning a small nut on the throttle. I went to the workbench to get the wrench. As I was standing at the workbench with the overhead light behind me, a shadow in the shape of a person passed over the bench.
I turned around abruptly and no one was there.
When I returned to the house from the engine room, the other two personnel were watching TV.
The rooftop
The second encounter occurred when I was on the light with one other person, Tim Evans, who was on watch. We did not run a “live watch,” which would have required someone to stay awake while on duty. Being on watch meant being downstairs, awake or asleep, where one could take and send weather readings, respond to radio calls, and monitor the radio beacon, power failure, and extinguished-light alarms.
Tim was less than reliable.
He would periodically sleep past the designated time to radio our weather report to the USCG Group Office in Bar Harbor. Because of Tim’s unreliability, I would often wake up at the designated time to verify that the report had been sent.
One night I woke up to hear what sounded like someone walking on the roof of the house. There was stomping and a scraping noise, like something being dragged.
Long before satellite reception, and having no cable, our “high tech” device to improve TV reception was a motor that was supposed to rotate the rooftop antenna. It had corroded long before, so getting a better picture meant climbing a ladder propped against the house, going onto the roof and turning the antenna by hand. In times of wind, rain, or snow, it was a lot less than fun.
I assumed Tim was on the roof, but went downstairs and he was asleep on the couch. I spoke to him and he didn’t move.
My first assumption was that he was playing a joke on me. Rather than returning to my bedroom, I went only part way up the stairs. I waited there for a few minutes and the sounds returned. I quickly descended the five or so steps and Tim was still sound asleep on the couch.
I woke him and told him what occurred. He looked baffled and a bit scared. I went outside and climbed the ladder. Seeing nothing from the edge, I climbed onto the roof.
There was no one there.
There were no trees on the island and no birds large enough to make the stomping or dragging noise. I searched around, looking for any loose equipment or loose cables.
I found nothing.
There were no boats in sight and our mooring buoy was vacant. I have no explanation for the sounds.
The dry stores
The final event took place on a winter night when I was alone with a fireman apprentice named Jake. We were sitting in the living room downstairs in the former north tower, watching television. On the second floor directly above us was a closet that contained our dry stores. In the winter, we did not receive any supplies for a full month, so we kept a great deal of food on hand. The shelves of the closet were lined with cans and boxes of food, and other supplies.
As we were watching television, we began hearing the sounds of cans hitting the floor above us. One by one, we heard 15–20 cans hitting and rolling across the wood floor. I stood, to go upstairs. Jake’s eyes were huge, and he said, “What are you doing?!”
I told him that I was going to see what happened. He was shaking, and asked, “Are you crazy?” I told him that I didn’t believe in ghosts and without the possibility of someone else being in the house, I could not imagine anything that might hurt us.
I said that even if I did believe in ghosts, I was absolutely not going to radio the Group Office for them to rescue us from some kind of apparition.
My assumption was that some of the shelving had given way and caused the cans to fall. I went upstairs and entered the dry stores.
Nothing was out of place. There were no cans on the floor, anywhere. I got down on the floor of the bedroom and looked under the beds, thinking the cans might have rolled there. Nothing.
When I returned downstairs, I told Jake what I saw. His eyes got even bigger and with most of the blood drained from his face, looked more like a ghost than one that I might have imagined. He stayed awake all night with a knife by his side.
I still don’t believe in ghosts, but I have no rational explanation for what occurred.
Changes and parting thoughts
There were a couple Officers-in-Charge and crews stationed on Matinicus Rock after I was transferred to another duty station. I left the light gladly, and wistfully. When people ask me if I liked being there, I tell them I would not do it again for a million dollars, but I would not trade my experience for a million dollars. Saying “I was a lighthouse keeper” carries a level of cachet and makes for instant further conversation.
Most of my current wistfulness is related to the changes on the Rock, both before my service and afterward. In the early days of the light, attractive (though vulnerable) homes adorned the Rock. The sea took them and they were replaced by the granite house. The upper level had a pitched roof, dormers, and two chimneys. In time, the upper level was replaced by a shed type roof without dormers or chimneys. The engine room was demolished, and replaced with solar panels. The cable car is no longer in use.
The south tower had a third order Fresnel lens with a 1000 watt light bulb. The exquisite lens was replaced by a soulless aircraft style beacon when the light was automated in 1983. The former lens is on display at the Maine Lighthouse Museum in Rockland. The bell is gone. The foghorn now sounds all the time, regardless of the weather, and the light turns on and off with the light of day.
In its early days, coastal mariners relied on dead reckoning, assisted by compass readings, visual, and auditory aids. As time went on, navigation evolved to higher and higher levels of accuracy though LORAN, SatNav, and eventually GPS, making lighthouses obsolete.
Increasingly sophisticated navigational options were correlated with a steady decline in the aesthetics of the lighthouses in general, but particularly Matinicus Rock. The has been a move away from the romance and art of past times, to the point that the lighthouse and its quarters on Matinicus Rock appear merely utilitarian.
Change is inevitable. Some changes, like the improvement of navigational tools, are good. Some are sorrowful, like the loss of the aesthetic and romance of bygone times.
Thank you for reading. Look for my more complete memoir in the coming year. Subscribe to my account to receive an email when it is published.
Here is a poem (published in My Fair Lighthouse) — about one aspect of my year of semi-solitude.
Running on the Edge
Back when it was a real thing,
I was a lighthouse keeper.
A year, twenty-five miles offshore,
“on the rock,” as we called it.
Occasional time ashore,
magnified the effects of
sitting,
and solitude.
When off the rock,
conversations were chatter,
too much to process.
Going upstairs or walking any distance
after a month of sitting in the winter house,
left me breathless and weak.
On my February return,
I vowed to run
where there was no place to do so.
Back and forth, on the wooden pathway
to the helicopter landing pad
in the four-degree Fahrenheit winds.
Bundled, layer upon layer,
I ran.
One hundred forty feet,
only to pivot and turn.
One hundred forty feet,
only to pivot and turn.
Thirty-eight times.
Nineteen round trips
for a mile.
Thirty-eight round trips
for two miles.
The sound of waves hitting the cliffs,
a cadence to the back and forth.
The cutting wind against
the minute uncovered surface of skin
on my marginally
enduring face.
Running,
where there was no place to go.
Running,
where there was no place to run.
Running,
all but in place.
Almost 50 years have passed,
and I wonder how much
has changed.
© 2024 — Craig D. Lewis, All Rights Reserved
