The following
account stems from a routine visit to Race Point Light Station on January
13, 2010 with Jim Walker, chairman of the Cape Cod Chapter of the American
Lighthouse Foundation, my wife Ann-Marie, and our three children – Nina,
Katrina and Dominic. I initially thought the trip was simply to be a
preservation-related business visit to the light station with my friend Jim,
but the stunning allure of Race Point during wintertime transformed the
moment into so much more.
There was
nothing at first to indicate that my latest trip to Race Point would be
much different than previous ones, except that the calendar marked a
mid-January day and it was bitter cold.
Upon arrival,
it was obvious that warmer temperatures and the familiar bustling
activity of off-road vehicles that I
Photo by Bob Trapani, Jr.
was used to
greeting me on past visits to Cape National Seashore were not the only
aspects missing or different on this occasion.
With Jim Walker
behind the wheel of one of the Cape Cod Chapter’s four-wheel drive vehicles
and my family seated inside appreciating its warm refuge from the cold, we
prepared to drive the two-plus miles oversand to Race Point Light.
Rather than
accessing the lighthouse via the familiar Pole Line Road that leads over the
dunes to the ‘backyard’ of Race Point, we were forced to use the ocean-side
access.
As Jim noted to
the family and me, “The park rangers have asked us to use this access. They
said Pole Line Road has spots along the way that are flooded, and ice has
formed on the surface of the water. It would be too dangerous for the
vehicle to go that way.”
Photo by Bob Trapani, Jr.
The vehicle’s
deflated tires had no sooner moved from the macadam parking lot to the
ocean side’s sand ‘road’ when I realized that Race Point held wintertime
secrets only ever whispered to a few hardy people, and on this day, a
few of these cold-concealed mysteries were about to shine upon an
otherwise desolate and frigid landscape.
For this is the
time of year, when summer’s visitors have long departed, that Race Point
stirs one’s imagination the most and seemingly offers up faint glimpses of
its storied past, which was less about fun in the sun and more about
hardship, shipwrecks and tragedy.
As Jim drove up
and over the dunes before reaching the beach, I noticed that the ebbing tide
had momentarily limited the extending reach of the ocean, as soft,
water-soaked sand still served as evidence to the sea’s insatiable forays
further up the beach just a few hours ago.
Making the turn
toward Race Point, the vehicle commenced its bumpy ride over the beach, with
its occupants unable to avoid bouncing around in their seats as they talked
about lighthouses and the challenges of oversand driving in conditions as
such.
Despite lively
conversation amongst friends, it was impossible not to focus riveting
glances on the white caps dancing upon the water, snow cover that graced
the dunes and large pieces of driftwood that littered the beach from
winter storms. All the while, strong winds continued to buffet our
Suburban.
Photo by Bob Trapani, Jr.
At this moment, I
recalled a 19th century writer who looked upon Race Point from
the water, and though her observations were by sea from Provincetown and
mine by land from the opposite direction, her description of this place
remained true on this day.
Writer Sarah
Leslie wrote in the April-September 1884 issue of Outing and the Wheelman,
“What a dreary prospect lay before us! A long white sand-beach, backed by
brown sand-hills, sloping steeply to the shore at the place where the Race
Point light tower stands, and the life-saving station – a solitary cluster
of buildings in the sandy desolation – and then a long, steep white beach,
backed by innumerable white sand-hillocks, here and there scrubbily wooded.”
Minutes later, I
was still quietly contemplating these words when we arrived at Race Point,
leaving behind the beach and driving back up over the dunes to the access
road leading to the lighthouse.
Photo by Bob Trapani, Jr.
Instantly I
realized this was not the world of Race Point that I was familiar with,
but despite the foreign emotions that raced through my mind, the sudden
allure of this wintertime landscape was irresistible.
The various
scenes along our drive, as well as at the lighthouse, were so powerful
that I almost
forgot why we made
the site trip in the first place, but seeing Jim and the family hustle to
the keeper’s house, and feeling the icy wind sting my exposed skin, reminded
me of our purpose.
Though the
keeper’s house was unheated for the winter, it was with appreciation that we
were able to find refuge from the wind.
The house was
eerily still inside, and our voices and footsteps echoed in the face of such
gripping solitude, but the stillness also allowed one’s mind to focus on a
stunning mental freeze-frame of lighthouse restoration achievement that Jim
Walker and his fellow Cape Cod Chapter volunteers have accomplished at the
site over a period of fifteen years.
After Jim finished
showing me the Cape Cod Chapter’s latest project-in-the-making, and we had
wrapped up our notes on the project’s scope of work, it seemed time to go
and leave this place, for real life was calling with other appointments and
travels yet unfulfilled.
But wait, how
could I depart so soon? Outside, a breathless winter scene beckoned and
who was I to resist.
After
confirming with Jim that I would not impose too much on his time if I
ventured outdoors for a bit, and realizing that Jim, Ann, Nina and
Katrina were content to
Photo by Bob Trapani, Jr.
remain inside
while I do so, I headed for the door.
Before I could
turn the knob and immerse myself in the winter beauty waiting just outside
the door of the keeper’s house, my 11 year-old son Dominic asked if he could
accompany me.
I agreed that he
could, but only on one condition – that there would be no complaining
because of the cold. We had a deal!
Dominic and I
walked with a purpose around the light station and over the sun-splashed
sands, partly to prevent our companions waiting inside the keeper’s house
for us from being delayed too long by my curiosities, and partly to muster
any bodily warmth that might be derived from moving around briskly.
Photo by Bob Trapani, Jr.
Glancing
seaward, the wind was agitating the waves and causing them to dance
about in confusion on the bay, before they combined forces closer to
shore and finished by rolling in with a thunderous roar upon the beach
at what seemed impeccably well-timed intervals.
On land,
another scene was altogether evident around us, though the dynamic
factor of the wind remained unchanged. This gusty force could not be
ignored, as it emboldened not just the frothy sea just beyond our reach,
but all of cold’s discomforting affects too.
Long-time Race
Point Lighthouse keeper James W. Hinckley knew what the wind could do at
such an exposed location as this. He once noted, “The wind often touches a
mile a minute. Some of the gusts will throw you several feet, and it’s hard
going. The sand is bad enough, cutting into your skin, but a combination of
sand and snow is almost unbearable.”
The frigid scene
inspired further thoughts within my mind about the history of Race Point,
and how the elements have always been an inseparable part of this place.
Found within the
1802 collections of the Massachusetts Historical Society, Vol. VIII, is a
telling description of Race Point that I deemed appropriate as I pondered
days gone by:
“The shore, which
extends from this valley (Stout’s Creek) to Race Point, is unquestionably
the part of the coast most exposed to shipwrecks. A northeast storm, the
most violent, and fatal to seamen, as it is frequently accompanied with
snow, blows directly on the land: a strong current fets along the shore: add
to which the ships, during the operation of such a storm, endeavor to work
to the northward, that they may get into the bay. Should they be unable to
weather Race Point, the wind drives them on the shore, and a shipwreck is
inevitable. Accordingly, the strand is everywhere covered with the fragments
of vessels.”
Before long,
Dominic, was wandering off, intrigued as young children are, by the
‘little things’ the outdoors, and especially the beach, has to offer.
As I moved
about the beachfront, which seemed more like the wind’s very own art
canvas, I noticed how its swirling force hollowed
Photo by Bob Trapani, Jr.
out swaths of snow
in some places along the sand and heaped it in higher piles along others;
further evidence that the winds of change never rest at Race Point.
At other spots,
the work of strong eddies was preserved in artistic patterns along the snow
too amazing to understand how they were created.
In other
locations, the snow appeared like cotton nestled within the shrubbery, just
waiting to be harvested, and still others, it laid atop individual blades of
beach grass in delicate fashion, holding fast in the face of such
contradictory powers as the sun, salt air and wind, all be it for just a
little while.
Before leaving the
beachfront and setting out on my roundabout return to the keeper’s house, I
couldn’t help but notice an undeniable sparkle to the entire light station
property.
Photo by Bob Trapani, Jr.
The sun’s
brilliance may not have removed cold’s sting, but it did reveal the
splendor of Race Point’s meticulously cared-for property and the site’s
proud evidence of renewable energy firmly in place.
The light
tower, keeper’s house, whistle house and oil house all shined like the
day they were first
built thanks to
the vigilant efforts of its modern day keepers. I was quite pleased and
mentally ‘tipped my cap’ to the Cape Cod Chapter’s passion for this place.
Wrapping around
the property and coming up behind it from the beach road near the oil house,
I took notice of the access road that is so often traveled by lighthouse
aficionados and surf fishermen, for on this day it looked different than
normal.
The sandy trek was
devoid of the familiar tire tracks and serpentine ruts forged by off-road
vehicles; replaced instead by a topping of unspoiled snow along stretches
whose appearance was disturbed only by the paw tracks of four-legged
creatures unseen.
On the backside of
the lighthouse, I turned and peered in each direction, and it was then that
I could understand why author Samuel Adams Drake
once called
Race Point “the outermost land of the Cape.”
The solitude
was complete, interrupted only by beach grass whispering in the wind and
the sound of the surf rhythmically pounding the sands.
As I prepared
to leave, I paused one last time in the shadow of the lighthouse.
Photo by Bob Trapani, Jr.
The random snowcap
around the site added a cheery bright white color to the otherwise somber,
dry-looking, brown overtones that dominated what Samuel Adams Drake referred
to as a “wildness of sand.”
I concluded my
physical and mental journey by contemplating the type of tales the
lighthouse might spin if it could talk.
Alas though, the
time for reflection was now lost on the winds.
Jim Walker had
started the four-wheel drive Suburban and cranked up the heat inside, while
my family quickly jumped in to escape the cold.
Photo by Bob Trapani, Jr.
It was time to
go, for they were waiting on me, but I knew this day would never leave
my mind.
As we drove
past the lighthouse on our departure, the final verse from Herbert J.
Hall’s poem “Race Point,” seemed to capture my emotions best…
“Race Point is
quiet,
Scarce a
breath
Stirs the gray
waters that tomorrow will be roaring in,
White with the
awful fury of the storm.”
The poem “Race Point,” from Moonrise, A Book of Poems
by Herbert J. Hall, 1918
End of the cape –
On every side
The level sea
Spreads out its steel gray distances,
Infinite plains,
Hard, unchanging.
Only the great sand dunes
Cold, sea bitten,
Rise and fall like steep ensculpted waves
Flecked with green,
Topped with white,
Silent and lonely.
Off shore and colored like the sea,
A
schooner, sails aslant,
Makes south for George’s Banks.
A
low tramp steamer
Churns along at the same speed
And with the same lean look she had
Two months ago, leaving Manila Bay.
Race Point is quiet,
Scarce a breath
Stirs the gray waters that tomorrow will be roaring in,
