July 21, 2009

(This article is republished from an August, 1999, special section of The Island Breeze on the move of the Cape Hatteras Lighthouse.)

The Cape Hatteras Lighthouse is gone from its place by the edge of the sea, where it stood guard for almost 130 years over the dreaded Diamond Shoals.

It sits now, encircled by a forest of scrub pine and myrtle, some 1,600 feet from the ocean that threatened to take it.

The site where the famous sentinel once presided is strangely empty.  Most of the pine timbers on which it once rested are at the bottom of a hole.  The granite and mortar foundation that was so well-crafted so long ago by head builder Dexter Stetson and his workmen, including many islanders, has been cut apart and tossed in the hole on top of the timbers and covered by sand.

 It all seems such a very undignified ending for a place that has been so revered by so many.

 Many of us on Hatteras Island thought the lighthouse should have remained where it was, despite the threat from the sea.

Alternatives to moving it should have been more aggressively pursued by the National Park Service.  And some islanders feel, as I do, that being claimed by the sea would have been a fitting end for the beloved landmark whose purpose was to warn mariners away from the dangerous and angry Atlantic waters off Hatteras.

But efforts to stop the move were too little and too late, and on a hot and humid Friday, July 9, as the southwest wind blew in off the Diamond Shoals, the Cape Hatteras Lighthouse reached its new home after 23 days on the road.

Even for someone such as I who didn't want the move to happen, it was a glorious day. I forgot my notions about the move away from the sea and was exhilarated by that moment of triumph of the human mind and spirit.

It was a terrific experience to have participated in the historic journey of the Hatteras Light, to have had a part in recording events for islanders and visitors and, perhaps, for future generations to ponder.

It was, as so many have said, "the move of the century."  It was a once-in-a-lifetime experience.  It was an incredible engineering feat that was pulled off by men whose passion for the lighthouse equals that of many islanders.

As a member of the media, I've had regular access to the events of this year and to the people who have made them happen.

They are experiences I will treasure.

During the move, I stood underneath the Cape Hatteras Lighthouse on numerous occasions.  I stood on the pine mat that had not seen the light of day in over a century and touched the granite foundation that had not been touched in over a century.  They were unforgettable experiences.

I have met men whose vision about the lighthouse move had been taking shape for more than a decade and is beyond the comprehension of us non-engineer types.  Back in January, when the National Park Service began issuing press releases about the move and officials of International Chimney Corp. of Buffalo, N.Y., began explaining it to the media, I couldn't quite grasp exactly what was going to happen and how it was going to happen.  Jacking up this 208-foot tall tower that weighs about 4,400 tons and moving along a set of tracks was far outside my sphere of experience and understanding.  But I learned there were folks who had thought of nothing else for a long time.

Pete Friesen, 77 years old, from Bellingham, Wash., the son of a farmer, is the man who had the patents on the hydraulic system used for the move.  He got out of the Army after World War II, and he says "the door of opportunity opened" in the house-moving business.  He "walked though it" and became one of the country's most well known and well respected movers.  He was a senior engineer on the move of the century.

Joe Jakubik of International Chimney, the project director for the move, first saw the lighthouse in about 1989 when his company was getting ready to bid on some renovations.  He, too, was captivated by the challenge of moving a structure larger and heavier than any other that had ever been moved before.  A man who seems quiet and straightforward, Jakubik talked endlessly to reporters about relocation strategies and statistics, but was obviously emotional on the day that the lighthouse moved its first few feet.

The Matyiko brothers of Expert House Movers, a company started in Virginia Beach by their father, are unforgettable characters.  They are an outgoing bunch who chomp on cigars while they work and wear cowboy hardhats.  They charmed the media, and the visitors to the construction site.  Jerry, the main mover, had members of the media taking turns pushing the lever that moved the jacks that pushed the lighthouse.  John, the large and jolly brother, was dubbed "the social director" for going over to the fence and chatting with visitors about what was happening.  Jim seemed comfortable doing about any job, especially uncorking champagne on the day of the final move.  Joe, the fourth brother, heads up the St. Louis, Mo., branch of Expert House Movers, and had to settle for a televised greeting from his siblings on the day of the final move.

 Skellie Hunt, the site superintendent for International Chimney, was a source of endless information.  The garrulous Hunt answered endless questions from reporters, often grabbing their notebooks and drawing them pictures.  He was known for his wild driving around the construction site during media tours.  On one occasion, a load of photographers in the back of his pickup truck got a good soaking as Hunt plowed through a pond of water and on another drive, he almost dropped Pete Friesen, "Mr. Pete" as he is known, out the back of his truck.

Early on, Hunt spent a lot of time, chasing errant reporters and photographers who wandered away from the group and around the construction area.  But, as the move progressed and the movers became more confident that things would go smoothly, they became more laid back about the media tours.  By the day of the final move, reporters, photographers, and cameramen were swarming all over the site.

I enjoyed the camaraderie of my colleagues in the media.  The locals from nearby daily, weekly, and monthly newspapers and magazines and television stations doggedly showed up at the construction site every two weeks, and sometimes in between.  We joked about freezing weather, wind, and unbearable heat and humidity, exchanged information we had gleaned from move officials, and helped each other decipher obscure engineering and construction information.

I was impressed by the camaraderie of the house moving fraternity, a small and close-knit bunch of folks from across the nation who move structures.  Many showed up at Cape Hatteras to volunteer their time to the Matyikos, just because they wanted to be part of moving the Cape Hatteras Light.

I was moved by the thoughtfulness of all the workmen and Park Service rangers and volunteers at the site, who answered endless questions from visitors, and, even better, accepted endless coins that the onlookers pressed on them to be placed under the rollers and flattened by the lighthouse.  At times, these people used their own spare pennies and passed them out to children behind the fence.

I spent plenty of time inside the fence at media tours, and some time outside with my visiting family.

I took my three oldest granddaughters to see the move.  Two-year-old Molly was intimidated by the spectacle, but Emma, 5, and Clare, 4, both of whom had climbed to the top of the lighthouse the year before, were interested and tried to grasp what was happening.

They both asked the same question:   "Where did the ocean go?"

I tried to explain that it was now farther away, behind the trees.

But it will be there again, lapping at the base of the tall tower.  Such is the nature of the dynamic barrier islands.

I probably won't see it in my lifetime, but Emma, Clare, and Molly may see it in theirs, and certainly their children and grandchildren will.

Someday, once again, the Cape Hatteras Lighthouse will sit by the edge of the sea.


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