Behind every news story, the personal stories full of human emotion and memories wait to be discovered, and I heard and sensed some of those this week. The response to my previous blog post about the fate of the historic Washington State ferry M/V Rhododendron, still coming to me in the form of e-mails, phone calls, and in person, made me decide to share more of my photos of this beloved boat. But as a bonus, I also want to share some vintage postcard images sent to me by Steve Pickens, the man behind the website Evergreen Fleet, mentioned in my original post, and author of "Ferries of Puget Sound." He is helping to preserve our local maritime history, an effort for which we should all be grateful.
Postcard of M/V Rhododendron from the 1950s, courtesy of Steve Pickens
Pickens, a native of western Washington, was born in Seattle and grew up on the Kitsap peninsula. "Ferries have always been a part of my life," he told me in an e-mail. "I got interested in ferries through the Kalakala, first getting into her
history and then branching out from there."
He became involved, conducting tours on Kalakala and serving as a volunteer archivist, for a time. "I had really been previously
interested in the old Atlantic liners, but the interest turned a little more
local after the Kalakala came home," he said.
Vintage postcard of M/V Rhododendron courtesy of Steve Pickens
I asked Pickens how long his site, Evergreen Fleet, has existed and how he came across all his fascinating material.
"The website
has been around over a decade now. A lot of my research
came from books on the subject to a certain point. The final 'what happened to'
a lot of the old retirees involved sending FOIA requests to the Coast Guard or
emailing the last known company/owner of said vessel."
Vintage postcard image courtesy of Steve Pickens
"People have been incredibly
generous sharing their personal memories and photos in many cases.," Pickens said. "There's a
certain fondness for the old boats--particularly the old wooden ferries. I'd
have to say the San Mateo and Vashon are, hands down, the most
fondly remembered."
And now for a few taken from the Tacoma side.
Copyright 2012 by Candace Brown
April evening 2009, off Point Defiance
Copyright 2012 by Candace Brown May not be used without permission.
The following four photos were taken at Point Defiance on a cool, misty morning in the otherwise hot July of 2008. Please see the blog post they relate to: Breath of Life: Marine Air in the Morning.
I've never met Steve Pickens but I can tell that, like so many of us, he loves our rich maritime history and out maritime environment too. Please be sure to look at Evergreen Fleet. You'll be glad you did.
Thank you for joining me on this little two-part tribute to the Washington State Ferry Rhododendron. And many thanks to Steve Pickens for sharing the postcard images of life on Puget Sound.
All text and photos in this post, with the exception of those provided by Steve Pickens, are copyrighted by Candace Brown and cannot be used without permission. See Evergreen Fleet concerning the postcard images.
When I awoke to a downpour this morning, I thought about Monday's remarkable sunshine and the odd way it arrived just in time for an event that was both sad and largely ignored. My husband and I appreciated the meager warmth as we leaned against a railing on the Point Defiance waterfront and watched history being made. We witnessed the 64-year-old ferry Rhododendron making its last run between the Talequah landing on Vashon Island and Point Defiance in Tacoma, before being retired. On a rainy day, it would have felt even more depressing to say goodbye.
View of Chetzemoka from North Tacoma
We had been in Tacoma's Proctor District and headed north from there to go down to the Point Defiance Park because I wanted to take some photos in the sunshine. But as we reached the bluff, we saw how opportune our decision had been. There was the replacement ferry, M/V Chetzemoka, sailing past Maury Island in a spot where no ferry belonged. Until we saw it, we didn't realize the day had come, the day the Rhododendron would sail off forever. We headed straight for a vantage point above the ferry landing. By the time we arrived, the new ferry was pulling in.
The Chetzemoka approaches the ferry landing at Point Defiance
Built at Todd Shipyard in Seattle at the cost of $79.4 million, the Chetzemoka caused all kinds of fanfare when it arrived in Port Townsend to serve the Port Townsend/Coupeville run. That was only a little over a year ago. (You can read about the whole expensive and probably misguided saga in this article from the Port Townsend Leader.) This ferry was meant for Port Townsend and named for a Native American leader from that area. The passenger cabin even features artwork portraying historic Port Townsend. Now we have it here in Tacoma, and they don't.
Maybe I'll get used to the Chetzemoka, but it might take a long time. Right now, it doesn't feel like it belongs here. With a gross tonnage of 4,623 and horsepower of 6,000—compared to the Rhododendron's gross tonnage of 937 and horsepower of 2,172— it will obviously use far, far more fuel for the 1.5 mile, 10-minute trip. How much shorter does a 10-minute trip need to be? And so what if it has a galley? Who has time to buy food and consume it during this short trip? Here is a comparison of the two vessels: M/V Rhododendronand M/V Chetzemoka
The Rhododendron heads for the Point Defiance dock with the Chetzemoka waiting in the background.
After what seemed like some kind of test, the Chetzemoka pulled out, heading toward the passage on Vashon's west side, then made a surprisingly quick maneuver, turning around and positioning itself for another approach to the dock, even as the older boat headed for Point Defiance. At that moment, I felt the sadness of what was happening. It seemed like the 64-year-old Rhododendron, still beautiful—and in the opinion of many, still repairable—was leaving a long marriage against her will. And out there in the water, her much younger replacement watched and waited impatiently, to move in. Here is a video of the Rhododendron's arrival.
Leaning against that railing, surrounded by things I love—the gulls, the smell of the salt water, sounds of boats and waves, the sight of Vashon Island— I thought about change and how many endings life brings. Ships, like people and places, can be taken for granted, there one day and then gone forever. I've seen many ferries come and go and I treasure childhood memories of some of the older ones. Even though the Rhododendron showed up on the Vashon-Point Defiance run many years after my childhood, I've come to know it well. And my husband had worked on this ferry when it was in the dry dock. He loved it. Now it was leaving.
M/V Rhododendron at the Point Defiance ferry landing.
I know my husband and I weren't the only ones who cared. I am sure the officers and crew did, along with the islanders who depended on and loved this vessel. I know that last Sunday a group of folks from Vashon took a farewell ride, described here in the Vashon-Maury Island Beachcomber. But where was the press on Monday? Did the people sitting in Anthony's seaside restaurant pay attention?
It seems that too often people quickly lose interest in the things that are part of our local history and every day lives—and in this case our maritime heritage—just because they are old. Why must we always replace things with something newer and always far more expensive? Old buildings and old ships seem to lose their lustre in some people's eyes. Not mine or my husband's. He had worked doing repairs on the Rhododendron in the past.
So for all of you who will miss this great old ferry as much as we will, no matter how few your numbers, here's a gift. I discovered a wonderful website called "Evergreen Fleet" and on this page, ou can hear the Rhododendron's whistle blow once again, lest you should forget.
Note: Video recorded by Candace Brown. All text and photos in this blog post are the property of Candace Brown and cannot be used without permission. Copyright 2012 Candace J. Brown
I always have mixed feelings when I go home to Vashon Island. They came to me again yesterday, as I waited in my car on the hill above the Point Defiance dock. It's only across the water, but the island I always think of floats somewhere out there, ghost-like, on the surreal seas of memory.
I felt cold sitting in the car without the heater going, at the end of December. Thinking warm thoughts of my childhood could quite compete with the winter day. And I felt sad too, knowing yet another member of one of the old families, like mine, had died, a family I care about left grieving. Like salmon swimming back to the stream where they first knew life, those of us who left the island return, to gather in memory of one of our own. It would be a day to say goodbye, and also say hello.
From my vantage point the view was all gray, the water and sky exactly the same color behind a veil of fog, the island's distant shore merely a darker band dividing them. I could barely see the white shape of the ferry boat across the span, heading my way. I looked around at the other cars and wondered how many held people I knew, taking a ferry ride for the same reason.
As it turned out, there were several, including an old friend of mine and her husband. Having arrived early, we ended up at a large table in a restaurant in the middle of the town of Vashon, joined by her siblings. It's called The Hardware Store now. I remembered when it really was a hardware store. I still pictured my father as we looked through packages of garden seeds. I missed the fishing tackle, tools, ladders, nails and rope. Instead, I saw a huge crowd of people I didn't know, on a Tuesday.
"So who ARE all these people?" I asked. The place was jammed and the traffic and parking mess outside amazed me. So many people, all with their own ideas about what the island is or should be. They are good people doing good things, but they can't possibly feel what we feel.
"Newcomers," my friend answered. Her family arrived in the 1890s and mine a decade before that. "You have to be here four or five generations to think of it like we do."
After the memorial service we visited with others at a reception. I was related to a good number of them through marriage and tied to many more through long family friendships and associations. "You look so much like your Mom," I heard again and again, or "How's your Dad doing?" or "Remember that time when..." From among the many who now populate the island, those of us in the ever-shrinking pool of people from the old days, seemed to feel some kind of unspoken comfort in the sight of each others' faces, the shared memories and experiences, and our love of the place.
Then it all broke up. The cars left the parking lot of a church my grandfather had helped to build. I had nothing more to do, nowhere to go, except "home" which is now Tacoma. Before long I found myself back in the car parked out on the end of the exposed ferry deck as we left the dock and darkness overtook the scene. We glided through inky liquid toward the distant lights of Point Defiance. It began to rain. The cold and damp slipped into my car like unbidden thoughts enter the mind and I cuddled under a little fleece throw to shield myself from them. As we neared the shore I felt glad to live in Tacoma, where I'm as enthusiastic about the place as those "strangers" on the island are about theirs. That's when I realized that to some people in this town, my five years of living here do nothing to change my status. No matter how much I contribute, praise, or love Tacoma, I'm a newcomer too.
To old-time Tacoma folks let me say this: I will do my best to be worthy, just like those unfamiliar folks on Vashon are. Things change.Time goes by. The old year ends and a new begins. Peace to all, and Happy New Year.
The last car drives down the ramp onto the ferry boat, with a loud "cla-clunk" of metal. Then I hear the sound of the deckhands dragging chains, the rumble and roar of engines engaging and the hiss of churning water. The ferry's low whistle blasts through the mild spring air and signals the departure from Tacoma's Point Defiance dock, on the run to Vashon Island. I'm not aboard, but my heart is. I lean against the railing at the water's edge with the seagulls, a cup of coffee, and a bouquet of yellow daffodils.
After fifty years some things change and some don't. The old style ferry boat from my early childhood disappeared long ago, but if you'd made the trip back then it would have landed at the same place on the Island, called Tahlequah. You would drive up the same road through the woods until it brought you out alongside the beach at Burton. There it makes a sharp left to where a few businesses still carry on and boats still float on Quartermaster Harbor. You'd stay on "the main road" and eventually reach our old neighborhood of Center. And if you made this trip on a spring day you'd have no trouble finding our place, because of the daffodils.
I say "our place" because that's all the identification it needed. The mail address was a Rural Route and a box, no house numbers. Folks referred to homes as "the So-and-sos' place" and if "the So-and-sos" were newsworthy, for better or worse, their name would stick to that place forever, even if they moved away. Roads too, had nothing but real names like "the Beall Loop" or "Cemetery Road." My family lived on "the main road" that runs north and south the length of the island. Our front lawn made a perfectly level rectangle right up to the ditch, great for croquet games in the summer, kick-the-can in fall, or building snowmen in the winter. But driving up the road on a spring day you would have spotted our place right off. Folks slowed down to see the whole end of the yard along the ditch ablaze with daffodils.
I can picture my parents, fifty or sixty years ago, discussing what to do with the flower bed. Probably on some Saturday in the fall, while Mom cooked, did laundry, and kept and eye on the kids, my Dad went up to McCormick's hardware store in the little town of Vashon and bought the bulbs. Then he would have put on old work clothes and rubber boots, dug up the soil and planted them, hundreds of them. Those hundreds would multiply into thousands until they made a solid swath of yellow from the driveway to the fence. I don't remember that day, which might have been before I was born, but I can tell you this much: I remember the daffodils.
I picture Dad's hands in work gloves, holding the dry brown bulbs, their onion-like skins rustling as he set them into the damp earth one-by-one. He would have made sure the stem end was up, not down, taking his time, doing it right. I'm sure he whistled while he worked, picturing the flowers in full bloom later on. Little did he know that just as each bulb held within it the promise of a flower, the joyful sight of that flowerbed remained within the hearts of his children to bloom later as one more happy memory. Now I always think of the exuberance of an Easter egg hunt, the fun of playing outside on those first warm days, and the eternal promise of spring . . . when I see daffodils.
I watch the ferry, now more distant. Like memories, it has lost it's sharp edges and loud rumbles and seems to glide on the water, into the past. But I'm in Tacoma and it's 2009. Our old place on Vashon belongs to someone else. Mom is gone and Dad is 95 and lives in a retirement home. He looks out his rooms' windows at a nice view to the west, from way up high, but he can't see any flower beds. The day he planted all those bulbs was a long time ago and it's been a long time since he felt the grittiness of a trowel slicing into dirt, or smelled the rich earth up close. I picture him at the end of his planting on that fall day so many years ago. I see the daylight starting to fade. I see him standing up to brush the dirt from his knees and taking a look at all he accomplished before he put away his tools and came in for supper. And I wonder if he thought about how every day of our lives we're planting something. Hopefully it's something that will blossom into beauty and joy. Next time I visit, soon, I think I will tell him how much I enjoyed his daffodils.
