Lightships and Lighthouses

by Frederick Arthur Ambrose Talbot

THE “SEVEN-STONES” LIGHTSHIP.

This vessel, probably occupying the most exposed position around England, marks a terrible danger spot off the Cornish coast.

In her helplessness, the light-vessel depends upon the friendly aid of any craft. The rescuer may be the alert tender, which, having received intimation that the floating beacon has got adrift, raises steam in all haste, hurries out, scours the seas for the wanderer, recovers and rechains her to the danger spot below. Or it may be that a passing· steamer sights the breakaway, retrieves and restores her to the allotted position, making her temporarily secure, and reporting her condition when passing or entering a port.

The lightship may be identified easily. There is nothing inspiring about her lines. Her ugly hull, built for strength and not beauty, is painted red, black, or white, according to the colour practice of the country to which she belongs, while on her sides in huge letters, stretching almost from water-line to taffrail, is the name of her station, “Nore,” “Seven Stones,” “Norderney,” “Ruytingen,” “Fire Island,” or whatever it may be. Nor is this the sole means of identification. From afar the mariner learns her character and business by a huge skeleton sphere, a triangular cage, or some other device, carried at the top of the mast or masts. At night a lantern, entirely surrounding the mast, and large enough to enable a person to stand upright within to trim the lamps, throws its warning glare from an elevation about halfway between the deck and the mast-top with the intensity of 12,000 or more candles. Oil is the illuminant most generally employed for the purpose, although in one or two instances electric light is used.

The specific purpose of the lightship, as already mentioned, is to warn passing vessels. But the French Government, when they made an elaborate investigation of their lightship service with a view to its modernization and elaboration, discovered that at times the floating signpost fulfils another and unofficial duty. The entrance to St. Malo Harbour is flanked by an uneven group of rocks lying about midway between the French coast and the island of Jersey. Though a terrible spot for mariners, it is one of incalculable value to the sturdy French and Jersey fishermen, as in the waters around these barriers rich hauls may be made with the net; indeed, the fishing industry here affords employment for several score of persons. The French Government contemplated the withdrawal of the lightship marking the Minquiers, as these rocks are called, and the substitution in its stead of a number of powerful automatic buoys which would indicate the exact position of the most conspicuous dangers, whereas the lightship only indicated their general whereabouts, compelling mariners to calculate their distances from the peril, which, by the way, was no easy matter owing to the short range of the beacon.

THE “SAN FRANCISCO” LIGHTSHIP.

This vessel, riding in 18 fathoms, marks the entrance to the Golden Gate and San Francisco Bay.

Before making a decision, the Commission interviewed the French fishermen to ascertain their views upon the subject. To their intense surprise, a suggestion which they thought would be received with unmixed approval was condemned unequivocally. There was not a single fisherman who could be found to support the buoy system. The unanimity of the objection aroused suspicions, and further investigation was made to probe the cause of this unveiled hostility. The answer was found without effort. The fishermen pushed off in their boats every night to the grounds, but they did not spend the whole of their time throwing and hauling their nets. When their luck was in, or they were satisfied with the catch, one and all pulled for the lightship. There was not another café within a dozen miles, and fishing is thirsty work. So the lightship was converted into a nocturnal hostelry. The keepers charged the glasses, and the captains courageous sipped and quaffed to a whistling accompaniment, finally indulging in terpsichorean acts on the lightship’s decks, to give vent to their exuberant spirits. They did not care whether the light overhead were throwing its yellow beams over the waters or not. They made merry, and kept up the orgy until the approaching dawn or the watch showed that it was high time to pull for the shore with their catches. It was a fortunate circumstance for these happy-go-lucky spirits that the beacon was not regarded by mariners as of much utility at night, owing to the feebleness of its light. If seafarers failed to pick up the Minquiers’s shimmering star, they attributed the obscurity to the haze. That was all.

This revelation, needless to say, clinched the Commission’s decision. To-day four unattended gas-buoys mount vigil over these rocks, and the rollicking days on the floating café chantant are known no more.