The out-of-service lens is covered, superseded by a modern optic.
Colors of sky, ocean, cliffside, ground, grass, and rooftops captured inside the lens.
Henry-Lepaute lens # H-L 329 is soon to leave its home. Note deck prisms that gave added light to watch room below.
On the left is fog-dectector, on upper lantern is the optic sending signal to sea.
The backup optic is attached to lower gallery railing.
The active beacon, at the time, is seen outside on railing through lens bull’s-eye.
Long unmanned state of the rotation mechanism, but the birds were happy.
View into the watch room from exterior lantern door.
Somebody got a little carried away with the Kroil.
Superintendent Terry DiMattio and Ranger Robert Munson stopping by the lighthouse.
Securing the Point Loma Lighthouse Lens and Assembly
By Kim Fahlen
The evidence was unmistakable and distinct. As the first prism panel was skillfully
nudged and dislodged from its eleven panel-mates, the audible and palpable release of
torque, twisting, and tension was confirmation.
Prior inspection had noted the factors that ultimately required the securing of the optic. It
was obvious that the lighthouse lens was not contacting all of its chariot wheels for
proper rotation. The lens wanted to shift its weight, rock, from contact point to contact
point. And the upper stability rollers had worn a groove into the chimney (venting)
assembly.
Uneven lantern deck caused upper stability rollers to cut into central lens support.
So, the destructive forces were relaxed with the bittersweet removal of one lens panel
after another, and therein, the validation of the necessity of removing the lens from its
lighthouse.
In the pale overcast, sunbeams light the lens for one last night.
For 111 years, since 1891, the 3rd Order Fresnel lens had been sheltered in the lantern of
Point Loma Lighthouse, which stands on Pelican Point at the tip of the Point Loma
peninsula of San Diego. The optic was constructed in Paris, France in 1887 by the
engineering firm of Henry-Lepaute, and designated H-L 329.
Canvas cover was temporarily lifted from the lens for photos.
As time and sea air will have it, the years had taken their harsh toll on the metalwork of
the iron skeletal lighthouse tower and its lantern. By late 1997, rotation of the glorious
lighthouse lens was overcome by corrosion. The floor of the lantern’s watchroom was out
of level and plumb. The culprit was rust jacking—the metal had severely corroded, which
caused expansion and pushing against adjoining seams.
Rust-jacking damage to lantern deck.
Small gaps opened within the entire structure itself. The resultant deformation exerted
enough force to crack and warp the heavily constructed lighthouse tower. It is likely that
seismic activity had further contributed to the destruction.
Preparations for lens removal had been organized prior to the team’s arrival with BM1
Mark Brookmole, Officer in Charge [at the time], Aids to Navigation, USCG San Diego.
Personnel from his office assisted with the entire project. Locally, Kim Fahlen was
responsible for project documentation and photography; Karen Scanlon [as it happened]
became the valued ‘runner’ and comic relief. Kim and Karen, meaningfully to them, were
the last to clean the lens in Point Loma Lighthouse.
The week of December 2, 2002 brought the specialist team of the U.S. Coast Guard to
San Diego’s Point Loma Light Station to disassemble, crate, and remove from the
lighthouse the classical 3rd Order lens and its apparatus of pedestal and clockwork
housing. The team’s leader, Chief Warrant Officer Joseph Cocking, well knew the
abilities of each man he chose for the work. Coming from areas around the U.S., they
were Petty Officers [at the time] Rob Schaffer, Milton Waite, Dave Curran, and Chief
Warrant Officer Tony Farr.
Noteworthy, was the team’s conscientiousness, caring, and honest devotion to the safe
keeping of every particle of the lens. As a team, each man respected the experience of the
others—if any scheme seemed unacceptable by one, it was by the team as a whole that
the best way forward was determined.
It was all activity at the site as the various prerequisites were undertaken. Prior to
disassembly, the condition of the lens had been documented. Through sketches and
photographs, all chips, cracks, and loose prisms were recorded. Putty between prisms was
dry, and in a few tight areas was missing altogether, but generally, putty was in fair
condition and nothing outstanding was noted.
Heavy rope was wrapped around the exterior of the lantern and passed through a block to
become the hoisting tackle, which was necessary for raising crates into the lantern, as
well as for lowering all items from the lantern watchroom.
The motor was disengaged and its base plate removed from the pedestal of the optic.
Doors of the clock case were detached, which, at least, gave a sense of more space in the
lantern.
Clock case doors are removed. Note dark area where motor plate attached, and also, stairs to lens room.
Electricity was cut to the lamps and lamp-changer and those were removed. Next to be
disassembled—and first to be lowered to ground, rather ceremoniously—was the fine and
fairly rare incandescent oil vapor tank.
.
Down with the IOV tank.
Found inside yet was its flat chain and some cotton wicking, which was a good surprise.
Meanwhile, on the ground under the supporting frames of the tower, purpose-built crates
of plywood were under construction—a single crate for each of the twelve lens panels,
plus several packing containers for the safekeeping of other components.
The lamp stand and pedestal ‘skirt’ were next to come away.
Lamp stand struts about to be unscrewed from platen.
Disconnecting lens skirt, or murette.
All the fasteners belonging to the lens components had been sprayed in the weeks before
disassembly with Kroil, a lubricating substance that helps loosen long-tightened bolts and
screws. “I love this stuff!” was heard many times during the project.
This view can only be captured when the lamp stand is off the platen.
“We’ve got torque!” was another cry uttered more than once. One by one, each 75-pound
lens panel—with tenuous center bull’s-eye and concentric rings—was unbolted and
detached from the lens base ring.
The first prism panel is removed.
A balance was kept after the first panel was removed by next withdrawing the panel
opposite. Those prisms did not give up their ‘birthright’ easily. Even as the beautiful
frames of glass were manhandled, turned one way and another, sunlight was captured and
radiated and flashed as if angels and fairies were up there!
Sunshine plays against lens prisms.
Each panel was immediately swaddled in fat bubble-wrap, followed by shrink-wrap.
Protected by bubble wrap immediately in lens room for the descent of lantern stairs to crate waiting in watch room.
It must be noted that the heat and humidity in the upper lantern were stifling and the only
respite came by way of blocking the sun with the canvas lens cover hanging at the lantern
glazing. That’s when earth’s rotation was a nuisance because the canvas had to be
constantly relocated.
Three lens panels removed.
“Space is killin’ us!” A round lantern watch room grows ever smaller with persons and
crates and pudgy rolls of bubble-wrap and tools and cameras and an electrician rewiring
the exterior beacon, which had taken on the duty of the lens in 1997. Having been
carried—and not without effort and utmost care—down the few iron stairs to the watch
room, the ‘mummy’ was laid in its awaiting ‘sarcophagus’, or wooden crate.
Each box contained a support bar for the elbow of the lens panel and was lined and
further padded with foam board. Secured inside each crate was a bag containing
corresponding fasteners and a bronze ‘foot’, which initially held in place a ruby ‘screen’
[sheet of red glass positioned in front of every other lens panel to create what appeared as
a red flash]. Spray foam was used to fill in crate hollows; it was critical that the prism
panels were allowed no movement within.
With its lid screwed in place, each lens crate was entwined in a magnificent muffle of
rope and knots that would allow its safe transport to terra firma. Three men at the top
wrestled the crates out the narrow lantern door and gingerly over the gallery railing,
while at least three hardhat-wearing men on the ground handled the guiding lines.
Lens panel crate lifted for descent to ground.
Easing a crate over railing and securing the lines.
Over the gallery railing.
Precious cargo descending by careful handling.
The engineering of a classical Fresnel lens is beautiful, but all business. On the inside
edges, where one panel meets another and where, here and there, putty had either
disintegrated or wasn’t thick to begin with, a wooden wedge could be seen. We know
these are in there to keep glass from touching brass, and certainly, to stabilize a prism to
proper focus, but they are rarely visible. In this same area on certain frames were the little
slits with grooves cut for string. The string would have been used to triangulate the
placement of the lamp’s flame at the focal point. On the top face of the lens ring (to
which lens panels are bolted) could be seen the etched lines and circles that guided the
manufacturer all those years ago.
Releasing base ring from pedestal struts.
Manufacturer’s marks for lens assembly. Green is the original paint color of pedestal and clock case.
Prism panel base ring coming down.
The ironwork gave the team a dear challenge. After all the years fitted together, some
parts wanted not to depart. But, with team perseverance, platen, cantilever, upper and
lower chariot assemblies, pedestal base and struts, clock case, and chimney (this was the
real stinker) were dismantled and secured for the lift over the railing and descent to the
ground.
Lifting the weighty platen, or service table.
Lifting of platen assisted by a line. Note platen standing upright on deck.
Raising the cantilever was not the time to make the men laugh.
Cantilever coming away from lens center support.
Having a discussion on getting metals to separate in upper assembly.
Where access was most onerous to reach, chimney assembly metals fought, and fought, separation. Note chariot of upper stability
rollers.
At near completion of the project, once the center of lantern deck was exposed, it was
discovered that the central post running the entire height of the lighthouse and attached to
the lantern deck was separated at least a quarter inch.
Separation of center support post and lantern deck.
From the ground, looking upward to underside of lantern shows the sorry state of the lantern.
The team’s conviction that the valuable lens would, indeed, have suffered catastrophic
damage had it remained in the tower was demonstrated. Only the U.S. flag remained in
the lantern—it had been taped to the spider ring in tribute to all who had kept this
lighthouse. All the crates and ironwork were trucked to the high top of Point Loma to be
kept for future use.
The team packing lens components for storage.
The lighthouse lantern looked woebegone when its Fresnel lens was gone. But today, its
smart-alecky little brother—a compact LED light array with a luminous range of 14
nautical miles—carries on shouting a white flash every 15 seconds. Funding to restore the
now-condemned tower will likely never come, in spite of the fact that it is the only iron
skeletal-style tower on the U.S. west coast.
Cabrillo National Monument, under the U.S. National Park Service, has conserved the
1855 Old Point Loma Lighthouse since 1913. Just feet away from the old lighthouse, a
rehabilitated Assistant Keepers Quarters was constructed in 2004-5 on the site of and
plan of the original. The structure was built to house the 3rd Order flashing lens relocated
from Point Loma Light Station. Though whitewashed walls now stymie 12 scintillate
beams that once stretched across the sea, park visitors are surprised and delighted to find
themselves face-to-face with this unique aspect of San Diego’s maritime history.