Month: August 2024

Ferry Tales: Scandalous events at last revealed

On By Mary KochIn Uncategorized2 Comments

Among the joys of old age: you finally get to reveal long-held, sometimes scandalous secrets. Either those involved have passed on, or the events were so far back, they can no longer embarrass. 

This thought came to mind as I read a Seattle Times story about the retirement of two venerable Washington state ferries: the Elwha and Klahowya. Both are headed to the scrap heap.

I was a frequent commuter aboard the Klahowya in the 1970s, when I lived on Vashon Island. A sedate, hard-working vessel, the Klahowya received little notice as she sailed a triangular route between Southworth on the Olympic Peninsula, Vashon Island’s north end, and Fauntleroy in West Seattle. 

The Elwha was another matter, involved in one maritime scrape after another. The Times piece quotes Steven Pickens, Puget Sound ferry historian: “I will not be sorry to see the Elwha go. In fact I’d probably give it a kick on the way out if I could. I’ll miss the Klahowya.”

Likely the Elwha’s most infamous incident was in 1983, when she went off-course sailing from Anacortes to Orcas Island. She hit a reef, causing a quarter-million dollars worth of damage and a major interruption of service. Reason for the stray? Turned out the captain had a passenger in the wheelhouse to whom he’d “taken a shine.” He’d rerouted so the passenger could see her house from the water. Both the skipper and the head of the state ferry system lost their jobs over that one.

By 1983 I was living in the drylands of Eastern Washington, my ferry commuting days behind me. Yet I wasn’t at all surprised with the news of shenanigans in the wheelhouse.

Besides commuting aboard the Klahowya, I frequently was a passenger on the much smaller Hiyu II. She ferried islanders from the south end to Tacoma throughout the 1970s. She was a small boat on a short run, serving a tight community. Everyone knew everyone. Passengers were commonly invited to the wheelhouse to chat with the skipper and crew. Understandable. Steering a boat back and forth, forth and back, back and forth, could get pretty tedious.

Hiyu II ferried islanders between Vashon and Tacoma

One sunny afternoon, my parents my and I boarded the Hiyu for their first island visit. The deck crew ushered us to the wheelhouse. My mother was especially thrilled. In her college years, she worked as a waitress aboard a cruise ship on the Great Lakes. Yet I doubt she’d ever made it to the wheelhouse. 

For decorative reasons, the builders of the Hiyu had installed old-fashioned wooden steering wheels. It was a wheelhouse, after all. The vessel was actually steered by toggle switches on a kind of horizontal dashboard. The skipper, who had total control of the ferry at all times, asked Mom if she’d like to steer, pointing to the fake wooden wheel. Thrilled, she took the wheel, standing straight and tall as the ferry held its course. 

“I can’t believe he let me do that!” she later exclaimed as we descended the stairs to the car deck. She was excited, yet a little dubious. Was it really appropriate for a common citizen to steer the boat? Obviously that particular skipper (who, I emphasize, is no longer in this realm) enjoyed playing that trick for special passengers. I’m sure that kind of “hospitality” ended as of 1983.

The Hiyu II has been refurbished as an entertainment venue on Lake Union. I could rent it for three hours of sailing for a mere $10,000. I doubt any party I could dream up would be as much fun as that afternoon cruise when my mother skippered a Washington state ferry.

When Fate Turns the Page: Time to start a new chapter

On By Mary KochIn UncategorizedLeave a comment

The thunder of U.S. Navy “Blue Angels” skimming the tops of Seattle skyscrapers reminded me it was a one-year anniversary. On the morning of Aug. 2, 2023, I was in Portland, saying that impossible, final goodbye to Lee, my soul brother for more than fifty years. 

“We’re both going on a journey, but in different directions,” I said to him, leaning close to kiss his cheek. He whispered something I couldn’t understand, but words no longer mattered. We both knew that. I got in my car, dry-eyed with a sobbing heart, and drove north to Seattle. A chapter in my life had just ended. Maybe the whole book. Maybe I was driving into the epilogue. 

All those years ago, Lee and wife Mary Lou had stood as witnesses when John and I married. It was like a marriage of marriages, a foursome. As couples, we never lived close to each other, often thousands of miles apart. Yet we’d travel those miles to share slices of life. Our foursome dwindled as John died in 2007, Mary Lou in 2020. Lee and I soldiered on. Frequent phone calls. Occasional visits. We’d talk idly about road trips we might take together, but we’d both seen plenty of road. And now, here I was, back on the road, the lone survivor. 

I had an appointment to see an apartment in Horizon House, a retirement community on Seattle’s First Hill. I’d visited a few months earlier and fell in love with the location, energy and philosophy. People move here not to retire and die but to live, contribute, and matter. Still, I was skeptical. I’d been invited to look at a studio apartment. I couldn’t imagine a studio large enough for me, much less my “stuff.”

I asked my niece Sandy to join me. A savvy realtor, she poses the questions that never occur to me. The sales rep unlocked the door to 13-A, and I walked straight to the window, all of twelve paces. Windows have always been the most important feature of anywhere I’ve lived. What would I be viewing? An urban valley of rooftops in the foreground ringed by a horizon of office and apartment towers. Columbia Center, Seattle’s tallest building at 72 floors, loomed above the rest, piercing an endless blue sky.

That’s when we heard the thunder. Not a rain cloud to be seen but jets skimming through the air with gasp-inducing precision. Seattle’s annual Seafair celebration, complete with aerial show. I teased the sales rep about arranging a spectacle as part of her marketing ploy.

With or without jets — especially without, I decided the view would keep me adequately absorbed. After decades of living on a riverbank, I’d be watching a different kind of wildlife on the busy streets thirteen floors down. The studio was big enough for me, and the storage unit in the basement large enough for my stuff. For the next three months I lived in an emotional vortex as I prepared to  move. I celebrated and mourned the ties with people and place that had bound me to the Okanogan country of eastern Washington for forty-four years. I’ll never become untied.

While I’ve lived in Horizon House only nine months (an appropriate gestation period), I’m convinced I made the right decision. And here again are the Blue Angels. Thrilling as the aerial shows are, a growing number of voices object to the noise and environmental consequences. Protesters argue that each jet burns about 1,500 gallons of fuel per hour. Each air show puts some 650 metric tons of CO2 into the atmosphere of an earth desperate to reduce carbon emissions. The Blue Angels may not be around forever, nor will I. But I’m here for at least another chapter.