Document ID: chunk:federal_register_of_legislation:F2023L01287:reg:2023:p16
Version: federal_register_of_legislation:F2023L01287
Segment Type: reg
Provision Reference: reg 2023 (pt 16/17)
Character Range: 41354–43998

his leg became entwined in some wire, holding him above the water. After a failed attempt to send for help via pigeon post, the lightkeepers were finally able to attract a passing ship the following day using distress signals. The message was successfully relayed to Hobart and the steamer Cartela was dispatched to the island with a doctor on board. The unconscious Patterson was hoisted down the cliffs to the awaiting steamer.[29]
This event is considered the turning point that triggered investigation into the reliability of pigeon post at isolated sites. Finally in October 1930, a radio was installed at Tasman Island Lighthouse.
With the crane lost, access to the island was by a temporary structure built on the rocks below until a flying fox was constructed in 1929. Suspended from an overhead wire, the flying fox stretched from the landing platform to an off-shore rock known as Anchor Rock, approximately 80 feet above sea level. This remained in operation until the station was closed in 1977.
In addition to the station's perilous location and isolating conditions, the weather endured on Tasman Island could be catastrophic. High wind levels battered the station, causing the tower to sway and mantles within the lantern to split, extinguishing the light on many occasions. Crops were ruined by strong gales and some unfortunate livestock were blown over the cliff side. On 28 April 1906, the keepers' woodshed and cottage fences were blown away by the winds, and in 1928, the two-roomed relief quarters was lifted 3ft from its foundations. The tower was also flooded twice in the first year of its operation as disastrous storms hit the island.[30]
An account of life on the island was published in The Argus in 1919, revealing much about the keeper's relationship with the weather:
    One thing ever with them, and in their ears night and day, is the sound of the surf at the foot of the cliffs. It varies from a mournful minor melody on summer days when the sea is calm, except for the swell which never ceases to rise and shatter itself against the black rocks, to a crashing roar which fills the air and seems to shake the solid rock in times of storm. So habituated is it possible to become to this 'background' of never-ceasing sound, that some of those who are used to it cannot sleep when they first go to inland places. The silence of the night seems oppressive and unnatural, and they lie awake listening in vain for the wild lullaby of the breaker.[31]
The station remained staffed until 1977 when on 20 May, the last inhabitants of Tasman Island—David Ingram, his family and Lyndon Webb—departed.
Figure 13. (Left)