A Normal Winter’s Day
February 25, 2026…snow and rain run down a pane of glass on the SSW side of Owls Head Light’s lantern. (Video by Bob Trapani, Jr.)
Over the years, I have come to truly appreciate ordinary lighthouse moments. For in the commonplace, there is remarkably much to be discovered. When expectancy is far from the notions of wonderment and drama, the mind can explore the very essence of a lighthouse, which has always been rooted in the familiar, routine, quiet duty and the ability to make do amidst the solitary.
Whether I am working at a lighthouse or enjoying a leisurely visit to one of Maine’s guardians of the coast, more often than not, the experience is filled with a sense of profound ordinariness. Many times, the air is aimless and the sea is bereft of tension. Yet, these moments fascinate me in a curious way.
Why? Because in the usual occurrences that exude no fanfare, the time-honored concept of vigilance is best felt and understood.
History often mentions the vigilance of a lighthouse keeper – extolling wickies for their courage and valor to stand in the gap during harrowing storms and calls for urgent lifesaving measures, but these occasions do not test the mettle of watchfulness like unvarying sameness for hours and days on end.
Such thoughts came to my mind as I shoveled snow last month at Owls Head Light Station. On this day, there were no storm warnings, galloping winds or seas untamed. Rather, there was just a light snow – peppered with raindrops, falling about me, which caused my thoughts to be tossed as to whether the scene unfolding was of quiet beauty or a weary nuisance stemming from a long winter.
At one point, in the midst of clearing snow from the lighthouse walkway, I stopped to observe my surroundings. I could hear the rhythmic hum of a lobster boat’s engine before I watched it eventually round Monroe Island, inbound for Owls Head Harbor.
Other than this lone sight, Penobscot Bay was otherwise desolate. The range of visibility was not overly accommodating as well. All the while, a south wind kept temperatures hovering around the freezing mark. Just a decade ago, the fog horn would have been sounding automatically under such conditions, but light station’s audible warning has since been yoked to the on-demand commands of mariners – and there was nary a mariner plying the lonely expanse.
As I peered at the lighthouse above me, I could see that the southerly wind was causing frozen precipitation to accrue along the pane of glass facing the same direction. Back in the day when lightkeepers held sway, this impediment to their bastion of beams would not have been tolerated.
Once the task of shoveling was complete, I ascended the stout lighthouse to check on the 1000-watt lamps inside the Fresnel lens. The light was found watching properly – sending its familiar goldenness seaward into the emptiness beyond. Vigilance personified, I reminded myself. For no matter the circumstance, a guiding light must shine, and shine bright.
Climbing back down the tower, I locked the door. A normal day with its varying shades of gray proved to be another remembrance of the ceaseless watch lighthouses have over our rivers, bays and oceans. For in the uneventful, faithfulness is most tested and revered.
February 25, 2026…after the snow was shoveled, Owls Head Light Station was left to continue its faithful watch over Penobscot Bay. (Video by Bob Trapani, Jr.)
Thanks for the videos. I loved hearing the wind around the light, the snow and sleet on that cold lonely day.