In the 19th century, the Atlantic Ocean was the main highway for the xshipping of goods throughout the world, whether it was up and down the eastern seaboard of North America, or across the sprawling deep to Europe.

 The promise of healthy pay, the lure of adventure in foreign lands, the myths of mysterious ocean creatures or long-hidden treasures were often enough to tempt the young and old into the seafaring life.

 But beyond the ranks of the fisherman, the stevedore, the captain and the crew, there was another class of dedicated workers who toiled their lives away with little thanks from the outside world, save for the occasional hail from a ship passing in the night.

 The lighthouse keeper was a breed of a different kind. Dutiful, unwavering in his efforts to keep the small, glowing signal towers aflame, the lighthouse keeper kept vessels from harm's way in the dark of night or the mists of an early morning fog.

 Before the dawn of the 20th century, and for years after, the South Shore of Nova Scotia was speckled with its share of well-maintained lighthouses.

 With limited railway expansion in the region, and inconsistent access to different communities by road over land, the ocean highway was the primary means of moving goods quickly and securely from one area to another.

 The lighthouse keeper, in his role directing ships away from shoals, along the shoreline was as utterly indispensable then as the traffic light is today.

 In the late spring of 1876, Judge Mather DesBrisay, a local magistrate and Lunenburg County booster extraordinaire, took it upon himself to visit one of the most remote lighthouses in all of Nova Scotia.

 Wanting to experience the essence of lighthouse keeping - the solitude, the danger, the life-altering experience - DesBrisay made arrangements to travel by boat to Green Island, a small projection from beneath the ocean along the outer lips of Mahone Bay's gargantuan mouth.

 After rowing first to Tancook Island, then on to Ironbound, then finally to the small gravel beach of Green Island, DesBrisay climbed ashore to meet the island's lighthouse keeper, Walter Pearl.

 Pearl, who was born in Ireland in 1813, had come to North America in his youth, eventually settling on Tancook Island, where he was baptized at the island's Baptist church in 1843.

 Taking a walking tour with Pearl, DesBrisay came to understand the full extent of the farmer and fisherman turned lighthouse keeper's isolation. In June of 1876, having been on the job for two years, the judge was the first person, save for his sons, the occasional passing fisherman and the government supply steamer - which usually only appeared once a year - to visit the barren outpost.

 In fact, the island was so desolate, Pearl recalled, that even his cow had tried desperately to escape the prison on one occasion. The heifer, having noticed that a boat carrying provisions had arrived from Tancook along the shoreline, made a mad attempt to clamber aboard and stow away until reaching a more populated shore.

 Unable to plant its hooves, however, the would-be cow escape artist was spotted, reined in and taken back onto the island.

 The cow was not the only animal to keep Walter company on Green Island, however. Hundreds upon hundreds of petrels flocked to the island each year, burrowing beneath the grassy surface, creating a network of holes and fissures that would stop a hasty man in his tracks.

 The birds, DesBrisay observed, were so numerous that they created an overpowering stench, one that could not even be removed clean by the open, merciless winds of the Atlantic.

 And while the birds may have been an unpleasant sight to a visitor such as Judge DesBrisay, they were a welcome source of food for Walter Pearl's other steadfast island companion, his Newfoundland dog, who would spend hours at a time trying to retrieve petrels from their grassy burrows.

 As bothersome as the solitude was, there were other elements of life on Green Island that made matters equally trying. For starters, Pearl's wife, Ann Matilda, and the rest of his children lived on Tancook Island.

 Beyond his family, Pearl also confessed to DesBrisay that he missed the social and spiritual elements of life among the community. Unable to go to church, or to have access to educational opportunities, Pearl lamented that there was an increasing void in his lonely life on the island where such matters were concerned.

 But then, it was almost balanced by the shear beauty of the location. On a clear day, Pearl claimed, he could spy the church steeples in Lunenburg, which surely must have offered some sense of comfort.

 Under the starry night's sky, Pearl also had his own little light show, as he was able to count the seven other sparkling lighthouse torches visible from his position along the Lunenburg County coastline, not to mention the pale glow of household oil lamps from miles around.

 His universe was illuminated, sparkling like no other.

 And so, having learned of both sides of the life of the lighthouse keeper, Judge DesBrisay departed his island-bound friend in 1876. But, despite the solitude and the isolated existence inextricably linked with his profession as a lighthouse keeper, Walter Pearl remained adamant in his determination to carry on his duty, protecting fishermen and sailors from the perils of the Nova Scotia shoreline.

 Some six years later, Mather DesBrisay was sitting quietly in his Bridgewater home one evening, when his eyes happened upon a passage in one of the Halifax papers reporting that a government lighthouse keeper by the name of Pearl had died, unexpectedly, on March 30, 1882.

 Walter Pearl, the death notice read, had been rowing along with his youngest son, Benjamin, who was 35 years of age, from Tancook to Masons Island to acquire manure to take back to the lighthouse on Green Island, undoubtedly to reinforce some of the petrel-pecked turf.

 En route, their boat, already heavily laden with cargo, was swamped by a series of large waves, and as onlookers watched helplessly from the shoreline, Walter Pearl, his son and his craft sank out of sight.

 While Walter Pearl may have lived a mostly secluded life - on a tiny island, miles from family, from land and from the comforts afforded by constant human companionship - he had nonetheless received one final gift from his cold, brutal working partner, the Atlantic Ocean: old Walter did not die alone.

 Sources: Charles Simic; "Tancook Island Genealogy," available at Tancook Island Homepage, maintained by Martha Farrar; "History of the County of Lunenburg," Mather DesBrisay.

Written and researched by Patrick Hirtle.