By Seán Malone and John Sweetman
Seán and I had just returned from an extended trip to Hunters in Eastern Washington where his brother Mike has a large ranch that we frequently visited as “unpaid interns” to work in various neat projects, such as restoring old fish runs from Lake Roosevelt.
After a long drive, we ended up at the Fauntleroy terminal and … just like almost winning the lottery, our arrival was almost a drive-on. Ferry problems seem to have been with us both our entire lives. So, the small delay allowed us to reflect on our early ferry experiences over a bag of overpriced Cheetos we snagged outta’ that thieving machine next to the restrooms, which were closed for some inscrutable reason.
In 1953, Seán relates, dad was half-owner of a painting business in Seattle, and his younger sister and brother and he commuted to Seattle for school, which was a horrendous endeavor.
Every morning, we left the house for the ferry at 7:30 a.m. Connecting with the ferry was crucial as I went to Seattle Preparatory School and if I was late because of a missed ferry, the Vice Principal met me at the front door and directed me downstairs to the boiler room. Father W. would tell me to bend over and grab my ankles while he administered three spats. He used a three-foot-long wooden paddle with four holes, so as not to reduce the paddle’s speed. It was said to be a successful mission if Father was able to lift your heels off the floor.
“Hey Dad, you are on the wrong side of the road,” I said as we sped through the three or four very sharp turns on the flat before Heights Hill. Before the County came, Vashon Highway was just an old wagon road that followed the property lines, creating tight corners on Vashon Highway. Dad spoke up as he sped towards the dock: “I’m just straightening out the curves.”
As we neared the dock, I could see through the bushes. “Hey Dad, they are closing the gate,” I cautioned, and Dad began honking his horn, causing the deckhand to quit lowering the gate while the Captain waited for us to board. That’s how Dad saved me from the “boiler room.” That day.
The San Mateo was the smallest ferry in Puget Sound, and the last steam ferry. Generally, riding the ferry was boring until a big storm came along. Then, the San Mateo pitched and rolled, and Dad told us to grab both rails while climbing from the car to the main deck. When the San Mateo pitched, we heard the bow slap as she hit the wave’s trough. We made a game out of timing the waves while we ran from post to post to reach one of the benches. It was dangerous, as you could be pitched to the deck if your timing wasn’t right.
John relates that the San Mateo figured in an experience he vaguely remembers. Back in those days, the “Black Ball” line, which my grandfather referred to as “those crooks,” was mainly powered by steam or vintage diesel engines that were peculiar in that they were “reversible” in rotation. That is to say that, as a ferry approached the dock, the engine noise would suddenly cease and then loudly resume as the propeller rotation reversed.
Such was the operational protocol, but stopping the large engine and then restarting in reverse was a complicated exercise in coordination between the signal system, engineer, and captain, as well as a precise alignment of exactly the top dead center of where the pistons were located. To get this right, there was a thing called the “Johnson Bar” that had to be moved at exactly the right moment to stop the engine at exactly the right point. And then restart in the reverse rotation!
All went usually fine, except for rough weather and the usual miscommunication over the early brass speaking tubes between the bridge and engineering spaces. One time, we were headed into Winslow, on probably the San Mateo, and the usual silence before docking was longer than usual. All of a sudden, the sound of the engines returned, and we sped toward the dock instead of backing off as usual! We crashed into the dolphins or the dock. My grandfather’s Chrysler smacked into another car, and I remember some damage being discussed.
While the responsible adults discussed various remedies and fixed the ramp to offload, we kids were taken up to the cafeteria to have banana splits with cherries on top. Grampa probably had a sip of his favorite Canadian whiskey.
