It’s taken hold of the underbelly where the tower’s now-unused water tanks rest. The rust comes in all shades, from dark red to deep brown. Originally built with a 50-year life expectancy, a milestone it passed in the last decade, the tower is well past its prime. LISTEN NOW: Learn more about Frying Pan Tower in the latest episode of the Cape Fear Unearthed local history podcast, recorded live on deck of the tower! “We have to remind people that rust keeps rusting, and if we don’t go faster, we are going to lose this battle.”
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“It took a few years, but we recognized that we needed to shift away from any pretense of a B-and-B and go full speed into saving this tower,” said Neal, now propped up in another chair on the helipad, lighting a cigar with a propane canister. Immediately, he needed to begin work on restoring and preserving it, a mission he initially funded with fees from the buzzworthy bed and breakfast only to realize the necessary workload couldn’t sustain it. It’s been a decade since Neal bought the tower in an auction with the government for $85,000, a figure many might consider a steal.īut for Neal, who had only been to the ocean a handful of times before buying a property in the middle of it, the purchase came with just as much paradise as it did responsibility.Īlthough it was structurally sound, the tower is slowly being seized by the ocean and the elements, one piece of rusted metal at a time. Whether they are electricians, welders, painters or even a troop of resourceful Boy Scouts, he’s recruited all of them to lend a hand to whatever may be the week’s project – and there are a lot of them. Volunteers from all over the country offer up their particular expertise to help in preserving the tower for future generations, which has become Neal’s primary mission as the director of the Frying Pan Tower non-profit. For the past two years and change, Neal has transitioned the tower from one of the world’s most remote bed and breakfasts to an exclusive restoration project. He’s waiting for the latest batch of volunteers to arrive by helicopter. “You won’t find a better nap than up here,” he’ll later say. to catch a boat ride to the tower at 7:30 a.m. It’s just before noon and Richard Neal, 60, has dozed off on a patio chair on the helipad, catching up on the sleep he missed leaving his Charlotte home at 3 a.m. From this vantage point, they look like toy cars rolling along the shipping channel safe of Frying Pan Shoals’ notoriously treacherous shallows.
Enough to see the massive container ships far off in the distance. It's a humid Thursday morning that was supposed to be riddled with rain, but the blazing sun has conquered the clouds. It’s a remote lifestyle – rugged, yet peaceful – that its owners and supporters are fighting to save from the ravages of time and rust. Life on the tower moves at a slower pace, a quieter pace. Or, if it’s a particularly choppy day, it might be the waves crashing against the tower’s rock-solid legs, which were filled with concrete for support. In the summer, it may be the squawking of the royal terns that fly hundreds of miles to perch on the tower’s trusses.
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At any given moment, the loudest sound may be the whipping of the American flag waving atop a pole on the helipad, or the hum of the generator operating a lift to and from the water 80 feet below.
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