❖ HOUSE MOVING THROUGH THE BALLARD LOCKS ❖

Ferry Boatmen's Strike––
This homeowner was packing up and moving on.
Frank Fletcher on the move for fear of another
upset of ferry service and increased fares.
Bainbridge Island was in his wake.
Original photo dated 11 July 1937
From the archives of the Saltwater People Log©

Frank Fletcher, an insurance man, decided to move. Not only his household belongings but his house as well. Placing the five-room cottage on a large barge, Fletcher had it carried from his former location on Bainbridge Island, across Puget Sound, and thru the Lake Washington Ship Canal Locks, to a new site on the shores of Lake Washington. 
      Ten years later–––

Ferry Tie-Up, March 1947.
This team was moving goods in the
opposite direction from Mr. Fletcher's experience.
As viewed in top photo.
Doc Freeman & Russ Gibson to the
rescue for the readers of the Times, with 
 M.V. SPEEDER.
Click image to enlarge.
Original photo from the archives
of the Saltwater People Log©

"Despite the ferry tie-up for several days, persons living in island communities isolated by the strike-bound ferries still received their editions of the Seattle Times. In a few instances, the paper maybe has been delivered an hour or two later than usual, but––they got the paper. 
      This was due, in large part, to the cooperation and seamanship of O. H. 'Doc' Freeman and Russ Gibson, operators of charter service and owners of the 80-ft SPEEDER, with which they literally "delivered the mail" for the Times. 
      Both are old hands at helping out when ferry schedules are disrupted or other water transportation is tied up.
      'This is the fourth time we have delivered the Times,' Freeman recalled today. 'The first time was during the first ferry strike in '35. The next time was '37 and then '39. Now this time. We're getting used to it.'
      After loading the bundles of newspapers onto their boat at the float at the foot of Washington Street, the men deliver their cargo at Bremerton, Bainbridge, and Vashon Islands, where trucks and cars pick up the bundles of newspapers and distribute them to subscribers from Gig Harbor north to Port Angeles.
      Freeman, Gibson, and Ray Strickler, skipper of the SPEEDER, make two trips on Saturday. The last beginning at about midnight guarantees that island residents will have the latest possible edition when they open their copy on Sunday morning.
      Navy authorities were particularly helpful during the present emergency. At Fort Ward, the Navy installation on Bainbridge Island, the SPEEDER was allowed to unload its cargo at the Navy float for the convenience of island residents.
      'Everybody wants his paper,' reported Freeman. 'Whenever we approach a dock, there are always at least a dozen or more people waiting. The newspaper apparently is the thing they miss most."
The text for the bottom article is from The Seattle-Times 18 Mar 1947. No byline.

❖ YACHT FANTOME ANCHORS IN BAY

Schooner FANTOME, July 1939.

Four months after her arrival in West Seattle,

the schooner is locking through en route

 to her SYC moorage. Photographer unknown.
Original photo from the archives of the S. P. H. S.©

"Residents who live on the bluffs of West Seattle above Elliott Bay rubbed their eyes and took a second look this morning when they saw a stately frigate moving gracefully through the haze and into the harbor. Painted like a century-old man-o-war, she was, with her gilt figurehead, a carved spread eagle, glinting in the morning sun. Shades of 'Old Ironsides', or the ghost of Captain Vancouver.
      But as the vessel moved closer and came to anchor, they saw a gleaming brasswork and polished teak, and flying from her ensign staff astern the coveted white and crimson flag of the Royal Squadron, England's proudest yachting society.
      She is the four-masted, schooner-rigged, FANTOME, one of the world's largest private yachts, and aboard is her owner, the Hon. A. E. Guiness of London, whose 'Guiness Stout' has been a popular beverage in England for many years, and a distinguished party of guests.
      The FANTOME is a vessel of 1,260 gross tons register, 257' long. She came to Seattle for a 41' dinghy manufactured by the Chris-Craft Co, which joined the yacht in the harbor. The dinghy will sleep eight persons and cost $12,000. She will be used as a 'ship to shore' tender in waters not deep enough to accommodate the huge yacht.
      The FANTOME left Southampton 4 February [1939] and arrived in San Francisco 12 March, where her owner and his guests joined the yacht. They had crossed the Atlantic on the liner QUEEN MARY and went from New York to San Francisco by airplane.
      After a cruise of B.C. and Puget Sound waters, Mr. Guiness and his guests will leave Vancouver, B.C. for England, but the FANTOME will remain in the Pacific Northwest. Capt. T. H. Frogbrooke commands the FANTOME yacht that carries a crew of thirty-four men. She is a unit of the Royal Yacht Squadron of Southampton.
      En route to the Pacific Coast the FANTOME called only at San Juan, P. R., for bunkers, and the Panama Canal. The yacht was built seven years ago for the Duke of Westminster. She is of the frigate type, resembling an old-time man-of-war. The vessel's taffrail is resplendent in gilt and carvings; she has a carved golden spread-eagle for a figure-head. A twin-screw Diesel-powered vessel, the FANTOME maintains a speed of eleven knots.
      The yacht will remain anchored on the south side of the harbor tonight and tomorrow, elegant for all to see."
Seattle Times, 30 March 1939
S. P. H. S. has another FANTOME post here

❖ SOUTH FROM ALASKA ❖ The Great Canoe Race by Captain Doug Logan

Petersburg, Alaska, undated postcard.
U.S. Navy Photograph;
Published by HTT Co.
From the archives of S. P. H. S. ©.

Harbor view of Petersburg, AK. 
Photo by Chuck Diven.
Undated postcard published by
C.P. Johnston Company, Seattle, WA.
From the archives of the 
Saltwater People Historical Society ©.

"So, you want to hear about the canoe race? Let's start off with a little Petersburg history. In 1940, the population was 1,641. There was a one-man bank with a total of two-and-a-half million bucks in it. A sleepy, little halibut town. A few purse seiners, but not too many. A couple of canneries for salmon and one big cold storage for halibut. Of that 1,600 population, I'd say 90 to 95 percent were Norwegian, mostly second generation. One Filipino family. Maybe half a dozen Indian families. And one white man. Me.
    The reason I was in Petersburg was that I always got a good job on the halibut boats because I'd overhaul the engines in the wintertime and get 'em ready to go for spring. I used to fish with the Otness group--I was buddies with Johnny Otness. We sailed together in WW II. Toward spring, I'd work for Bob Thorstensen's father-in-law hauling trap logs and hanging web. I had a little bitty tugboat, a 36-footer, and a rigging scow that I'd yard out the trap logs with.
      One winter I worked for Puget Sound Bridge and Dredge Company. They were dredging the Wrangell Narrows with the old dipper dredge AJAX. Bob Morton was dipper man and George Youth was running the tug TOM for 12 hours a day. I'd run it the other 12 hours, hauling dump scows out to Mountain Point and dumping them in deep water and then bringing them back and tying them alongside the dredge.
      The other thing I'd do in the winter is drink. Because that's about all there was to do in Petersburg. Everybody drank Everclear. We'd make punch out of it, and every night there was a house party somewhere. And of course, everyone was invited. They'd take a washtub and, oh, six or eight quarts of orange juice, canned orange juice, some grape juice to make the punch purple, throw a few lemons, and a couple of quarts of Everclear and a little bit of water. So you were drinking that stuff, which was disguised by grapefruit juice and orange juice. The next thing you know, you couldn't grab your ass with both hands.
      Communication with the outside world was one plane a day from Ketchikan. For freight and passenger service, every two weeks we had Alaska Steam--the BARANOFF one time, the ALEUTIAN the next. 

S.S. ALEUTIAN

Dated 1948,
Williamson Studio photo  
From the archives of the S.P.H.S. ©

The ALEUTIAN was about 260-feet, not a very big ship, and she made about 15 knots, which is pretty fast.
      Anyway, the chief mate and one of the third mates were having a drink with me at the Harbor Bar, and we got into an argument. The chief was an old friend of mine. We'd sailed together in the Merchant Marines--sailing S.U.P. [Sailors' Union of the Pacific]. The argument was over the seaworthiness of my canoe.
      It was an Indian dugout canoe, a whaling canoe--a pretty good-size one. I'd bought it in La Push on the Washington coast in 1944 for $20 cash, a shot-out .22 special, and a couple dozen #4 Victors. I'd restored the canoe pretty good, putting in some new seats and built a little transom on the stern just big enough to take an outboard.
      What a lot of people don't know is the bottom of these ocean-going canoes is about four inches thick, tapering from the bottom, which is flat, on up to the sides to about one inch at the gunnel. Then they'd always put a wear strip across the top of the gunnel which was four inches high. So there was quite a bit of freeboard with just me in the canoe.
      Anyway, I threw it on the back of a boat and took it up to Petersburg as my hunting canoe. I had a brand new 20-horse Merc on it that had just come out in 1948. It was a gorgeous rig, and I wasn't about to take any guff about her seaworthiness.
      So I made a bet: that I could beat the ALEUTIAN to Seattle. For a case of MacNaughton's.
      We sailed at the same time, and I took off down the channel going like hell. The way I had the canoe rigged is I had a couple of 50-gallon drums with pre-mixed gas and side bungs in 'em, old lube-oil drums. This way I could run on a 50-gallon drum rather than a little six-gallon tank that came with the Mercury. I had a little Coleman gas stove, a couple flashlights, a box of grub and a handful of spare parts--spark plugs, etc.
      Of course, the ALEUTIAN had to stop for 4-hours in Wrangell and another 4-hours in Ketchikan on the southbound trip. She could make a red-hot 15-knots, but the canoe, planing, could do about 25-knots. So if I could stay awake, I figured I could beat her hands down.
      I'd forgotten how that canoe could beat a person to death in a light chop. I had a long handle on that Mercury and I'd stand up and grunt 'til I had to sit down, first on one cheek, then the other. I'd get my sleeping bag and lean back with the tiller under my arm. Of course, I had my rain gear. It was a little damp out there.
      I stopped at Klemtu behind Cone Island by Boat Bluff, where I slept at that little cannery for 4-hours, and had the watchman wake me up. Ran into a little chop crossing the Queen Charlottes, forcing me to slow down, but I made it to the locks in 40 hours and 8 minutes, which is an average speed of a little more than 18.5-knots.
      When I got there, I couldn't even get out of that canoe, I was so stiff. But I won my case of whiskey. In those days there was a lock slip that you got with a time and date stamped on it, so I had proof. That canoe is now on display at the Burke Museum in Seattle--up there in the middle of the University of Washington. I always thought I'd repeat the trip back up, but it's a little slower uphill. I'm clear."

Courtesy of the Alaska Fisherman's Journal. October 1996