Cimba and the Farallon Patrol

The following story has been condensed from an article published in the Marin Scope in March 1981.

by Annie Sutter

It's 6:15 a.m., the sky's a chilly, mottled, sullen pinkish-gray, and I'm tiptoeing through patches of frost on an uninviting expanse of dock leading out to the berth where Cimba, the 32' Grand Banks, awaits the arrival of the week's Farallon Patrol. Soon all the shivering members of the expedition have gathered -- Charlie Merrill, skipper, bustling about loading gear, groceries and rolls of chicken wire; two members of the Point Reyes Bird Observatory (from here on known as the PRBO) who will relieve other scientists studying bird and seal populations at the windswept islands, and others doubtless wondering why they're casting off into a leaden and chilly sea with a rough day ahead.

Cimba cruising off Sausalito

Photo courtesy of S.F. Bau Adventures.

At 7 a.m., coffee, croissants and a glorious display of pink, gold, and orange sunrise have done a great deal to dispel the cold and gloom as Cimba joins the early morning parade of fishboats and assorted craft heading out the Gate for a crack at salmon, albacore and cod. Cimba's engine purrs happily as she heads out into what has become a morning sparkly sea of silver and blue and long, low smooth swells -- maybe no one will be seasick this run! A caravan of cormorants heads out to sea in tight formation and flocks of murres disappear beneath the waves to port, and reappear in unison, yards away to starboard. An hour later, the swells have increased in volume, the wind has freshened, and the sparkly sea, stirred up into mean little khaki colored choplets, begins to slap and break over the bow while Cimba leaps through the swells, digs down, and rides up, shaking off spray.

By 11 a.m. the islands, at first smoky blobs on the horizon, have been taking shape for the past couple of hours. They consist of three rocky, mainly barren and windswept groups; and the largest at 90 acres with a lighthouse on top is Southeast Farallon, home of the PRBO and our destination. We've made radio contact with the island, and people are waiting up on a large concrete landing with a crane. We've got an easterly wind, the worst kind for the pick-up, and the swells are just about big enough to call off the rendezvous -- but not quite. They radio to come on in and tie up to a big seaweed-encrusted buoy, which is rolling violently, tugging at its mooring.

A Boston Whaler with two people in it is hanging off the crane and being lowered slowly into the water, a distance of about 25'. As it hits the water, the people's heads vanish behind swells, then reappear, and as the boat is unhooked from the hoist, it skitters off, bounding through the troughs, appearing and disappearing. Soon, a large box is dangling from the hoist, and the Whaler goes back to pick it up. It sways and lurches while the boat dances below; then, as the two finally meet, the box is deftly unhooked and it lands with a plop in the Whaler, which backs off quickly and heads out to Cimba to unload. Back and forth they go - box returned empty, box hoisted, box reloaded, box returned to Cimba filled with equipment, duffel bags, packs and luggage of those who will be leaving.

When it's time for the staff to disembark from the landing at the top of the cliff, a new conveyance is hooked onto the crane - a scary looking thing called a "Billypugh", developed for use on big oil rigs. The people climb onto the top, cling to it as it's lowered, swaying, to the Whaler. They say it's a lot easier to get on at the top than off at the bottom. Soon we have four new faces aboard, four sets of belongings, and four people who say they are glad to be going home. We unleash Cimba from the rolling buoy, and head back into the chop and the swells, for the Golden Gate.

After reading about sharks and tumultuous seas in Cimba's logbook, I look around apprehensively, but today the sea is kind, and the boat is faithfully buzzing along toward home. By 5 p.m., we're nearing the Gate, bucking a fierce ebb tide, but making headway. It's dark by the time the amber overheard lights of the bridge have been left behind, and as we approach Sausalito traffic scurries along Bridgeway, and the lights twinkle up in the hills. Cimba glides into her berth, veteran of another Farallon Patrol voyage. "Piece of cake!" says Charlie.

Charles H. Merrill, a small boat sailor and a pillar of the Sausalito community, died in his hillside home overlooking San Francisco Bay at age 95. In 1990, Cimba went into disrepair and in 1999, Charlie Merrill decided to sell her to Capt. Paul Dines of SF Bay Adventures, which offers private charters on her for up to 6 guests. For more information, visit sfbayadventures.com.

Of Whiskey Flasks and Bathtub Gin

 by Doris Berdahl

Veteran local storyteller Swede Pedersen, who was born and raised here and had a rich treasure trove of memories of Sausalito from the 1930s on.  This article, somewhat edited and abridged,is based on an interview that appeared in MarinsScope on February 8, 1972.

            “When I was only 12 years old,” Pedersen recalls, “we used to go down to Shelter Cove at night, and when the fog came in we’d tunnel under the pilings of the old Walhalla, the German beer garden that’s now the Valhalla, where we knew a lot of the stuff was stored.  I remember when I made my first sale to one of our leading citizens.  He said, `You’ve done your civic duty by turning this in, young man.  If you find anymore of these bottles, you just bring them straight to me’.”

            The distinct class divisions that existed in Sausalito at that time apparently vanished when it came to the forbidden pleasures of whiskey flasks and bathtub gin.  While the hill people were making fig wine in their basements, the young men of the working class were flirting with prison terms for the sake of the big money offered by men like “Baby Face” Nelson, who spent a brief time in Sausalito in the early 1930s.

By and large, the attitude among the otherwise law-abiding citizenry was a wink and a nod.  From the stately homes of the Banana Belt to the proletarian flatlands, there was amused acquiescence -- or covert indulgence in guilty pleasures.  “Baby Face” Nelson’s custom-built Duesenberg used to be brought into Rose’s Garage on Caledonia Street (now the Real Foods store), one old-timer recalled for this interview. “I’d wash and polish it, and I can still remember the bullet-proof windshield and the secret compartment under the seats where the booze was kept.”

“Sometimes we’d get together at the Women’s Club,” remembered a “hill lady” who didn’t care to be identified.  “Our local pharmacist would mix up some of his medicinal alcohol with a few juniper leaves, and we’d have a little gin party.”

According to Pedersen, a local Boy Scout troop was sometimes “chaperoned” by men posing as troop leaders who took the boys to a lonely West Marin beach, settled them around a bonfire, treated them to a wiener roast and encouraged them to sing camp songs at the top of their lungs.  In the meantime, the chaperones loaded up a long, black limousine down by the water with contraband brought in by boat. 

The prevalence of crude stills in private homes seems to have approached the

proportions of a cottage industry.  But since big money was often at stake, the fun and games of local law breaking inevitably came to be overshadowed by the deadly serious operations of big-time gangsters.  “There were more unidentified bodies found floating in the bay and laying in the back roads during that period than at any other time in the history of this area,” said Pedersen.  “Our Boys Club, who sponsored the Sausalito Bears ball club, held whist parties to pay for our uniforms.  Our headquarters were in the basement of a house on Spring Street where a speakeasy operated on the upper floors.  So it didn’t surprise us when we found a machine gun dismantled and cleaned one day out in our horseshoe throwing pit.”

In addition to a liberal social climate, there were also fortuitous geographical reasons for a widespread flouting of the dry laws in Marin and Sonoma counties.  “Because of all the inlets up and down the coast west of here,” Pedersen pointed out, “there were plenty of chances for small, fast boats, carrying contraband from Canadian and Mexican ‘mother ships’ laying offshore in international waters, to come in and unload their cargo on the beaches.”

            In the days before the Golden Gate Bridge was built, Sausalito was known among rumrunners as “the bottleneck” through which illegal liquor had to be funneled to San Francisco’s speakeasies.  They had to make it through downtown and onto a San Francisco-bound ferry without detection.  Pedersen told of how bootleggers would meet at the old Caesar’s Inn on Tocoloma Road, near Inverness, and make plans for a shipment to the city. 

            “A call would go out to a trusted telephone operator in San Rafael – often a girlfriend of one of the men – who would relay the message to Sausalito that everyone should be off the streets because a truckload was coming through.  The truck, covered with a tarpaulin, would time the run so that it could catch the last ferry of the night within seconds before it left, and that way keep a jump ahead of the federal inspectors.”

            Obviously, in order for such an operation to run smoothly, almost everyone in Sausalito had to be an accessory to the fact, either actively or passively.  There were only two policemen on the force then, plus a night watchman.  The degree to which they looked the other way can only be a matter of conjecture today.

 

The wages of sin:  A local pharmacy was shut down for violating Prohibition laws in the 1920s.

Photo courtesy of Sausalito Historical Society

Building Boom of 1911

Sausalito’s optimism abounded 104 years ago, and the San Francisco Call reported: Many signs go to show that Sausalito has entered on a new era of development. More fine residences have been built here during the last six or eight months than in the same number of years before. The first brick and stone business block in Water Street, for the Bank of Sausalito, was erected within a year.

Four more business buildings are about to be built this spring. Several pretty bungalows are in process of construction and plans are being drawn by a San Francisco architect for a $12,000 residence.

This building boom and the general forward movement of the town is due largely to the acquisition of a good water supply. Last year the Lagunitas water supply mains were extended to Sausalito, giving the town an unlimited supply of the purest mountain water. This comes from Lake Lagunitas, nearly 20 miles away, on the northern slope of Mount Tamalpais. It has the same purity and health giving qualities as Mill Valley's water supply, which has had much to do with the upbuilding of that popular suburb and summer resort.

Sausalito has built five reservoirs on the highest ridge in town, making a large auxiliary water supply for any emergency. It gives a strong pressure in all parts of the town.

The town is now engaged in building two miles of macadamized streets. There is a plan afoot to asphalt Water Street throughout the business district and clear round to its western extremity toward the Golden gate. Two thirds of the property owners have signed contracts for their shares of this important work and It Is believed that soon all will join in the movement.

BEGINNING OF IMPROVEMENTS

"The new water supply and the street Improvements now under way," said F.D. Lindsey, cashier of the Bank of Sausalito and chairman of the board of trustees "are only, the beginning of making Sausalito a model suburb. We expect soon to have a cable line running from the station and up over the hills to North and South Sausalito, making large areas available for home sites.

The Bank of Sausalito on Water Street, now Bridgeway
Photo Courtesy of Sausalito Historical Society

"The Pacific Gas and Electric company is contemplating an extension of their gas mains from San Rafael Southward to Mill Valley and Sausalito." When the Eureka extension of the Northwestern Pacific Is completed all trains from the north will come into this terminal and will increase greatly the local business of the town."

The Sausalito improvement club, of which C. M. Moore, the San Francisco contractor, is chairman, Is concentrating its efforts on carrying out plans for putting the streets and sewers in all parts of the town in good condition.

Michael Rainy: Waterfront diplomat

By Steefenie Wicks

While sitting in a marine class in Terra Linda, Michael Rainy, the harbormaster for Sausalito’s Schoonmaker Marina, decided to check his phone. He had been expecting a text from a client who wanted to bring in a 130- footer, and planned to arrive that day from Los Angeles. Just as he was about to make a connection, a text came in with an urgent, “Please call marina.” Not only was the vessel in but it was escorted by the Coast Guard and the Sausalito Police boat. He replied to the text: “I’m on my way.”

Rainy has been the Schoonmaker harbormaster for the past 26 years.

Schoonmaker is one of five different marinas located on the Sausalito waterfront. The thing that makes Schoonmaker Marina different from the others is its open beachfront location, making it an available spot for vessels both small and large. Rainey’s day-to-day involvement with the very well to do and the not so well to do is a test of his skills in diplomacy; he will be the first to tell you that “The guy with the 200 footer has as much rights as the guy in the 30 footer when it comes to respecting each other while living on this common denominator, the water.”

The ship that had caused such a commotion was the “Spearfisher,” a stealthy-looking vessel that was caught doing 40 knots under the Golden Gate Bridge. Rainy was not at all surprised by the size of the vessel or the fact that she was so fast. Being the harbormaster of a big berth marina can present its problems, but all can be solved with a clear understanding of the situations. The captain of the “Spearfisher” was quick to speak to the authorities and the situation was soon taken care of, after which the captain turned to Rainy and said, “This happens all the time.”

Schoonmaker is listed as a big boat marina, so they can dock vessels that are well over 100 ft., maxing out at 225 feet. They are in demand, for as the price of fuel goes up the captains of these vessels like to know that when they pull up to a dock that they can plug in to 100 or 200 amps and let their equipment recharge.

Rainy remembers the experience of taking his father, who at the time was 75, on tour through one of the really big boats docked in the marina. As they walked on the red shag carpet that was wall to wall in the engine room, his father just shook his head. Then they traveled above deck to the pilothouse where all the ship’s controls were placed; behind that sat a gym with workout equipment. Then they crossed the gym to open the glass doors where the helicopter was parked. Michael said his father just stood there looking from one end to the other, and he could not stop saying, “Oh, my god, oh, my god.”

As harbormaster, Michael Rainy explains that when you purchase a marina it does not come in a box. To maintain and efficiently run its day-to-day existence, you must know all aspects of its overall structure. Rainy remembers that he was hired after one of the worst storms that had taken place in this area, in the winter of 1989. He begins, “That was the year that the outer concrete docks broke up into many pieces. Then a trimaran that was anchored out broke loose from its moorings and began to ride the huge waves that were building, making it end up with a section of the vessel trapped under the crumbling concrete dock; it was a mess. If there is one thing to fear on the water, it can be the wind. You have no control, it just doesn’t stop, there is no off button, only the aftermath of the destruction that it can cause.”

Schoonmaker is a one of a kind Bay Area marina because it is a recreational marina, “meaning,” says Rainy, “that you don’t have to climb over a fence to get to your boat. We are not industrial or located in an industrial area. You can come and park and plug in and get shore power and use shower facilities.” Schoonmaker is very much an open space marina that does not discourage use.

Rainy enjoys seeing the big boats come in as well as the familiar sight of a small vessel that makes a returning visit each year. Above all, it’s the people he deals with every day who make his day. He feels that boating people have a common attitude, which means that 95% of the time this guy or gal coming to his or her boat is in a good mood. They are happy to be here because they love their boats, which are now part of this Sausalito waterfront. In this community of the haves and the have-nots, we really do learn to live together, which in the end is what it’s all about.

From Disaster to Literature

By Larry Clinton

The opening of Jack London’s novel, The Sea-Wolf, is based on an historic tragedy – the collision of the  sidewheeler ferries Sausalito and San Rafael on foggy San Francisco Bay. Here is a lightly excerpted account of the collision from the book Redwood Railways by Gilbert H. Kneiss:

Dick the horse in happier times on the foredeck of the ferry San Rafael.
Photo courtesy of Sausalito Historical Society

 November of 1901 had but a few more hours to live when the blackest, densest tule fog of years rolled in on the Bay and blotted out familiar landmarks as it cued bells, foghorns and whistles to take up their duties. A few chilly, belated commuters raced under the invisible Ferry Tower and aboard the San Rafael for her 6:15 run to home and dinner.

Above, in the San Rafael's pilot house, old Captain McKenzie rang for half-speed astern and backed out through the thick tule fog. Nothing could be seen. The San Rafael started on her course ten minutes late, her wheels poking at fourteen turns instead of the usual twenty-two..

The fog seemed thicker, if such could be, and there was a very heavy ebb tide. Soon he recognized the Sausalito's whistle off his starboard bow. Ordinarily, each would keep to the right of Alcatraz Island, so they would never meet, but a dredger working around Arch Rock had blocked one channel.

Captain McKenzie yanked his whistle cord twice to pass to port; put his helm hard a-starboard. Two blasts out of the fog from the Sausalito agreed with him. But they sounded uncomfortably close and almost dead ahead. Instantly he rang to stop the engine, sounded three short whistles and rang again full speed astern. The big paddles started splashing again, slowly, in reverse.

Suddenly there was a god-awful crash, the ferry's hull splintered open, and the Sausalito's steel prow smashed into the grill and batted one passenger twenty feet through the door. All hell broke loose, so did most of the passengers' self-control. They smashed windows, panicked up the companion ways and fought madly for life preservers. Behind all  the racket — the screams, wails and curses, shattering glass and ghostly chorus of foghorns outside — they heard the ominous background of endless waters pouring through the breach.

The officers, at least, kept cool and soon restored some semblance of order. McKenzie and the Sausalito's Captain Tribble had immediately ordered their ferries lashed together and boats launched. A few of the deckhands and some male passengers of both boats began to pass women and children from the San Rafael which was sinking fast. Soon her starboard rail was under water, then her lights blinked out. Splashing through the greedy waves, men dragged the few remaining women to the upper deck where Bartender Gus now handed matrons across to the Sausalito as quick and calm as ever he'd passed a Pisco Punch across the bar.

Captain McKenzie saw that time had about run out. His passengers were almost off — women and children aboard the other ferry and the men bobbing around in life jackets. But Dick, the baggage truck horse, was still tethered in the cabin. McKenzie cut his rope and drove him out, then jumped for the Sausalito. He was just in time. With an almost human sob, the San Rafael vanished. Twenty minutes before, she had been a proud but aging steamer.

The Sausalito's deck resembled a hospital ward. The fog still resembled a cold puree. No one knew where the tides had led them. But the prolonged whistles and failure of the boats to dock had sent two Red Stack tugs to the rescue. One, the Sea King, nosed through the soup just as the last life boat brought more sopping, shivering, cork-jacketed survivors. Tribble grabbed his megaphone and yelled "where are we?" and from the tug they heard the answer: "Off the Presidio light and heading out to sea!"

Flanked by the two tugs, the Sausalito inched along to the haven of her slip and the hysterical cheer that greeted her as she loomed between the pilings showed how the word had spread.

The next day passed under a burden of suspense and rumor. No one knew just who had been aboard, and many, first feared missing, proved to have taken the California Northwestern ferry. The known dead finally shrunk to two men and a four-year-old boy. Despite tales that he had landed happily on one of the lush pastured islands in the Bay, the carcass of Dick, the freight horse, was sighted drifting out to sea.