We spent the night at southern Maine’s most remote location
HALFWAY ROCK LIGHT STATION — 3:30 a.m. – Wednesday, Aug. 5
I woke to what sounded like a thump from somewhere on the floors below, but by the time I got my bearings the only noise was the relentless crash of waves and circling wind.
A pale blue light came through a pair of windows set into each side of the tower, which sits about 10 miles out in Casco Bay — halfway between Portland Harbor and Seguin Island. The gulls were already crying.
I was attempting to sleep on the fourth level in a room where the head lighthouse keepers once slept for a century. The lighthouse’s owner, Ford Reiche, was three floors below in a bed made from the shell of a boat that perished trying to access the island.
I laid there for a moment, thinking about some of the tumult, wreckage and mystery that has occurred on this rock: the keeper who lost his mind; the original Fresnel lens that vanished. And then, somewhere within the constant thrum of wind and waves, I drifted back to sleep.
It’s 142 steps to the top of Halfway Rock Light Station in Casco Bay. (Daryn Slover/Staff Photographer) Purchase this image
4 p.m. – Tuesday, Aug. 4
Only about 25 people per year are lucky enough to go to Halfway Rock, and I’d somehow convinced the 72-year-old Reiche to let me and a photographer spend the night.
We loaded our limited gear and food into a Sealegs amphibious boat from Reiche’s home in Freeport. He bought the boat — which has wheels and a separate engine that essentially turn it into a car — after struggling for years to land safely.
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About a month after he purchased the light station in 2014, he decided to take his wife, Karen, out to see it. While attempting to land, their small boat was pummeled against the rocks, snapping the engine off the back.
Reiche, who has a deep passion for Maine history and preservation, said he didn’t set out to own a lighthouse. But, he had watched the 76-foot tower and boathouse crumble for nearly 40 years after it was decommissioned and essentially abandoned. When it was finally put up for auction in 2014, he heard grumblings of interested buyers with no real plans for restoring the lighthouse, which is on the National Register of Historic Places.
“I just kind of got sucked in,” he said as he piloted his boat on the 30-minute ride.
The ledge that is marked by Halfway Rock Light Station is midway across the mouth of Casco Bay. The lighthouse is halfway between Cape Elizabeth and Cape Small. (Daryn Slover/Staff Photographer) Purchase this image
A few years later, the masonry on the outside of the tower had been repointed, and every square inch of the inside was needle gunned to remove paint and then repainted. The boathouse, with its boarded up windows, was also restored. Lighthouse Digest called it “a miracle.”
The Discovery Channel documented the restoration for a series called “Building Off the Grid,” which aired in 2018. Reiche put the money he earned from the show toward construction costs. The project ended up winning historic preservation awards from the American Lighthouse Foundation and Maine Preservation Association. A decade later, Reiche isn’t finished protecting Casco Bay sentinels.
Twenty minutes into the trip, the tower grew larger on the horizon, but so did the waves.
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4:30 p.m.
After passing Eagle Island, the site of the late North Pole explorer Admiral Robert Peary’s summer home, the ocean opened up. The temperature dropped. The wind shifted. Halfway Rock is among the last slices of land due east until Portugal.
After reading Reiche’s 191-page book about the history and restoration, I knew the seas around it are notoriously unpredictable, and mother nature has humbled those who have tried to settle it time and time again. (We had to reschedule our initial visit due to weather). The lighthouse was erected in 1871 only after the island laid waste to several ships, and it threatened the delivery of goods into Casco Bay.
Reiche lowered the wheels to prepare to land, and warned it could take a few tries due to the push and pull of the swell. Alas, we crawled up the ramp on the first try, and got our first look at the two-acre granite ledge without a single blade of grass.
It is about a 30 minute boat ride for Ford Reiche to reach Halfway Rock Light Station from his home in Freeport. Reiche uses an amphibious boat with wheels, seen below, to safely land on the ledge. (Daryn Slover/Staff Photographer) Purchase this image
The ledge that is marked by Halfway Rock Light Station in Casco Bay is midway across the mouth of Casco Bay. (Daryn Slover/Staff Photographer) Purchase this image
I was immediately hit with a wave of emotion. The bright summer sun highlighted every beautiful imperfection on the lighthouse. An orange ring buoy is affixed to the front of the boathouse. Dozens of gulls and seals turned curious eyes. A sliding door welcomes you in to the workshop, and then it’s 142 stairs to the top.
Maine’s lighthouses are an unquestionable part of the state’s identity. Places like Portland Head Light in Cape Elizabeth draw hundreds of thousands of visitors each year, for no other reason than for tourists to witness some Maine charm or to appreciate a time when these beacons were a necessary lifeline for mariners and fishermen.
But the allure of remote lighthouses like Halfway Rock is something different. The romanticism, history and isolation of offshore stations can inspire obsession. There’s no public access, but boats come by to catch a view — like a jewel that you aren’t allowed to touch.
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5 p.m.
No matter where you are, even in a closed-door bedroom, the air is thick with humidity and salt. A framed map on a wall in the boathouse is covered with drops of condensation. Items that are only a few years old get so corroded they look antique.
We were invited to make ourselves at home, so I began the ascent up the tower. A decade after the restoration, drip lines of rust already make their way down the interior walls.
During back-to-back storms in January 2024, every window in the second story of the boathouse was blown out. On an inside wall, Reiche drew a knee-high line in marker that shows the “splash line” from waves.
“Nothing is permanent out here,” he said. “I don’t even get mad. I kind of get a kick out of it.”
The head keepers room is on the fourth level of Halfway Rock Light Station in Casco Bay. (Daryn Slover/Staff Photographer) Purchase this image
The keepers’ logs during the years the station was manned — from 1871-1975 — are rife with buildings being washed away, roofs blowing off and boats splintering into pieces while trying to land.
The Coast Guard built a concrete helipad in 1961 that lasted about a year. Chunks now sit among the other rocks, covered with bird droppings. When Reiche first took ownership, someone from the Coast Guard warned him against trying to get out there by boat. They always went out via helicopter. An 80-foot section of the landing ramp was missing. (Reiche had already been ashore multiple times.)
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The harsh conditions and remote location are a deterrent to some, but an unexplainable pull to others.
Last year, Maine wildlife photographer Karl Ramsdell finally got so tired of a festering, yearslong infatuation with Halfway Rock that he decided to paddleboard out from Portland. After pulling himself onto the ramp, he heard someone calling from a boat. It was Reiche.
“It’s just always kind of been in my head,” Ramsdell said. “It’s so far out all by itself. It’s just raw Maine, and being a surfer I love the way the swell hits it, and there’s so much surge out there. The ocean just comes up on it and lets off.”
Ramsdell also loves the seals (he calls them “chubmarines”) and thinking about the station’s history, particularly the keepers forced to row out in any weather, year round.
Ford Reiche changes a light bulb inside Halfway Rock Light Station. Reiche said owning a lighthouse is no different than owning a camp; there is always something that needs to be fixed. (Daryn Slover/Staff Photographer) Purchase this image
Some couldn’t wait to get off the island. Others thrived. Reiche’s book highlights one of Halfway Rock’s longest tenured keepers, John Dewyea, who rowed 10 miles from his home in South Portland, two weeks on, one week off, for 29 years between 1892-1921.
Reiche shared a story of a veteran keeper who, when faced with water pouring in a boathouse window during a storm, calmly leaned his chair back out of the way as a newcomer panicked.
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“You can’t explain it, but you’re drawn to it,” Reiche said.
As I walked out onto the tower balcony, I understood.
5:45 p.m.
Atop the 76-foot tower, it was happy hour. We pulled a few plastic chairs onto the balcony and looked out into a 360-degree panorama of blue. We purposely sat on the side opposite a gull chick, too young to fly, who was using a solar panel as a shelter. One of its parents circled overhead, calling at us the entire time. The wind constantly tried to blow away our bowl of cashews and bag of tortilla chips.
While they’re still in use as navigational aids, the lights atop lighthouses are now more of a backup to GPS. But at remote places like Halfway Rock, their importance is still unquestionable. The light here continually flashes red to warn mariners of hazard.
A gull flies above Halfway Rock on Casco Bay. (Daryn Slover/Staff Photographer) Purchase this image
The lantern itself, much different than the famous Fresnel lenses of old, is now a compact LED light, which the Coast Guard still maintains.
What happened to the old lens is one of the island’s mysteries.
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When the station was decommissioned, the third-order Fresnel that sat atop the tower for a century disappeared. It was supposed to go to the Coast Guard museum in Washington, D.C., but when Reiche inquired, the inventory number brought staff to a baseball hat. The lens would likely be worth more than $250,000 today.
As we sat there, with the sun sinking in the sky, Reiche said he always marvels at the conditions keepers dealt with, especially in the days before weather forecasts. Part of the job was climbing to the top of the tower to make sure the light was clear, even if that meant wiping away snow during a blizzard.
Some keepers couldn’t handle the extreme isolation, even as they worked in pairs.
A government report from the late 1800’s detailed the unraveling of Capt. George Toothaker, who would go a week or more without speaking to his fellow keeper, Mr. Holbrook, and was ultimately forced to resign.
“Mr. Holbrook reported to me that Mr. Toothaker, he believed, was at times out of his mind, or on the verge of so being. Finally, Mr. Holbrook informed me that he was afraid to remain longer at the station … as he believed Mr. Toothaker, in an excited state, might attack him,” the report said.
7 p.m.
We ate dinner — some grilled chicken and potato salad — on the east deck, where we could see a dozen or more seals laying out on the rocks. By the time we were finished, the light atop the tower had begun flashing.
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Reiche has tried to embrace the conditions on the island and simplify as much as possible. There’s a composting toilet, and solar panels provide limited power, but there’s no water source other than lugging in camping containers.
Ford Reiche walks back into Halfway Rock Light Station after having dinner outside. Reiche purchased the station in 2014 to restore the historic lighthouse that has been in operation since 1871. (Daryn Slover/Staff Photographer) Purchase this image
Reiche is a registered Maine Guide and donates trips out to the lighthouse to local organizations like the Maine Maritime Museum for fundraising. Some people have paid $5,000 for a day trip to Halfway Rock. Visitors sign a wall in the lantern room, with notes like, “Thank you Ford for all you do for lighthouse preservation.”
Reiche grew up in Falmouth. His grandfather was a principal at Portland High School and Reiche Elementary School is named for him. An appreciation for history runs in his family. His parents and grandparents were antique dealers. His cousin is longtime state historian Earle Shettleworth, Jr.
Since selling his freight logistics company, Safe Handling, in 2009, Reiche has focused solely on historic preservation projects. He restored the Charles B. Clarke house in Portland’s West End, and the 1906 Grand Trunk Railroad station in Yarmouth.
He’s also got his sights set on at least two other preservation projects in Casco Bay. A year ago, his nonprofit, the Presumpscot Foundation, was told it is a finalist to acquire Little Mark Island Monument, a 55-foot stone pyramid tower off Harpswell built in 1827.
At one time, it was the only navigational tower for Casco Bay mariners other than Portland Head Light. At its base is a mariners’ refuge — the oldest in America — that was once stocked with wood and water.
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Not far away, the condition of Eagle Island — one of only 44 national historic landmarks in Maine — troubles Reiche. It’s been closed to the public for six years, and he’s been working with the state and others to find funding sources to restore it.
Ford Reiche’s nonprofit, the Presumpscot Foundation, is a finalist to acquire Little Mark Island Monument, a 55-foot stone pyramid tower off Harpswell built in 1827. (Daryn Slover/Staff Photographer) Purchase this image
A park ranger lowers the flags at the Eagle Island State Historic Site, the former summer home of Arctic explorer Adm. Robert E. Peary. Reiche wants to restore the weathered home. (Daryn Slover/Staff Photographer) Purchase this image
Reiche also works with an organization called the Maine Steeples Fund, which has provided funding for the restoration of more than 75 church steeples across Maine.
“There’s no money for historic preservation, and there’s not a whole lot of interest in it,” he told me. “I think it’s a very important part of Maine, so someone’s got to do it.”
As we talked, a gull perched itself on a slab of concrete a few feet away and we fell silent. Unlike gulls in tourist spots, it wasn’t looking to steal our food. It was simply looking.
9 p.m.
Back on top of the tower, we watched the crimson sun drop over the horizon. Now that it was dark, Reiche pointed out the lights along the coast stretching from Cape Elizabeth to Seguin Island in Georgetown. For years, I had tried to catch a glimpse of this tower on the horizon from my in-laws’ place in Phippsburg. Now, I was standing on top of it.
Finally, it was time to get ready to turn in.
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Ford Reiche watches the sunset from the top of Halfway Rock Light Station in Casco Bay before going to bed. (Daryn Slover/Staff Photographer) Purchase this image
In order to avoid a low-power alarm going off in the middle of the night, Reiche turns it off after everyone is settled. From then on, it’s flashlights only. He gave us a 10-minute warning.
In my sleeping bag, I read some of the keepers’ logs and more about Captain Toothaker, who in an 1897 Lewiston Journal article, attempted to explain his mental state while on the island.
“Awake or asleep, the beacon haunts you,” he wrote. “Often I would start, quick, sharp, out of a profound sleep, a great, dark haunting shudder on me — the light has gone out. Even now it is my fear, and so nervous am I of a night that all sounds startle me, even though it is years since I left the Rock.”
How do I sleep after reading that? When I turned the flashlight off, I could still see a faint red flash funneling down the stairs from above.
The solar panels at right provide power to Halfway Rock Light Station. Ford Reiche of Freeport purchased the 76-foot-tall lighthouse in 2014, but the U.S. Coast Guard still maintains the light on top. (Daryn Slover/Staff Photographer) Purchase this image
5:30 a.m. Wednesday
I wanted to be up for sunrise and had beaten my goal considerably. I crouched in one of the deep set windows that looked east and watched the orange and pink glow crawl upward. The number of seals resting on the rocks had grown.
Reiche made coffee in a press pot. The Beatles’ “Abbey Road” played on a small Bluetooth speaker. In 2023, he published a book on Maine’s rock ‘n’ roll history before 1975. On the walls are posters for a Beach Boys performance at the Portland Expo and Gary Lewis and the Playboys at Portland City Hall.
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We had to leave by 6:30 a.m. due to the tides, so our morning was a flash of breakfast, tidying and turning off lights and closing doors.
The day was calm, with only lobster boats on the water. Reiche brought us a couple of miles east to see if we could spot any bluefin tuna that had been around lately. With no luck, we headed toward shore past Little Mark Island.
Ford Reiche pulls away from Halfway Rock Light Station in Casco Bay on the Wednesday morning. (Daryn Slover/Staff Photographer) Purchase this image
As I watched Halfway Rock get smaller, I asked Reiche how much he spent on the restoration. He wouldn’t tell me — he didn’t want his wife to know. Later when I prodded for a ballpark estimate, he responded, “As much as a ballpark.”
In his book, Reiche said he doesn’t have an explanation for why he had to “make this white elephant rescue project” his responsibility. There simply came a point where he “irreversibly appointed” himself the next guardian of Halfway Rock.
“To keep a white elephant alive requires a commitment to preservation for preservation’s sake alone,” he said.
A few days after the trip, I was back in Phippsburg squinting to see the tiny speck of Halfway Rock on the horizon. For a moment, I wondered how long it would take to paddleboard out there.
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Tagged: Casco Bay, lighthouse
Andrew Rice is a staff writer at the Press Herald covering the city of Portland. He's been working in journalism since 2012, joining the Sun Journal in 2017, then the Press Herald in 2026. He lives in. More by Andrew Rice
