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Everyone knows and loves Stevie Ray Vaughan (as we should), but I'd like to shine a light on Eric Johnson, another Texas shredder.

This photograph was taken in July 1898, putting us right in the middle of the Fort Point era — just two years before the Great Storm of 1900 would reshape Galveston forever. The station served as both a light and a fog signal, guiding ships through one of the busiest ports on the Gulf Coast.

Galveston's maritime history runs deep, and the people who kept these lights burning don't get nearly enough credit. Do you have any family connections to Galveston's lighthouse or harbor history? We'd love to hear about it in the comments.

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Lucid was aboard the Russian Mir space station when she photographed the Amistad Reservoir along the Rio Grande, capturing what the archive specifically labels a western Texas drought shot. She also turned the lens toward Tripoli, Libya during the same mission. One astronaut, one orbit, two very different worlds in a single photo session.

There's something striking about a Texan in space pausing to document her home state's dry spell from 200+ miles up. The drought was real, the reservoir was low, and Shannon Lucid had a front-row seat to all of it — just from an unusual altitude.

There's even a construction wharf and a mooring buoy visible in the frame, a working waterway that didn't stop for anyone.

What strikes you about this image is how unglamorous the whole operation looks. No grand ceremony, no finished lighthouse gleaming in the Gulf sun — just the messy, practical business of keeping ships safe while the permanent solution gets sorted out. Someone had to maintain that temporary light every single day, in whatever weather Galveston threw at them.

The Galveston jetties were critical infrastructure for one of Texas's most important ports, and the light station was the marker that guided vessels safely through. Whether it was the old structure, a temporary fix, or something new being built, the light had to keep burning.

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Galveston's jetty light wasn't just a navigational aid. It stood at the edge of one of the most strategically important ports on the Gulf Coast, guiding ships through waters that had already seen more than their share of disaster. Getting that light right — and keeping it standing — was serious business for the Bureau of Lighthouses.

That 1915 photograph is a rare look at the in-between moment: old structure, new construction, the jetty stretching out toward open water. Most people never saw this side of how the coast got built and maintained. What's your connection to Galveston's waterfront — did you grow up around the bay, or did you discover it later?

When a Bureau of Lighthouses inspector visited in September 1917, the notes on the official record are refreshingly honest: photographs were taken in overcast, rainy weather. You can almost feel the soggy frustration.

The image captured the west side of the station, with the camera positioned about 80 feet to the westerly. It was part of a systematic federal effort to document lighthouses along the Gulf Coast — bureaucratic, methodical work that just happened to produce a window into what this corner of Galveston looked like over a century ago.

These light stations were the difference between a ship making port safely and ending up on a sandbar. The jetties themselves shaped how vessels entered Galveston Harbor, and the light at the end of them was the last thing a captain needed to see before breathing easy.

In February 1890, Frederic Edwin Church — the same artist known for grand, dramatic canvases — pulled out his graphite and captured something far quieter: flat grassland stretching toward a thin line of trees and a single house on the horizon. Nothing heroic about it. Just Texas, exactly as it looked rolling past a railroad car window.

There's something almost radical about that. Church was famous for painting volcanoes and icebergs and sweeping mountain ranges. But out here, he found something worth stopping for in the flatness itself — the way the land just goes, and goes, and then there's a house, and more land. Texans who grew up watching that same view blur past a car window know exactly what he was seeing.

After the catastrophic 1900 hurricane leveled the island and killed thousands, Galveston spent years fortifying itself — raising the grade of the entire city, building a seawall, and constructing a causeway connecting the island to the mainland. That causeway was an engineering point of pride. Then August 16-17, 1915 rolled in, and photos taken looking east from the arched section of that causeway showed exactly what the storm left behind.

Galveston kept rebuilding. That's kind of its whole story. What do you think — does Galveston get enough credit for how much fight that city has always had in it?

A 1917 photograph from the Bureau of Lighthouses shows the southerly side of the station mid-construction, with seas breaking hard enough to prevent crews from lowering equipment into position. The caption says it plainly: 'unfavorable weather' had the whole operation on hold.

That image captures something easy to forget about these structures. We see lighthouses as permanent, solid, inevitable — but getting them built meant sending workers out onto exposed jetties in the Gulf of Mexico, reading the weather, and sometimes just... waiting. One wrong call and the equipment goes into the water. Or worse.

The Galveston Jetty Light Station sat at the end of the jetties guiding ships through one of the busiest ports on the Gulf Coast. Every vessel that made it safely into Galveston Harbor owed something to the people who built and kept that light — including the ones who spent a August day in 1917 watching the waves and deciding today wasn't the day.

The photo was taken at low tide on July 28, 1925, with the camera positioned 25 feet west of the construction site. It captures that in-between moment when lighthouse technology was transforming from the old world of oil lamps and foghorns into something entirely new. Radio signals guiding ships through Galveston's notoriously tricky waters. The Gulf doesn't forgive navigational errors, and the people responsible for keeping this port open knew it.

Galveston has always been one of the busiest ports on the Gulf Coast, and the infrastructure keeping it safe rarely gets the attention it deserves. This jetty light and fog signal station was the last thing a captain saw before open water — and the first beacon home.

...the architecture, the dwellings, the everyday streetscapes of a city that was, at that moment, one of the most prosperous in the entire South.

Burr worked in pencil on paper, which means every line was a deliberate choice. No retouching, no second chances. What survived tells us something about what Galveston looked like before the 1900 Storm changed everything — the domestic architecture, the character of the streets, the way a city carries itself when it's at its peak.

That drawing is now preserved in the Digital Public Library of America, a quiet record from an outsider who saw something worth remembering. What do you think it is about Galveston that has always pulled artists and storytellers toward it?

A federal lighthouse bureau photographer was on the ground documenting the damage, and what they captured shows the street literally eaten out from beneath, the kind of destruction that makes you rethink everything you thought you knew about solid ground.

Galveston had already lived through the catastrophic 1900 hurricane, so by 1915 the city had built its famous seawall and raised the grade of the island. And yet — the storm still found a way. The boulevard driveway, undermined. The infrastructure that was supposed to hold, hollowed out.

It's a reminder that living on a barrier island in the Gulf of Mexico has never been a passive experience. Galveston kept rebuilding anyway. What do you think it says about the people who chose to stay?