Florida’s Lighthouses Have Stood Sentinel Over Some of the State’s Most Harrowing History

I began to feel the history under my feet around step nine, as I looked up at the seemingly never-ending spiraling cast-iron steps. By step 87, my quads began to feel the burn. It was in that moment that my tour guide’s 5-minute stretching routine before our climb up the 108-foot-tall lighthouse made sense. 

The reason for my trip to Jupiter Inlet Lighthouse & Museum was simple: to understand why Florida’s lighthouses continue to captivate visitors more than a century after they were first lit. What I found is that these towers are more than navigational beacons; they are anchors of the state’s maritime history, connecting shipwrecks, wars, long-lost communities and the keepers who once climbed the winding stairs night after night. They inspire generations of authors, poets, filmmakers and everyday Floridians drawn to their allure. 

As the sun shone on my excursion to the lighthouse off A1A in Palm Beach County, my journey up the spiral staircase began to feel more extreme—and historic. Accompanying me for each step was Josh Liller, the historian and collections manager at Jupiter Inlet Lighthouse & Museum, and one of the country’s foremost authorities on lighthouses. 

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Our bucket list of ten of Florida must-see lighthouses and what to do when you’re there.

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For the past 13 years, Liller has walked up and down the staircase stretching the entire core of the conically shaped lighthouse painted brick-red. Before I can ask how many times he’s summited the lighthouse, Liller volunteers some data: “I used to give tours three times a day, and probably 300 tours my first year here.” 

Literature geeks like me may view lighthouses with a romantic undertone, part of a plotline that includes a girl falling in love with the lonely lighthouse keeper, marrying him and then living their lives eternally against a coastal backdrop. But for historians like Liller, these iconic relics have much more to tell than love stories. 

Seaside Sentries

The Jupiter Inlet Lighthouse has helped sailors safely navigate through the powerful Gulf Stream current and avoid the nearby reef since 1860. The red tower is the oldest structure in Palm Beach County, designed by George G. Meade, who eventually became the commanding general of the Union Army who won the Battle of Gettysburg. The lighthouse stands on a 48-foot-high mound, making its total height 156 feet and creating an imposing silhouette against the blue Florida sky. It features a rare, active first-order Fresnel lens—an important advancement in lighthouse technology because the Fresnel lens outshone its much larger predecessor, producing a more intense light visible from much farther out, over 20 nautical miles in some cases. I squint at the glinting glass, imagining the beams slicing through the dark Atlantic, my legs humming from the climb.

From its first lighting, more than 200 lighthouse keepers were employed to operate and maintain the lighthouse and the surrounding area. Typical duties included refilling the light’s oil and cranking the mechanism that rotated the lens. The beacon became fully automated in 1987, making these tasks largely obsolete and thereby eliminating the need for keepers. These days, like other lighthouses in Florida, Jupiter Inlet Lighthouse is maintained by the local historical society (the Loxahatchee River Historical Society, in this case), along with the Bureau of Land Management, which owns the land that the lighthouse sits on. 

Even now, the Jupiter Inlet Lighthouse still shines brightly—something Liller looks forward to seeing on sunset drives home or on predawn commutes to the office. A purist by many accounts, Liller is steadfast in his belief that lighthouses still have great use in today’s modern world, which is heavily reliant on GPS. Though advancements in navigation tech have taken a toll on the decommissioning of lighthouses, Liller says they are still useful, serving as distinct landmarks, if not as a good backup to GPS.

“Lighthouses do a great job of tying together a lot of stories,” Liller says. “They are not happening in isolation. They are part of the local maritime history, including shipwrecks. They are part of a larger story of the community.” And a larger story of Florida, I was beginning to unearth.

What Makes a Lighthouse?

Depending on whom you ask, Florida has either 29 or 30 lighthouses. I turned to an expert on the matter: Ken Smith, the two-time president of the Florida Lighthouse Association (FLA), an organization of 534 dedicated members passionate about preserving, restoring and protecting Florida’s remaining historic lighthouses.

“So, does Florida have 29 or 30 lighthouses, Ken?” I ask. 

“Yes,” he says with a laugh. 

It all depends on one’s definition of a lighthouse, which, until this conversation, I had no idea was so controversial. 

According to Liller, “a true lighthouse needs to be an elevated, closed structure of some kind that’s aiding navigation.” In addition, Liller says the structure should have been “built to be a manned station with an enclosed top.” This eliminates beacons like the inland Mount Dora Lighthouse, which was never manned by a keeper and was always automated, from achieving the designation of a lighthouse.

Further, he says, a beacon that’s not a lighthouse is generally something that is lighted, but the tower is open. “Sometimes there’s not even a true central staircase,” Liller says. “They were not intended to be manned directly. They were a light by itself with no attached dwelling or station.” 

Taking it a step further, Smith names the St. Joseph Point Lighthouse in the Panhandle, as the one controversial beacon. Designed as a house with a lantern room on top overlooking the bay, it was sold and relocated twice. Today, the restored structure is a private home overlooking the water once again. 

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Lighthouses do a great job of tying together a lot of stories.
—Josh Liller

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Technicalities aside, Florida’s lighthouses are defined less by structure than by story. Few have seen more tales unfold than the tower rising above Key Biscayne. I arrived at the base of Cape Florida Lighthouse, a vision in white at 100 feet high, by way of golf cart and a private tour offered by the nearby Ritz-Carlton Key Biscayne, Miami (which later included a picnic lunch at the resort). After I climbed the 109 steps and arrived at the wraparound gallery, winds whipping as I held on to every inch of rail for stability, I was in awe of the unimpeded views of Miami. To the east is the turquoise blue Atlantic Ocean, to the south are the overwater wooden houses of Stiltsville, to the north lies Miami Beach and to the west is Biscayne Bay.

Cape Florida Lighthouse has not always looked so pristine. Since its first lighting in 1825, the lighthouse has kept a quiet vigil over history—including a Seminole attack in 1836, launched during the Second Seminole War as  tribe members pushed back against forced removal and the encroachment of Western settlers. The lighthouse, keeper’s cottage and kitchen were set on fire. The lighthouse that we see today was built in 1847, replacing the original tower.

Neil Hurley is widely considered a leading lighthouse historian. A soft-spoken man, Hurley served in the U.S. Coast Guard, mostly in Florida. Cape Florida Lighthouse is unique for many reasons, including what Hurley calls “spectacular views and the fact that it’s in a natural environment” of Bill Baggs Cape Florida State Park’s coastal forest and mangroves.

Before the lighthouse, this part of Key Biscayne was part of the Saltwater Railroad, where runaway slaves went to escape bondage, Hurley says. Like the Underground Railroad, this southern point provided slaves a refuge before escaping to the Bahamas and other islands under the cover of night aboard boats and canoes. But in 1825, Cape Florida Lighthouse was built, and the presence of a keeper made it a less secretive escape. 

To the south, the Key West Lighthouse, a 90.5-foot-tall beacon rebuilt in 1848, stands a few blocks inland from Fort Zachary Taylor Historic State Park. Together with the Keys’ six offshore lighthouses, the structures guided ships to and around the island. Erected to guide both military and commercial ships through the hazardous, shallow reefs of the Florida Keys, the original Key West Lighthouse was first lit in 1826. Barbara Mabrity, a female keeper, kept it lit. 

Mabrity, one of the rare female keepers, worked alongside her husband at the original lighthouse in Key West. Her husband died from yellow fever in 1832, and she assumed his duty and title of keeper. In 1846, the lighthouse collapsed in a hurricane equivalent to a modern-day Category-5 storm. Of the nearly 600 island homes, only an estimated eight survived. 

The Mabritys created a dynasty of lighthouse keepers: Their daughter Nicolosa worked at two other lighthouses alongside her husband, Captain Joseph Bethel; their granddaughter, Mary Fletcher, and her husband, John Carroll, were keepers; and their grandson William served from 1889 to 1908. When William died, his wife, Mary Elizabeth, served as keeper until 1915, with her son Merrill as assistant keeper. 

The Keeper’s Keeper

South Florida artist and educator Timothy Leistner has been painting lighthouses for as long as he can remember. Born in Toledo, Ohio, he would often travel with his family to Marblehead Lighthouse on Lake Erie as a child, sparking his interest in beacons. An artist by trade, Leistner also considers himself a lighthouse keeper of sorts. “I look at it as my job as an artist to advocate for their protection through my artwork,” he says.

Leistner has photographed and painted countless lighthouses from around the world, and his works were recently on display at the Boca Raton Public Library. On the day we met, he sported a button-up short-sleeved shirt adorned with his artwork and a warm smile. 

In true artist form, he tells me, “I appreciate each lighthouse for the uniqueness of them. I think that lighthouses are often like people: They have unique qualities that are beautiful, just like people do.”

The  St. Augustine Lighthouse & Maritime Museum is the epitome of this, with its iconic black-and-white swirl and red cupola. Kathy Fleming, its former executive director and acting president of the United States Lighthouse Society, says if this lighthouse could talk, it would tell a deep history, especially of the keeper’s house. 

There are “the sounds of life” at this lighthouse, Fleming says. “Not just the crashing waves, but the laughter of keepers’ children in the 1876 Victorian home, reminding us that these were places of family, not just solitude. There was also the shadow of war, on a somber night in 1942 when the SS Gulfamerica was torpedoed by a U-boat just off the coast. The lighthouse stood as a silent, grieving witness to the stakes of global conflict.”

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A lighthouse doesn’t just look out, it looks back, ensuring that the stories of those who didn’t make it home are never forgotten.
—Kathy Fleming

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As I descended Jupiter Inlet Lighthouse’s 105 steps, thankful my quads were not cursing my name yet (my guide, Liller, later told me, “You might feel it tomorrow”), I looked back at the tower. Did my perspective of it change since heading up the spiraling staircase to its tallest point and now coming back to ground level? Strangely, the answer was yes. I felt more connected to Florida’s maritime history, more appreciative of the lives that the sailors, lighthouse keepers and others must have lived. It now makes sense why author Stephen Crane, who penned the masterpiece war novel “The Red Badge of Courage,” was compelled to write the short story “The Open Boat” after Ponce Inlet Lighthouse guided him to shore when the steam tug he was riding on sank. 

When I asked United States Lighthouse Society’s Kathy Fleming why lighthouses have captivated people for years—and me so suddenly—she offers a soft take on the subject. “Lighthouses remind us that history is beneath the waves as much as it is in the clouds. A lighthouse doesn’t just look out, it looks back, ensuring that the stories of those who didn’t make it home are never forgotten.” 

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