A Year at the Nubble
Cape Neddick’s Nubble Lighthouse is one of the most famous lighthouses in Maine and is well preserved, thanks to its keeper for whom each task is a labor of love.
words & photos by matt rosenberg
april
The lighthouse wakes up. Canadian Geese circle and sometimes land. I keep my fingers crossed that they keep moving. A nesting pair means six weeks of being chased and hissed at while I try to work. Occasionally, the Nubble is visited by a snowy owl, peering out with its yellow eyes to spy the voles and mice emerging into the lawn after the winter. The air is raw, and even warm days aren’t warm when the tide is high. I take stock of winter damage. Some years, it’s a couple of red shingles off the buildings, but others, it’s more significant–damage to the boat ramp, an elevated walkway flipped over and smashed, or a new leak in the roof. This is when I begin my list for the season. First item: rebuild the lighthouse door that I scabbed together when the weather turned against me last November. I love this time of year.
may
The weather either improves or gets a lot worse. Often it is both. Work at the lighthouse is governed by wind, waves, and the tides. The grass is growing, often at an unimaginable pace. The seas can be rough for a week or more, so it can easily become too much for my small push mower. Undoubtedly, things will need to be painted, so let the scraping commence. The electric tram that conveys supplies to the island needs to be set up for the season. You never know what a year's worth of salt, sun, and wind has done to this mechanical marvel until you set it up. This winter, I was knocking actual tons of sea spray ice off the drive cables, so Jason, the engineer who designed and maintains it, will surely have some work to do. I teach high school English a couple of miles away and get out there after the bell rings as often as possible. The sunset gets later, and the work days at the lighthouse are long, stretching into the evening. The rhythm of work feels good, and the list is long, but so is the time to complete them.
june
Sohier Park across the water has been getting steadily busier through the spring, but southern schools are on break now and the visitors surge into Maine. I love the tourists. Their enthusiasm brings energy to our little town after a sleepy winter and reminds me of how lucky I am to live in paradise all the time. The water is still cold in the Gulf of Maine, and we have a lovely seabreeze to make working on the island pleasant. The lawn is out of control in June. I spend part of almost every workday mowing and trimming. As predicted, nesting geese chase me all over the front yard, and gulls dive bomb me in the back yard. A pair of bald eagles show up and keep an eye on what is hatching, looking for an easy meal. I have a long list of maintenance and repair items: locks to oil, hinges to replace, gaps to seal. This is when I begin big projects. The winter conditions determine what my whole summer will be spent doing. I also spend a couple of days giving the lighthouse its annual cleaning inside. Sometimes the striper fishing looks way too good, and I knock off early, leaving what I was working on for the next day.
july
Summer is in full swing. I spend the first few days of the month ensuring that everything at the Nubble looks perfect before the 4th of July holiday. I feel proud when the tourists are surprised that nobody has lived there since 1987 because it “looks like someone lives there.” Now, the best days of each week are spent at the lighthouse. This is usually the time of year that the lighthouse preservation crew we hire to do major repair work gets started. I go from talking to the gulls to having people to talk to. It’s a nice change of pace. I work around them, trying to stay out of the way of their projects. I devote some time to getting the Christmas lights ready for York Days. At the end of the month, we turn the Christmas lights on for a week for our summer friends. Some years, I replace 25% of the lights when winter storms have damaged them. On the really nice ocean days, I pull my lobster traps out of Wells Harbor before work and boat down to the Nubble, putting my boat on the mooring for the day. I look forward to the commute home by boat. I keep a couple of rods on board and stop to fish when the birds point the way. Days blend one into the next, and it’s easy to forget what day of the week it is.
august
The gentle southern breeze pushes small surf on the south side of Sohier Park, and most days it is easy to launch my 10-foot rowboat off the rocks to cross the 100 yards to the island. Days pass in a dreamy state of hot day after hot day. The lawn is pretty burnt out, so I get some relief from the relentless demand of mowing and can focus my attention on other tasks. I hit my stride with projects and get the most items crossed off my to-do list of any part of the year. It feels good to get it all done. This is the best time to punch out any painting that is left, since we can go a week without seeing a raindrop. Often, I drop what I’m working on to wave to the Finestkind tour boat when it comes by full of tourists to see the lighthouse. Both of my sons work on it, giving tours, and the sightseers get a kick out of me yelling down to them. The school year seems like someone else’s life at this point, but by the middle of the month, the reality of returning becomes real. It’s time to get serious about finishing all the things I have started.
september
It's the best month of the year on the coast of Maine with its warm, dry days and rare rainstorms. Don’t tell anyone the secret because the crowds are thinning, and you can get parking at the beach again. School is back in session, and my attention is split so many ways. Unlike the spring, the days are already shorter, which means less time to get it all done. The striped bass are on the move, and I am reminded of what Santiago from The Old Man and the Sea says: “September, the month of big fish.” I work at a faster pace at the lighthouse so I can spend time with my lifelong fishing buddy chasing trophy stripers. Balancing it all can be tough, but I’m obsessed with trying to do everything before it all ends.
october
We still have some incredible days, but they are getting further apart. My list of jobs is getting shorter, but it feels like the time to do them gets short even faster. I start to prioritize the jobs that must be completed before winter. I’m out there every weekend because there just isn’t enough time to get much done before the sun goes down. I often row back to the mainland at twilight on weekday evenings. From the island, I watch an endless parade of tour buses packed with leaf peepers from all over the world as they snap photos in front of the lighthouse on their way to see the foliage in the mountains. There is a bite in the air most mornings—a daily reminder of what is coming.
november
The gift shop in the park is closed, and the days are cold and a little lonelier. The proportion of gray rainy days increases dramatically. A series of rainy weekends can really make it impossible to get much done. I fire up the Christmas lights for the first time in months, keeping my fingers crossed that they all work. The lights are the most important job this month since we light them up for the holiday season the Saturday after Thanksgiving. They must be perfect. I wrap up all my remaining projects or put them on hold until next year.
december
It is dark. The balance of night to day tips drastically to darkness. It’s a good thing because so many people come out to enjoy the Christmas lights and charge up their holiday spirit. I get out of classes just before sunset and try to get to the lighthouse on the weekends. Early winter storms cruise by and kick up the ocean, making for some bumpy rides in my little rowboat. Some years, I battle to keep the Christmas lights on through the season. Other years, it’s a piece of cake. Before the end of the year, I take the tram apart and store all the pieces indoors to protect them from the harsh winter conditions. The work slows down as the holidays approach, and I secure everything on the island. The place becomes dark, raw, and cold as the end of the year approaches.
winter
January, February, and March. Snow and ice cover the island. Some years it comes and goes, other years it stays cold, and the island is locked in a deep freeze. Big storms pass through, and giant waves can smash into the island. I try not to put the rowboat in the water unless it is dead calm. Cold water is deadly, and an unexpected swim is serious, even with a lifejacket. I get out to the island after major storms to make sure that the roof holds and the windows are intact. It is like another world compared to the carefree days of summer. In some ways, it is when the lighthouse is most beautiful. The seagulls hunker down,
and the sea ducks raft up by the thousands around the island, crying a mournful, eerie sound. This is my downtime, when I trade the ocean for the mountains and enjoy the rest of the state of Maine. At the end of the winter, I start to miss Nubble Light, and those first warmish days awaken the enthusiasm in me to start it all again.
