As lighthouse keepers, we've kept our love alive through endless storms
For us, romantic pheromones consisted of a whiff of gasoline laced with salt spray and sweat
This First Person column is written by Caroline Woodward, who worked as a lighthouse keeper on the Pacific Coast from 2008 to 2021. For more information about First Person stories, see the FAQ.
When people discover that my husband and I were lighthouse keepers together on the Pacific Coast for 13 years, their facial expressions betray horror at the idea of living in isolation on some remote island. Or their eyes droop to half-mast, followed by a dreamy smile, as they perhaps imagine a burly lightkeeper wielding a telescope, while a willowy young woman is propped on a rock gazing out to sea, yearning for someone — or something.
Enter reality: my husband, Jeff, wore foul-weather gear. So did I. Romantic pheromones consisted of a whiff of diesel or gasoline laced with salt spray and an undertow of healthy sweat.
Jeff is an early bird, whereas I'm a night owl, so he worked the morning shift, rising at 4 a.m., while I radioed my last weather report at 10:40 p.m. from Lennard Island, B.C. We worked seven days a week for months on end, often without anyone else's companionship for long stretches. How do love and romance survive this and the endless days of rain, fog and nearly constant winds?
When lighthouse couples work together, sometimes the relationship can devolve into a power struggle. Self-awareness slips away when eroding mental health is an issue. More than a few people have confided in me they could not live in such close quarters with their spouse, let alone work with them. Perhaps what they don't realize is that the beauty of shift work is that you do have time and space to yourself, and Jeff and I both liked those quiet hours.
Even though there are no weekend days off for lighthouse keepers, we made special plans like Pizza Fridays and seafood with fresh bread on Sundays to feel connected to the weekends experienced by the rest of Canada, a.k.a. the Outside. When birthdays and other milestone celebrations neared, planning went into overdrive. Once, our son drove to Tofino, B.C., from Victoria, where he lived, and kayaked over to Lennard Island in stealth mode and did a wetsuit version of popping out of the Father's Day cake.
Of course that didn't mean we avoided strife. If Jeff, who was my supervisor as the principal keeper, insisted on finishing an especially tedious job, such as refueling some of the buildings despite biting north winds, I grumbled but then reminded myself that working in pouring rain with stinky diesel hoses and heavy barrels would be much worse. And if I didn't quickly remind myself of that fact, he would — which would only rub in the fact that any complaining is annoying.
Good thing I grew up on a homestead and had already done a lot of hard, monotonous work long before I became a lighthouse keeper. Getting through these grotty jobs together made the hot showers and comfort food at day's end even more of a reward. So did knowing we had a month-long break coming up for a much-awaited holiday.
The Dutch have researched when human beings are happiest and found it's when we are planning vacations. Oh, the joy of flying in a Coast Guard helicopter to Victoria to begin our annual holidays together! We loved exploring live music venues in New Orleans or the food in France, India, Italy and Greece, as well as birdwatching and swimming everywhere.
The true test of love, however, is weathering the rough patches together. When I fell on slimy rocks one year trying to reach a lovely wooden box floating just out of reach, Jeff sliced a plastic water bottle in half lengthwise, added a clean rag to cushion my arm from elbow to broken wrist and made a sling for it. Storms raged so we had to stay put, but after 11 days, we were able to boat into the hospital in Tofino three nautical miles away. The doctor pronounced a clean break in my arm, but said it was healing well and made me a new lime-green cast.
Later, when a minor procedure turned into a major medical emergency, I found myself in a Victoria hospital surrounded by angels wearing nurse uniforms and a large box of books that Jeff — who was still working on Lennard — had bought and had been delivered by our favourite bookstore.
The lessons we learned about relationships now carry us forth in retirement among the mountains in New Denver, B.C. — far away from the ocean.
I still thank Jeff for making the world's best coffee every single morning. He still thanks me for every meal I make. We've learned to recognize and honour each other's need for time and space alone — for Jeff to take photographs and make all kinds of things and for me to write all kinds of things, undisturbed.
Quite unexpectedly, he's the one enduring serious illness and painful surgeries now, and it's my turn to hover by his hospital bed and bring books and edible treats. He still looks very fetching to me in his backless hospital gown, after our 38 years together.
Do you have a compelling personal story that can bring understanding or help others? We want to hear from you. Here's more info on how to pitch to us.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
