A light in the dark

It’s almost impossible to forget that Ventura County is an agricultural area, what with the strawberry fields and orange trees, and overflowing produce stands that we drive by every day on our way to work. And it’s nearly impossible to forget that we’re a beach town, thanks to the fantastic views that we can see from almost anywhere in the county (and thanks to the equally fantastic weather).

But I almost never think of my home county as a port. Maybe because when I go to the shore, I pick the places where surfing and sunbathing — not shipping — are prime. Or maybe because the area’s harbor shopping centers weren’t exactly the center of excitement during my formative years. Whatever the reason, I rarely ever imagined Ventura as a big part of ocean commerce and transportation. The most I could picture was a weekend warrior taking his sailboat from the Ventura Keys out to sea for an hour or two.

So I never imagined we’d have our own lighthouse. Lighthouses, after all, are the quintessential symbol of nautical life. They belong in Nantucket and Nova Scotia, in stories about beautiful young girls waiting for their lovers, lost at sea, who may never return. At the very least, they belong in places where big ships regularly cruise by and need to know either what shores to avoid or what shores to head toward.

But the reality is, Ventura County has the only deepwater port between Los Angeles and San Francisco. And we do have our own lighthouse, right at the end of Port Hueneme road on the commercial side of the Point Hueneme port. This is the largest point of entry for car imports and perishable goods on the West Coast. Dole and Chiquita have huge warehouses here.

And you can see the lighthouse yourself every third Saturday of the month, thanks to volunteer keeper Kim Castrobran. As part of the Coast Guard Auxiliary, the Pasadena resident has been caring for the lighthouse and leading tours, along with his wife, Rose, since 2002.

He wasn’t originally a pharologist (or, as a list of glossary terms on the wall explains, “one who studies or is interested in lighthouses”), but the building converted him. Now, when on vacation, he’ll hike two miles out of his way to visit a lighthouse in the area. If there’s a special on lighthouses on TV, he’ll stop channel-surfing and watch it. And ordering books and videos about lighthouses? “I used to think, ‘Come on. Old people do that,’ ” he said.

But the smooth-skinned Castrobran, who can’t be older than 35, does that, too.

When you visit, though, you’ll notice this isn’t the lighthouse you probably imagine. You know the one in your head? The Rapunzel tower standing alone at the end of a rocky jetty? This lighthouse isn’t that one. This building is part of another tradition of lighthouse architecture, the Art Moderne style made popular in the 1930s and 1940s (when this building was constructed). It looks like a one-story house with a three-story turret coming up through the middle. It’s rectangular and home-y, with small, angular details and a grassy yard surrounding it. It will probably remind you more of civic buildings in your hometown than it will of European fishing villages.

But that’s part of its charm. It is uniquely ours, not some copy of what people think a lighthouse is supposed to look like.

And once you’re inside, you can’t deny its purpose. The first floor is the largest, and used to house the massive metal machinery that created the sound of the foghorn (which is now electrical, can be operated remotely by cell phone and sits at the corner of the building next door). Now it’s the majority of the museum, with photos of the original building, laminated copies of news stories and models of the inner workings of the lighthouse.

There’s an auxiliary light, which is actually one of the two back-up lanterns to be used if something happens to the main lamp, and a large, green buoy exactly like the ones that act as traffic signals in the harbor. Like the real ones, this one has a solar panel the size of a small pizza box on top — not because technology requires it that big (with today’s advancements, one the size of quarter would probably suffice), but because the chance of sea gull guano (that’s bird poop) rendering the large one inoperable is significantly less than it is with the smaller version. There are several bars on springs meant to keep the seagulls away, but a photo of a bird sitting happily in the middle of the four springs demonstrates how well this system generally works.

A set of narrow stairs leads to the second floor, where there’s only room for a small nook housing a television for instructional videos and a framed photo of Castrobran’s father, who also is a keeper at the Point Vicente lighthouse. Another flight leads to another landing, flooded with natural sunlight from the floor-to-ceiling windows. And then there’s the bright-red metal ladder leading to the main chamber, which is barely big enough for a few adults and the lantern the size of a grown man’s torso.

This is the legendary Fresnel lens, invented by a French engineer in the 1800s to channel light, which usually diffuses in all directions, into one clear beam. It looks like some magnificent Christmas ornament or maybe a ceiling light that could belong to your grandparents’ grandparents, with glass pieces several inches thick — and it’s still in full operation. There are still cogs beneath the lens, though, from the time when the lamps were run by hand cranks that pulled weights up to the top of the tower. Then the lamps were powered by the weights falling back down to the ground. (That’s part of why traditional lighthouse towers are so tall.) Now, with electricity, those cogs are there just for show.

There are round, red vent covers that let air into the tower and a rounded door leading out to a small observation deck. You’d feel you’d been transported to another time if it weren’t for the Chevrolet Sebring in the parking lot next door and the Quicksilver-brand lubricant on the floor next to the lens (since it’s hard to imagine Quicksilver was around in the 1800s and all).

When you’re up there, you’ll start to think about the way the coast is shaped — not straight like the maps we draw in elementary school but with curves and corners that are dangerous to ships, even now. You’ll think about the wharf that was here in the 1800s, where horses and lumber were unloaded and given to the people in Oxnard, Santa Paula and Ventura.

You’ll think about what happened in the 1930s and 1940s, when the man-made harbor was built and the lighthouse, which stood 300 yards away from the current structure in what is now the channel, had to be moved. You’ll wonder what happened to that structure, purchased by a local yacht club and then either demolished, burned down or left in disrepair — no one knows which.

If you’re a history buff or are interested in the history of Ventura County, seeing this lighthouse should definitely be part of your weekend plans.

But even if you’d rather watch a test of the emergency broadcast system than the History Channel, you should still visit. On a very basic level, the lighthouse is worth seeing because it’s beautiful — a beautiful building with a beautiful view. Just ask the Castrobans — it’s where he proposed to her with a bottle of champagne in July of 2003. She must’ve agreed that the sight of the clear blue water and the jetties reaching out into it like cradling arms and the smooth, untouched beaches resting inside the harbor was beautiful. The now-Mrs. Castroban said “yes.”