Lights out

Scott Dombrowski stands on a pier on the north side of Goat Island, Maine. A carefree fall breeze is blowing, and the waves lapping against the pilings reflect the midmorning sun like a disco ball. Scott is pointing at a spot in the clear, cold water. Among ribbons of seaweed, a rubber-coated cable, about 2 inches in diameter, snakes through the shallows.

“That’s it. The first break is about right there,” Scott explains, nodding his head. For 38 years, the cable supplied electricity to the island, which sits about a mile offshore in fashionable Kennebunkport. The gem of that stretch of coastline is Goat Island’s historic lighthouse. But the power failure last November left the light station’s outbuildings in the dark, dependent on a noisy generator with limited hours of operation. It’s less than ideal, and the ­latest quote to repair the 5,000-foot connection to the mainland grid is formidable—more than $400,000.

It’s a major challenge for the Kennebunkport Conservation Trust, the group that manages the island property and is charged with preserving it for future generations.

With a simple raising of hands, the trust could shed itself of complicated preservation problems and make Goat Island the ultimate wedding venue. Photographers would stake out the craggy coastline beside its historic lighthouse, and caterers would make do with the 1950s-era reproduction appliances in the keeper’s quarters. In a few months, bookings would stretch into 2025.

And one more piece of living history would disappear from the Eastern Seaboard.

“No,” says Scott, his blue eyes flashing. “This has always been a family light ­station. Our goal is to maintain it as one.”

Historic preservation is often a tough sell in America, which has both a short history and a short memory. But those who are passionate about the past say it’s important to hold on to pieces of it, especially those that inspire. Old spaces and places can teach about the human condition—and God’s providence—in ways words cannot.

Scott and his wife, Karen, are Goat Island’s primary keepers, a largely volunteer position they’ve held since 1993. They don’t tend the light. That’s the Coast Guard’s responsibility. But they do sleep and eat in the keeper’s wood-frame house eight months out of the year. They haul water and fuel, cut the grass, and pick up after storms. They welcome Scout troops, college classes, and some 2,000 visitors who drop by during the summer.

The Dombrowskis raised two sons between Goat Island’s granite ledges and trailing patches of Rosa rugosa. When they speak of the 3½-acre property, they speak for the long line of “wickies”—slang for lighthouse keepers known for trimming the wicks of oil lamps—who eked out lives here beginning in 1833: Goat Island is more than an Instagrammable tourist spot. It’s a tangible tie to yesteryear worth preserving.

The historic Goat Island Light Station near Kennebunkport, Maine Photo by Kim Henderson

STORM-TOSSED NIGHTS once taught sailors the value of a good lighthouse. Literature enlightened the rest of us. On fiction’s pages, lighthouses rise out of the rocks, romantic and mysterious. Their keepers are characters of uncommon dependability.

In real life, lighthouse employment wasn’t just hard work. It was dangerous, especially the commutes. George Worthylake was the first lighthouse keeper in what would become the United States. He was also the first to die in the line of duty. After attending church one Sunday in 1718, he and his family drowned on their way back to Little Brewster Island in Boston Harbor. A 12-year-old local boy later published a ballad about the tragedy. His name was Benjamin Franklin.

In today’s GPS-centric world, a balladeer might lament the diminishing need for lighthouses. Some 48,000 federal buoys, beacons, and electronic aids now mark U.S. waterways. Even so, the beacon on Goat Island, the last lighthouse in Maine to be automated, remains a functioning navigational tool.

That’s thanks to the National Historic Lighthouse Preservation Act of 2000. It allows many lighthouses to remain active, even as responsibility for their stations transfers to local and state municipalities through the National Park Service. The Coast Guard maintains all active lights, but it doesn’t repair decaying boathouses and wave-swept towers. Ditto for submarine electrical cables. Vessels can still depend on the automated light and foghorn topping Goat Island’s white-brick, three-story tower because they’re solar-powered.

When the privately run Kennebunkport Conservation Trust leased Goat Island from the Coast Guard in 1992, members wanted to make the site accessible to the public. As a result, area residents who had spent their whole lives wondering what the view was like from the top of the tower finally got to find out.

Members of the Church on the Cape did as well. Through the years, the Dombrowskis hosted several church picnics at the light station. After services, boat owners checked the tide charts, then shuttled members across Cape Porpoise Harbor. Karen says such scenes were lovely. “We had tables and chairs set up, and it was just a wonderful day together. We had everyone in our ­congregation, from folks in their 90s to little kids.”

The day of my visit, Dennis and Melody Hardy paddled over to Goat Island from Turbat’s Creek in kayaks, a trip they make at least once a summer. Pausing inside the lighthouse tower, Dennis explains that they’re members of the trust. His voice echoes against the cold, thick walls. When Melody chimes in, her words make a case for preserving property that sounds a lot like loving your neighbor.

“When we grew up in the area, you could afford a house. There were fishermen’s shacks all along here,” she says, pointing to the coastline in the distance. “Fishermen can’t afford to be here anymore. Not when a house sells for half a million dollars and your life is lobstering. So preserving this island for everyone to enjoy is important.”

Her premise applies to more than just physical structures. According to its records, the Kennebunkport Conservation Trust has conserved more than 2,800 acres of land from development. While many of those acres are protected ­ecosystems, several properties are used for biking, hiking, and camping.

Elsewhere in the state, the Forest Society of Maine has conserved a mountain, a bog, ponds, rivers, lakes, hills, even a tree farm. And the concept of community conservation stretches across the country as well. In Colorado, the Eagle Valley Land Trust has preserved a privately owned ranch. Coastal dunes and beaches are protected by the Conservation Foundation of the Gulf Coast in Florida.

Preserving Goat Island has saved lives. Through the years, the Dombrowskis have assisted in rescues when boats capsized, slammed into rocks, or caught fire.

“On the ocean side, there are ledges that create some very dangerous situations. The water will take kayaks, and spin them around and flip them over,” Scott explains. He tells about being interrupted during a tour when a man suddenly crawled up over the rocks, crying for help. “He was soaking wet, and he kept saying that his buddy was missing,” Scott remembers.

The buddy eventually washed up on a nearby island, alive and surprisingly indifferent about his close call. Scott was incredulous. “He laughed about it. He doesn’t know how lucky he was.”

Sometimes searches don’t end well. Once, a plane crashed within sight of the island. One of the five people on board died.

The Dombrowskis are happy to take part in rescues, and they enjoy giving tours of their lonely outpost. But Karen says the lack of electricity has made chores like washing laundry and filtering rainwater difficult. “It’s already so much work to live here,” she says, pointing to just one of many tasks unique to island living—waxing light fixtures. The salty air rusts everything, and a waxy film can prevent it. “So it’s awfully nice to not have to haul your laundry ashore, too,” Karen admits with a smile.

THE PROBLEM OF RESTORING POWER to the island isn’t just the expense of a cable. The solution must also meet the trust’s evolving “green” standards. That has Scott researching wind and tidal power, and explaining why solar isn’t the way to go. “Out here there’s salt-laden spray and wash-overs. So where do you put backup generators? How do you protect solar panels?”

Of three solar energy companies that have looked at the conditions on Goat Island, two declined to offer a plan. While the third said it was possible, life at the light station would change—a lot. Scott, in contrast, wants to see the reach of the work expand, not contract: “We’d have to cook on hot plates and never have heat again. Instead of having a season that lasts into December, we’d be done in September.”

Meanwhile, years of restoration work done inside the keeper’s home is suffering. Without power running through its electrical wires, they corrode. Without heat, the house can’t dry out. Mold has inched its way across a bookshelf, the kitchen table, and the back of the basement door. The basement’s sump pumps aren’t working, either, and flooding is a problem.

For now, the Dombrowskis continue their watch. Each day, Scott climbs the spiral staircase to the top of the lighthouse and looks out across the ocean.

“We can live without power. We’re doing that now,” Karen stresses. “The problem is keeping the house intact.”

“Things degrade very quickly out here,” Scott adds. “We don’t want to see that happen.”