The End

Well kids, that's about it for me. A bit of touch up and some odds and ends and clean-up and then, "I'm outta here". Time to get back to the water works of Elk and Irish Beach.

April 29th

Our local newspaper, the Mendocino Beacon, came out with the whole front page devoted to the installation of the Fresnel Lens by the Coast Guard. It claimed that the light would be permanently lit on the day the paper came out, and it would have been, except that it was discovered that the drive shaft that turns the Fresnel lens was slightly bent! So, the light changer and drive motor had to be removed and the shaft pulled out. It is now being trued up in a machine shop and will soon be back in place. I expect the lamp will shine May 1st.

The following months will see the roof being torn off the Lighthouse and the dormers reinstalled like they were originally. Then the new roof will go on. Also the refurbishing the exterior walls of the Lighthouse, the installation of new windows and refinishing the interior will be happening. August 7th is the dead line everyone is aiming for. That day will mark the 90th anniversary of Point Cabrillo and be a big celebration. Everyone, and I mean everyone will be there.


My part of the project is done but I expect to volunteer some energy to Point Cabrillo from time to time and to stay in touch with the wonderful folks there who have become my friends; Kevin, Rosana, Ginny, Jinna, Tony and Julia.

Now that the Lantern and Fresnel lens is all shiny and bright I would like to end with a poem I discovered hanging on the wall in the little room where all the paint stripping and polishing of the Fresnel Lens brass occured:

It was written by Fred Morong, a
Maine Lightkeeper, circa 1920


Oh, what is the bane of the lightkeeper's life
That causes him worry, struggle, and strife,
That makes him use cusswords and beat up his wife?
It's brasswork.

What makes him look ghastly consumptive and thin,
What robs him of health, of vigor, and vim,
And causes despair and drives him to sin?
It's brasswork.

The devil himself could never invent,
A material causing more worldwide lament,
And in Uncle Sam's service about ninety percent
Is brasswork.

The lamp in the tower, reflector and shade,
The tools and reflectors pass in parade
As a mater of fact, the whole outfit is made
Of brasswork.

The oil containers I polish until
My poor back is broken, aching, and still
Each gallon and quart, each pint and gill
Is brasswork.

I lay down to slumber all weary and sore,
I walk in my sleep, I awake with a snore
And I'm shining the knob on my bedchamber door
That's brasswork.

From pillar to post, rags and polish I tote,
I'm never without them, for you will please note
That even the buttons I wear on my coat
Are brasswork.

The machinery, clockwork, and fog signal bell,
The coal hods, the dustpans, the pump in the well,
Now I'll leave it to you mates, if this isn't, well,

I dig, scrub and polish, and work with a might,
And just when I get it all shining and bright,
In comes the fog like a thief in the night;
Good-bye brasswork.

I start the next day, and when noontime draws near,
A boatload of summer visitors appear,
For no other purpose than to smooth and besmear
My brasswork.

So it goes all the summer, and along in the fall
Comes the district machinist to overhaul
And rub dirty and greasy paws over all
My brasswork.

And again in the spring, if perchance it may be,
An efficiency star is awarded to me,
I open the package and what do I see?
More brasswork.

Oh, why should the spirit of mortal be proud,
In the short span of life that he is allowed,
If all the lining in every dark cloud
Is brasswork.

And when I have polished until I am cold,
And I'm taken aloft to the Heavenly Fold,
Will my harp and my crown be made of pure gold?

No, brasswork.



Ron Bloomquist

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