Titanic Survivor's House

Built in 1899, the estate known as Waialua was never meant to be ordinary. It was built by Richard Beckwith, a man whose life was shaped by the impossible. He boarded the Titanic in 1912—and lived to tell the tale. After the ocean let him go, the mountains called him back. He returned to New Hampshire and poured his energy into the lakefront escape that had long been his sanctuary. What stands there today is one of the last great turn-of-the-century summer homes in New England untouched by time—or convenience.

The house itself is unapologetically old-world. No central heating. No insulation. Just eight bedrooms, three fireplaces, and walls that still creak in the night like floorboards on a ship. The wraparound porch offers a panoramic view of Squam Lake, the same shimmering waters used as the backdrop in On Golden Pond, though this house predates even that story.

Inside, the home feels like a deep breath held since the 19th century. A great room with a fieldstone fireplace anchors the main level—its hearth worn smooth by generations of fires, conversation, and quiet reflection. Original beadboard walls and hardwood floors stretch throughout the house, lit by period sconces and natural lake light.

The kitchen is simple, warm, and welcoming. No stainless steel or modern flash—just vintage cabinetry, a large farmhouse sink, and space that invites slow breakfasts and handwritten notes left on the counter. Adjacent is a formal dining room, flanked by built-in cabinets and original wavy-glass windows, where summer dinners stretch long into firefly-lit evenings.

There are eight bedrooms, most still outfitted with their original furnishings—charming in their simplicity, layered with handmade quilts, iron bed frames, and the patina of age. Each one has its own character, but the best views are saved for the second-story corner rooms, where sunrise over the lake still feels like a private show.

Outside, an original boathouse and ice house stand as quiet witnesses to an era of slower living. No docks filled with powerboats—just a gravel path to the shore, where loons call across the water and time seems, blessedly, to pause.

Waialua is not a relic—it’s a refuge. A place still lived in, still loved, still able to teach us something about what it means to endure. Like its builder, it survived. And not just physically, but spiritually. It reminds us that the past isn’t always behind us—sometimes, it’s just waiting patiently by the water.