Tonight I saw a video which reminded me of a moment eight years ago. I saw an officer of the UCPD, an officer at the alma mater for which I have always held high respect, senselessly beat a nonviolent woman standing her ground. The part that truly discourages me, however, is that I know the UCPD from personal experience, and that wasn’t the first time they resorted to such heavy-handed tactics. I was once part of the UCPD’s lowly student ranks of Community Service Officers; we earned a measly-but-much-appreciated $11 an hour as we paid our way through college. My job there was a much-needed source of funding for education.

Despite my love for UC Berkeley and all it has given me in life, I can’t help but be critical of its police department. It’s a department which, I know from personal experience, DOES NOT respect free speech, despite being located at the hearth and birthplace of free speech in America.

The beginning of this story goes back seven years: In 2003, innocent civilians were being firebombed in Baghdad by U.S. jets. The New York Times called such bombing “brilliant,” but I was among a small group of students at Berkeley who considered it nothing of the sort. It was unjust, terrorizing, wrong (not ‘brilliant’!) And we occupied the administration building in recognition of our heartfelt celebration of the free speech for which Berkeley is known. From the beginning, we were presented as the ‘radicals’, the ‘liberals.’ How radical is it to voice a reasonable opinion against senseless destruction and violence? Does “shock and awe” only belong to the saber-rattling jingoists? Many of us weren’t even liberals; we were libertarians, social liberals – maybe – but nothing of the drug-imbibing, commune-championing, hemp-loving, redistribution-believing hippies that Fox News would like you to think. We simply believed that Iraqi civilians didn’t have to die (115,000 and counting to this day).

Sproul Hall on March 20, 2003. I was sitting to the left of the man in the green jacket.

We walked into Sproul Hall, sat down, and chained our arms. It was a peaceful day in Berkeley, but far across the Atlantic Ocean F-16s were screeching through the sky about to deploy missiles. We felt helpless but hopeful. After all, we were part of an international movement of millions who voiced our disagreement with the Neoconservative agenda. We saw right through the doublespeak of Condy Rice, Donald Rumsfield, and Dick Cheney. We felt like patriots. We felt like we were helping others realize the exigency of the moment. Then the UCPD came in, along with the Vice Chancellor of the University. Leave or be arrested, they said. We stayed. “We certainly recognize your right to express your opinions about the war,” the Vice Chancellor said. “For those of you who decide you want to be arrested, we ask that you continue to do this in a nonviolent way.”

So we stayed nonviolent. The police put “pain holds” on many of us. We were dragged and carried away by two to three police at a time. One-hundred and nineteen of us were arrested that day. I felt good to be an American. But the unfortunate part is that it would be the first and last time I would put my future on the line for a political belief, for I now know that our constitutional right to free speech is not being protected as it should – and lifelong consequences can come of it..

A few days later, I was called by administrators at the police department. I was to lose my job. Later, charges of trespassing (602L)  were dropped, but that didn’t matter to the upper tiers of the UCPD. The Chief of Police, the lieutenants, and the captains in the department believed me to be another “liberal.” I had to go.

I came in, gave my keys to the Lieutenant Mitchell Celaya, and said goodbye to my job. Later, Chief Victoria Harrison apologized for the whole ordeal, admitting that there were many former military veterans in the department who didn’t like what I did. The damage was done. I lost my job for a political opinion, and I felt less proud to be an American the day that happened.

Vice Chancellor telling us we had to leave or be arrested - March 20, 2003, while bombs were being dropped on Baghdad.

Flash forward seven years and I encounter the video.  I recognize some of the silhouettes of the men. I’m sure some of the men swinging billy clubs are the same men who put the pain holds on me that day in March of 2003, the same men who worked with me before I lost my job. It’s amazing how little free speech is supported in this country today, some would say even less than it was in 2003. These bottom-up movements across the world, to me, are an effort to regain voice. For much too long, the average voter has felt as if her vote doesn’t matter. Our representatives answer to the “other” public – the 1%. It’s about time that our representatives in congress represent; otherwise, it’s about time that they lose their job too.

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Stephen Freskos and I were standing half a mile from the Suisun Bay shoreline with binoculars in hand. The sun was sinking into the western horizon, silhouetting the ships that stood before us. It had long been a plan of ours to visit these ships, but we knew getting on them with permission wouldn’t be the right way to shoot them.

“The security boat goes by once every thirty minutes,” Stephen mused. “We’ll need to time our exit from the slough right. We can’t waste time.”

The slough was a long finger of water that would serve as our sole route in and out of the Mothball Fleet. On our walk out, we surmised that it was as deep as six feet and as shallow as six inches. A trail followed the length of the slough for approximately a half-mile. After that, we reached an impenetrable blanket of reeds, moats, and muddy quicksand that extended another half mile to open water.

“We’ll have to time the tides,” I added. I knew that a fully loaded boat would drag bottom at six inches. Anything shallower and the boat wouldn’t move at all. Between our gear and our body weight, the boat would be carrying a cargo of about 700 lbs.

The two of us sat out there for an hour or more, ticking off checklists in our craniums; planning contingencies; confirming the security boats’ timetables. In urbex parley, it’s known as scouting. We wouldn’t be visiting the fleet then, but we were closer to realizing its potential that night. As it got dark, area lights on the rows of ships flickered on; security boats tested their spotlights. It would be risky, but we knew then that it was possible. The two of us packed up our long lenses and binoculars and followed the trail back to the road.

Once we knew it was possible, it was time to get a boat. Any simple boat wouldn’t work. In addition to tidal concerns, portability and silence were paramount. Though a gas-powered motor would have been preferable for its power and speed, we knew immediately that an electric trolling motor was the only way to go; and even though a solid skiff wouldn’t pose the problem of punctures, we knew that an inflatable raft was our only option. A solid boat, tied up along the rows, would have been highly suspicious to roving security patrols. We needed to take our boat with us, stow it away in a well-hidden locker, and re-inflate it for our return trip. We also needed the motor; relying on rowing would not only have attracted attention, but it also would have been impossible when tides were anything but slack. At its height, the tidal current at Suisun Bay was as fast as 14 miles per hour.

So, with a ‘perfect’ boat in mind I began sending inquiries to Craigslist postings for used boats. Then I found it, the perfect boat – a 12′ inflatable Fish Hunter with a Minn Kota trolling motor. At 48 lbs, the boat could easily be lifted up the keel of the ship, deflated, and stowed. For $220, it was a steal. Split between the three of us, we were only on the line for $80 each.

Two months later, we met at the entrance to the slough with our new boat standing ready in the bed of my truck. We pumped it up, threw the trolling motor inside, and walked with hundreds of pounds of gear down a muddy lot, across a pair of railroad tracks, and into the entrance of the slough.

Scott Haefner, the third member of our expedition, made a final inventory of our provisions. Stephen threw the rope into the boat and pushed it off from the shore. We were on our trepidatious journey out to Row F of the fleet.

Row F

THE Suisun Bay Naval Reserve Fleet is only one of many groupings of ships held in reserve by the government. In the 1940s there were as many as 2,277 ships, most of which have been deactivated, sunk as reefs, sold to foreign allies, or returned to service. Of the original 2,277 ships, a little over 200 ships remain today; out of those 200 ships only about 50 are in the National Defense Reserve Fleet at Suisun.

The three of us spent months pouring over aerial photographs, maps, and satellite images of the fleet. By the time we were chugging the length of our beloved slough, we were intimately aware of each ship in each row, their significance, and their individual perils. Our plans were kept secret to all except our loved ones. Nobody, other than my girlfriend, knew exactly where I was that weekend. For all intents and purposes, I was on a fishing trip with some friends.

In our myopic world of 7 rows and 50 ships, easy pickin’ was Row F.  It’s a direct, unencumbered route from the much-hailed slough. A complete journey to Row F is quick, efficient, silent, and surreptitious – making it well within the range of eluding the 30-minute security rounds.

Stephen pushed off, turned the throttle on our trolling motor, and we were moving through the slough at 7 mph, dodging depth markers and submerged fence posts. Once we were within range of Row F, we made a final confirmation of the security boat’s whereabouts and began the mad 800-foot rush from the entrance of the slough to the keel of the first ship. At one moment, we saw the green light of the security boat approach us. We had no idea whether these boats were equipped with infrared, but we assumed they had seen us. We floated immobile for 10 minutes trying to ascertain if they were still moving towards us. Finally, we decided just to head straight towards the row.

We rowed in concert with the trolling motor to out-power the strength of the outgoing tides. Within 20 minutes we were tied up between the Coast Guard cutters, Planetree and Iris. The deck of the Iris was about 12 feet above us. We could just barely reach the hand-holds by standing on the top of our raft. Scott boarded the ship first, while I nervously handed up our gear. Stephen maintained the boat’s position and watched for roving security patrols. Within minutes, all of the gear was on-board. We disconnected the motor and its battery, and handed it up, took hold of the rope attached to the bow and stern of our raft, and pulled its 48-lb hulk up the side of the Iris. Unable to make any noises in celebration we managed to shake hands and exclaim in whispers that we’d actually done it.

Initial Exaltation

Immediately, we broke open our cameras. Though initially, we’d agreed to stay together, it quickly became apparent that we’d want to go our own ways and reconverge at pre-determined times.  Row F, in particular, had some of the largest ships in the fleet.  The SS Esso Gettysburg – at 700 feet from bow to stern – was among the largest we explored (and would probably ever have a chance to explore). I split off from the group briefly to walk from ship to ship and test doors for entrances. At first, the sheer size of the fleet, and the potential for exterior shots in the moonlight was promising; however, I’d always been interested in walking around the insides, searching for hidden artifacts and clues to the lives men lived on these floating behemoths. And so, within a few minutes, I was pushing the others on an agreed-upon meet-up time. The three of us equivocated over tidal movements, sunrise, and a buffer over unexpected delays on the return trip. We knew that we had to be back at the slough by 5:30 AM in order to beat the sunrise. We decided on 4 AM to meet up for the departure. We had six hours of unencumbered, solitary exploration time. I knew I had to make the most of it, so I started with the SS Gettysburg.

Even the distant sounds of foghorns and fishing fleets were dampened by the fog. Finally alone, in the midnight mists of Suisun Bay, I felt completely at ease – as if all of the adrenaline and sweat burned in the braggadocio of the previous two hours was suddenly dissipated in the fog that surrounded me. Only the deafening screech of the gigantic steel ship keels rubbing against each other in the occasional wake of passing security boats kept me somewhat on my toes. When that didn’t occur, I appreciated the little moments of reflection, as when a red-tailed hawk, who made its home high in the 100-foot-tall crows’ nest of the USS Taluga (AO-62), squawked to protect its new-found, post-apocalyptic domain.

Moments of peace and reflection punctuated moments of fear – but all of it was an escape of a sort that I’d never managed to experience before. So, when I found the one open door on the SS Gettysburg, my lonely adventure somehow became heightened to exaltation. I’d found something that few people had seen in four decades. I was literally walking inside of a 700-foot-long, 38,000-ton time capsule. What treasures awaited me? It was all my own to discover.

Stephen and Scott were up top, photographing exteriors of ships. I knew, at least for a while, that I’d want this moment to myself – so I closed the steel doors and walked inside. I took my first breath inside of a Mothball Fleet ship. Oddly, I treated it as if I was sipping a fine glass of well-aged Chianti or Bordeaux. It was a fine sip, tinged with a mixture of benzyne, asbestos, black mould, and soggy newspaper. Why I still miss that smell to this day is beyond me.

The inside of the Gettysburg was dark – darker than any environment I’d been in other than a Titan silo. Most people would expect the ghosts of dead sailors to speak from the deepest recesses. I looked at it from a completely different perspective; I had traveled back in time.  When my flashlight flicked on, I expected to see the ship just as it was when it was abandoned in the 1970s, each cabin filled with sleeping engineers and oil-men who manned the forest of valves and ballast tanks that comprised this gigantic super-tanker. I was living their daily lives with them. Each door I opened was a glimpse into the life of another man; each cabin held the quirks that make exploration one of the most rewarding activities one could engage in.

Traveling in the Ship’s Time Machine

Facing the bow towards the bridge tower of the ship was a lounge with large portholes that donned colorful curtains of peacock proportions. At the time, this was a great place to work – in the world of ships. Most cabins were provisioned with television, their own head, and a large bed and desk. The hallways were larger than most hallways in most ships we came to explore. The Esso Gettysburg had corridors that were as wide as 10 feet across in places – lined with original posters from the 1970s depicting the proper way to conduct one’s job – especially when it came to battling a dangerous oil fire using foam-shooting monitors.

Once I had completely explored the main deck, I knew that Scott and Stephen wouldn’t want to miss out on it, so I searched them out and we returned to go from room to room. Eventually we found ourselves deep in the engine room, dodging spare valves, lathes, and pieces of conduit in the machine shop.  We captured a few shots of the parts and moved towards the central engine room.

Gettysburg was a steam-powered, 26,000 horsepower monster-of-a-tanker. The engine room was testament to its power. The three of us stood 50 feet above the massive boiler and peeked down at the empty space that surrounded us. We had no idea how big it was until we turned our high-powered flashlights on. It was, by far, out of the dozens of ships we eventually explored, the biggest engine room we’d see. Our voices echoed into the dark corners of the room, and each step on the steel catwalks and staircases that kitty-cornered their way down reverberated far off into the distance.

When we emerged from the Exxon Gettysburg (née Esso Gettysburg) it was 3 AM. Our time to leave was fast approaching. We sadly pulled our deflated, rubber skiff out of its hiding place, hand-pumped her up, and mounted the transom to the stern.  We lowered her to the water, quietly heaved our gear down using ropes, and returned to safety without a hitch. Arriving at our vehicles just after sunrise, each of us knew we’d need to return; by the next full moon we’d be back.

Row E

IT was on our exit from our second trip to Row F that we’d decided it prudent to test the possibility of Row E.  As the closest row to the Benicia Bridge, it’s probably the most noticed row, though certainly not its largest. The most interesting aspect of Row E is its unique historic ships, the USS Glacier (AGB-4) and USS Sperry (AS-12). Upon discovering a cutaway diagram of the Glacier, complete with labels for each of its rooms and their functions, I knew we had to tackle Row E. Normally we would have taken a straight shot trip back from Row F to our beloved slough. This time, we took a chance and let the tides carry us downstream to Row E from Row F – a full 200 yards to the North. We hadn’t seen the security boats in well over an hour, which made us uneasy not knowing if they’d begin their rounds any minute.

USS Glacier, from All Hands Magazine, December 1956

When we arrived at Row E, we’d discovered that entry was easy. A large wooden box – one of many used between the ships to separate their hulls – served as a perfect ladder to ascend the keel to the deck of the SS Wynam (T-AGS-34), an oceanographic survey vessel.  Upon boarding the ship we returned home, knowing that it would be ripe for exploration on a return trip (the sun was already rising and we didn’t have the time or provisions to last another 48 hours out on the fleet, even if it was a new, unexplored row).

Like clockwork, a month later, full moon high once again, we boarded Row E and spent 48 hours exploring its vaunted ships. Then, as was the case with Row F, we chose the Captain’s stateroom of a Thomaston-class landing ship as our accommodation for the weekend. Living on the ships was much easier and more comfortable than one would expect. Though the ships are cold, dark, cramped, and often stuffy inside, if one chooses the right spot in the ship (the captain’s stateroom in most cases), then plenty of room, fresh air, and light is available – especially if the portholes are preserved well enough so they still open (as they did on Row E).

Click on this thumnail to view the full schematic of a Thomaston-class LSD

Staterooms

Most staterooms still had complete furniture sets contained within them. We found that the pads of couches made excellent bedding below our sleeping bags. Considering the anxiety and stress we faced getting to the row; the extreme, cold, wet weather; the constant heaving and lifting of heavy cargo while boarding the ships; and the consistent, unfettered rowing we needed to do in order to reach the ships when tidal currents were against our favor – considering all of these things, a moldy, smelly, cushion (upon which one never knows exactly what transpired) looked like a nice, fluffy pillow of love and affection. Though tempting, we most often didn’t choose to sleep when it was dark outside; rather, we’d scurry from ship to ship, photographing features in the moon all night long. When dawn came, we’d sprint to our pre-chosen stateroom and sleep for a few hours before ambling within the interiors of the ship we chose to sleep in – cameras, and tripods, and flash units in hand – until sundown.

Our system worked well. In fact, it saved our asses more than once. We assumed, but didn’t count on the fact that MARAD employees had the weekends off. We knew that we should expect them to board any one of the rows at any given time during day. At night, on the other hand, we had prime shooting and scoping time. It was a time we felt free enough to walk from ship to ship and within the ships without arousing suspicion (provided that we didn’t use our flashlights when security boats were in our line of sight).

Close Calls

On our final day on Row E, at about noon, we made the almost-disastrous decision to walk from ship to ship during the day. It was something we’d rarely done before; given that we’d never seen MARAD employees on our row up to that point, we safely assumed it wouldn’t happen. We were wrong. When I saw the MARAD ferry approaching our row, I frantically searched for the others and told them they were on their way. The three of us tried to decide which ship we wanted to go inside and ran towards its entry point. MARAD employees were boarding our row, and we had no idea why. Within 30 seconds of the first orange life jacket appearing in front of us, we found ourselves inside of the USS Glacier. We narrowly avoided being seen.

The Glacier has a large central crow’s nest. This particular tower is unlike most crows’ nests because of the Glacier’s unique service as an Antarctic Icebreaker – there is an interior access hatch and ladder that extends the 70-foot length of the tower. About 2/3rds of the way up the tower is a pilothouse that serves as an auxiliary pilothouse in case the captain needs to control the boat from a higher vantage point. This 70-foot-high pilothouse was perfect for watching the movements of MARAD employees. I saw them board the ships and walk across the catwalks from ship to ship.

We never determined when – or if – they left. Finally, when the sun went down, we exited the Glacier and sighed in relief. We’d spent all day inside of the Glacier, largely waiting and listening to see if MARAD began boarding the inside of the Glacier (where we were). At times, we’d walk around and photograph the inside, but not without looking behind our backs in trepidation.

Our trip out to Row E carried much more risk than our trip to Row F, which we fully expected. We’d find out later that our trips would get progressively more risky, and it would ultimately culminate in our decision to cease going. Luckily, we had enough thirst for adventure to try another row. We knew that Row G carried two jewels of the Suisun Bay Reserve Fleet, the top secret stealth ship, Sea Shadow, and the World War II battleship, USS Iowa. I heard that the USS Iowa was one the only battleship fitted with a bathtub (apparently for President Roosevelt), and I knew that I had to see it. Scott Haefner was up for a challenge. Stephen was burned out – temporarily. We invited another trusted friend, Sean, along for our third trip to Row G of the Suisun Bay Fleet.

Row G

WHEN one hears the words, “stealth ship” it’s easy to get excited. Imagine our excitement when I saw the first one known to exist, abandoned, decaying, rusting away in front of my own eyes. Though this ship was small, at 164 feet from bow to stern, I couldn’t believe that we had infiltrated the row that held the IX-529 Sea Shadow. Perhaps more interesting than the Sea Shadow itself was the drydock it was ensconced within: HMB-1, the Hughes Mining Barge, built by the famed Howard Hughes company for the CIA in the early 1970s. HMB-1 was one part of a two-part structure used to lift the sunken nuclear Russian submarine, K-129, from the ocean Northwest of Hawaii. K-129 was 16,000 feet underwater, so Hughes built the Glomar Explorer, ostensibly as a Manganese mining ship. The real purpose of the Hughes Mining Barge was to submerge and serve as a purpose-built submerged (and hidden) drydock for any remains recovered from the submarine wreck site (including cryptographic code books, secret intelligence from the Soviet Navy, and nuclear munitions); the Glomar Explorer on the other hand, served as the cover story (manganese nodule mining) and as the powerhouse for lifting the gigantic, 2700-ton submarine from the depths of the ocean.

In the end, Clementine, the gigantic claw that was used to lift the submarine failed; the submarine split in half. Most of the important intelligence was lost in the process, and “Project Jennie,” as it was erroneously known by the press, was a failure. By 1983, HMB-1 was mothballed, but it oddly disappeared from Todd Shipyards, where it was being stored. Inquiries from the press reached a dead end – the only thing the Navy could say was that it wasn’t being used to lift a submarine from the water. The real story was that HMB-1 housed the top secret stealth ship, Sea Shadow IX-529. It was brought to Lockheed Martin facilities in Redwood City, California, where it remained until 1993, when the Sea Shadow project was finally revealed to the public.

Scott, Sean, and I didn’t want to risk our flashlights being seen by the nearby guard tower at MARAD headquarters less than 200 yards away. We forced ourselves to leave and head towards the USS Iowa. The Iowa is on the opposite end of the Row G from the Sea Shadow, so the walk out took about 20 minutes in the dark. We knew that if anything was monitored in the way of alarms or motion sensors, the USS Iowa would. In fact, it was only a few years prior that the title to the ship was formally transferred from the Navy to MARAD; in the meantime, it had become a highly coveted museum site which the Bay Area and Los Angeles have been competing to obtain for years.

Ship Security

We also knew that Scott found an important, albeit discouraging, clue that indicated to us some ships were alarmed. On our earlier trip to Row F he discovered a microwave sensor. Microwave motion alarms are the least friendly to explorers because such systems can tell the size and distance of an intruder, drastically reducing the error in telling the difference between, say, a hawk and a human. They can also curtain a very large area (e.g. a whole row of ships) with a blanket of protection.

The moment we walked on the Iowa, I pointed to a large, strange looking device mounted high above the bridge of the battleship. Scott noticed it too, and we both believed it to be a sensor. There was only one way to find out. We nonchalantly walked out on the Iowa, towards the three 16-inch guns closest to the bow. We set up our tripods and photographed these gigantic guns (the Iowa wasn’t known as the “Big Stick” for any small matter – its nine 16”, 50 caliber guns could hurl projectiles as heavy as a Volkswagon Beetle 24 miles out to sea).

Not more than five minutes into boarding the ship, a security boat arrived with its spotlights aimed directly on the Iowa. We thought we were had. The Iowa was flanked by a gangplank with direct access to the ship from the water. If MARAD knew someone was on the ship they could be on within a minute. We had to haul ass off the ship – quickly. Scott, Sean, and I grabbed our tripods and ran back towards the Sea Shadow side of the Row G, all while keeping our backs crouched to avoid being seen by the spotlights. It was the second time we narrowly avoided being caught – this time was too close for comfort.

We spent the remainder of the night exploring the USS Nereus (AS-17), a World War II-era submarine tender that contained its own small treats, including a brig for imprisoning unruly or off-the-rocker sailors. Whether it was because we were unruly, or off-the-rocker, we made light of the moment to do a photo shoot of ourselves. Obviously, we were trying to get the prospect of being caught off our minds by taking self-portraits behind bars in the Nereus. By morning, we were inside of our sleeping quarters in the officer’s lounge of the USS Kawishiwi (T-AO-146). After a few hours of rest, we returned to the Sea Shadow to photograph her in all her glory during the day.

Our trip out to Row G was both terrifying and exciting. We were getting more reluctant to test our luck and make a return trip. A full four months later, after much hesitation, we decided that we needed to return for one final trip. Row J would be our riskiest endeavor, and considering the proximity our boat would be to security HQ, I surmised that there was a 50/50 chance we’d be waylaid by MARAD security enroute.

Row J

TO this day, I look back at Row J as that eerie, memorable 48 hours that served as the denouement to 18 months of planning and execution. And like many conclusions, drama, excitement, discovery, emotion, were all heightened to the level of hyperrealism. Stephen was ready to get back in the game. Scott as ready as ever. We had to abandon our lovely, little slough for this particular trip. The length from the slough to Row J was much too far to be feasible considering the battery life of our trolling motor (over 1.5 miles). Most importantly, traveling our traditional route meant passing directly under the in-out route of security guards: a long cement skyway going across mudflats and shallow water to security HQ.  We would certainly be seen along the way, because the skyway is buffeted on each end by a long series of mercury vapor streetlamps that illuminate everything within 200 feet.

Route #2 was a thinner, shallower slough that exited on the upstream side of the skyway. We didn’t even know if it was possible to take our boat through it. In many ways, it was riskier than our original slough. This one required us heaving the boat over a salinity gate, dropping it back into the slough, continuing through the channel, and passing within 150 feet of the dock where the security boats embarked and disembarked with reinforcements – all well within the range of illumination. If anyone was at security HQ, the docks, or taking the security boat to make a stop at HQ, they would have easily seen us. We quietly went out, and rolled our 50/50 dice. Lady Luck was with us. We made it to Row J, disembarking on a floating barge that carried supplies and equipment for MARAD, which was tied up adjacent to the SS President Tyler.

While climbing the 15-foot distance between the deck of the President Tyler and the containerized barge a security boat came by – spotlights ablaze. Stephen and I dived on our bellies, hoping we wouldn’t be seen in the beams. Scott laid low at the bottom of the container, unable to find a sufficient hiding place if the boat happened to shine between the rows as it often does. Luckily our raft was deflated – otherwise they would have easily descried its silhouette and we would have been had. Once the boat was out of visual range, we continued on to Row J.

The silence between us was palpable. I think each of us knew this was going to be our last trip. Though we didn’t really want this to be the case, we also knew that our good fortune would be up if we continued our bombast. The urgency of the situation also meant that our creativity was heightened. Much like we did on our first journey out to the fleet, nearly a year earlier, we decided to split up as soon as we found sleeping quarters.

Cargo Ships and Passenger Lines

The great highlight of Row J is a large collection of cargo ships that doubled as passenger lines. The difference between a utilitarian ship and one intended to serve as a cruise line is like night and day. Passenger cruises, as the three of us knew well from our past illicit journeys to the SS Independence in San Francisco, have the features that photographers love: original artwork, unique design features, quirky room accoutrements, and dramatic verandas or lounges that offer panoramic views of the outside world. Row J didn’t disappoint in that respect. The sad fact of Row J, though, was that we had about half the time that we had on Row F with twice as many ships to photograph. It was unfortunate that we missed out on fully documenting some important ships, including the SS American Racer, SS American Reliance, SS Aid, SS Agent, SS Ambassador.

I focused my efforts on the SS President Lincoln. The importance of the Lincoln, which is now on its way to the scrap yard, is that it was a pioneer in the development of containerized cargo shipping. In the early 1960s, when the Lincoln was built, the problem of rapid globalization was barely being addressed. Shipping companies responded with containerized cargo, a revolutionary move from the traditional method of palletized cargo. American President Lines, a quasi-government, San Francisco-based shipping company built the President Lincoln to accommodate containers, but it also wanted to supplement its income by including a small, exclusive complement of 12 passengers per cruise. These ships were elegantly beautiful, with fixtures and murals inside that provided scenic surroundings for the wealthy passengers that once walked their decks.

Like rapacious scavengers, we sweeped the ships in search of photographs. Our eyes bloodshot, our sense of time completely distorted, we frantically went from deck to deck testing doors for the rare opportunity of entrance inside. I finally found a way inside of the President Lincoln and spent a few hours exploring it. I managed to return during the day when its interior spaces were best photographed and assessed.

Searchlights and Security

Our final night out on the mothball fleet was silent once again. Unlike our early journeys to Row F a year earlier, fog was completely absent. Sound traveled farther, as did the beacons of our flashlights when we happened to use them. We were much wearier of unusual sounds or movements on the water. The wind had ceased; the water far across the horizon – as far as eyes could see – was as glassy and calm as the sands of a vast desert. A single barn owl hooted from one of the tall stacks on the ships.

The silence, though peaceful on our first trip out, was unnerving on our last. I was continually waiting for it to be punctuated by a loud, intrusive wake accompanied by spotlights. The more we went out, the more often the spotlights seemed to appear – tenacious tendrils of light, an aspect least comforting among our journeys. The spotlights haunted our minds more than the security boats themselves, certainly more haunting for me than the thought of dead sailors or ghostly ship cabins while I waited alone in the penumbral darkness, waiting to re-emerge at night for photography.

Our egress from our final row was fraught with a comedy of errors that nearly had us caught. Exhausted and depleted of any remaining adrenaline, we lost our oars in a crack between the two container barges. The oars floated away on the glassy water, out of our reach. We lost the most efficient way back (it would have been impossible to use only the power of our trolling motor to get through portions of the mudflats); it was then that the security patrol found its way towards Row J. It scanned the water and shined its terrifying spotlights as if it knew we were there. We crouched tightly against the barges hoping we wouldn’t be seen. A short reprieve came; the security boat left towards HQ. We threw our fully inflated boat into the water and miraculously found our oars wedged where the water met the keel of the President Tyler.

It was at that moment – the moment we thought we were finally home free, when we were on brink of hooting and hollering – that we saw the fast approaching security boat behind us.  All I could think of was the impending spotlight… That much-maligned specter that fed the fear on my final trip out to the fleet. I hated the spotlight, but I knew it was coming. Scott and I were rowing harder than we’d ever rowed in our lives, while Stephen had the motor full throttle. We were moving at about 10 knots when the spotlights reached our ship.  The boat was about 200 feet behind our stern, and the spotlights were fixed directly on us. We were fully illuminated by the bright, white light. It was over. I threw my oar to the side of the boat in exasperation, trying to think of what we would say to the two security officers on the boat.

At that moment, something miraculous happened. The boat turned back towards Row J. Did they miss us? For whatever reason, we recommenced our epic rowing. We continued at full speed, reached beloved slough #2, threw our boat over the salinity gate, rowed home on a dead battery, and threw everything into our truck, away from Fleet HQ and on to safe anonymity among the city ahead of us.

Was it really over? Surely it had to be. The sun rose, bird-chirping heralded the dawn; strangely enough, it felt like everything was new that morning. We returned un-apprehended, 18 months after those first moments, completely exhausted but happy to be in our warm, dry homes. What we had those 18 months can never be repeated. Not again. Never. But in the beauty of those moments, among those lost relics of history, I think each of us learned something about perseverance and the overarching urgency of recording these strange, rotting, archaic things.

They were such beautiful, awesome, jaws-wide-open creations of humankind. Such intricacy and beauty; so much to save and show, share and celebrate. I love these places. I love them to the point of risking my life, limb, and reputation for them. I love the friendships that are formed in accessing them; and I’ll always love the supreme purpose behind presenting them as best we could, ourselves being imperfect yet adventurous artists.

These ships I’ve shown here are mostly dead now, but hopefully I’ve helped their story live on. It’s so sad to see their scarred, scrapped, disassembled hulls. From the sky they’re little Tonka toys or Lego sets, as if pulled apart by playful five-year-olds, their vast hulks reconverted into razor blades, or iPods, or cheap tchotchkes from third-world countries. One only hopes that a piece of them survives in a well-engineered bridge, or the embellishment of a gleaming, chrome skyscraper, or any human-designed machine that inspires others by showing the art inherent in function and form, form and function in one. All great creations of humanity are only appreciated when they are gone, which is the sad fact of living the life of an illicit explorer. We get to see them at the end of their lives, hoping that others appreciate them for what they were… for what they tell us.

Further Research

• Save the USS Iowa
• Sea Shadow (IX-529)
• Fleet Revealed (Our Exclusive Slideshow Event)
• Esso Gettysburg (1957-1973)
• Coast Guard Cutter, Iris
• Coast Guard Cutter, Planetree
• MARAD

Related posts:

1. Inside a Ghost Fleet Ship – AS-32 U.S.S. Holland
2. An Abandoned Amusement Park in Berlin
3. Mothball Fleets and the SS Red Oak Victory

Editor’s Note: What follows is a retrospective of the controversy surrounding an abandoned site in a secluded spot near the Chevron refinery in Richmond, California. Since I moved to the small city in the East Bay, the site has been on my list of places to photograph.  But Point Molate also represents a darker side of city politics that few are willing to talk about. Interspersed with photos of the abandoned “castle,” I’ll tell you about the very prescient influence of Indian Gaming on city politics in California.  I hope you enjoy.

Plagued with the highest homicide rate on the West Coast, Richmond, California often gets the brunt of bad media attention.[1] The East Bay city of 100,000 is gripped by the problems of urban blight and industrial legacy. On the North side of town is the Chevron oil refinery.  Since 1902, its effluence has seeped into the surrounding air. The winds from the San Francisco Bay sweep across the former Bay island of Potrero (now a peninsula) and carry refinery pollutants towards the impoverished neighborhoods to the East.  But on the West Side of the Chevron refinery is the city’s best kept secret – a small, little-developed waterfront stretch of 423 acres that reached the BRAC cutting room floor during Clinton-era military cutbacks.[2] As a result, a former military fuel depot has fortuitously landed on the City of Richmond’s doorstep.  This gift – sold to Richmond for $1 in 2003 – has quickly become a veritable ‘toxic asset’ for the city, which now finds itself at the center of controversy and competing interests.[3]

The 423-acre plot at Point Molate represents the very distillation of the struggle between Use Value and Exchange Value in local land use politics. At stake is a billion-dollar Native American gaming project; the interests of a coalition of environmentalists, municipal parks, and biking groups; the third most profitable corporation in the U.S.; and a slice of the $5.1 billion Native American gaming industry in California.[4] Few other examples in California development history portray the intricacies of local land conflict as much as the conflict over Point Molate; knowing that, this paper will assert that Native American gaming compacts present some of the most controversial and challenging problems of modern urban planning history, and their implementation lacks the consensus that serves the best interest of most communities. Ultimately, Point Molate represents the continuing struggle between community autonomy, Federal law, and big business.

Brief History & Background

Point Molate began its life of land use over 5,000 years ago, as a home to the Ohlone tribe. The Native inhabitants left behind shell mounds (heaps of discarded shells) as evidence of their presence.[5] The Guidiville Rancheria band of Pomo Indians say this is definitive justification for the land’s designation as federally recognized reservation; however, opponents – including Randall Milliken, Ph D. of Davis, California – claim that the same justification refutes the claim made for the Point Molate casino. “Pomo Indians have no traditional cultural connection with lands on the east side of the San Francisco Bay,” writes Milliken in his letter, which is included in the draft EIR. “It was the homeland of the Chochenyo Ohlone speaking people and remains the homeland of their descendants today.”[6]

Richmond’s industrial base was born when Standard Oil Company moved into the East Side of what was then Potrero Island.  The surrounding hills served as a perfect, terraced holding-place for a large tank farm, which was continuously replenished through oil tanker arrivals at the nearby pier in the San Francisco Bay. Prior to 1900, the unique geographic assets of Potrero Island (which had become a peninsula in the early 1900s) led to its formation as a Chinese shrimp camp;[7] after 1906, Point Molate was further exploited by the growing shipping needs of the California Wine Association, whose headquarters in San Francisco was devastated by the Great Quake.[8] The California Wine Association – once the “world’s largest winery” – had gone largely out of use during Prohibition. By 1941, the United States Navy entered the fray.  War-time demand for petroleum meant that Point Molate would be ground zero to store and distribute oil for the Pacific Ocean theater of operations at Iwo Jima, Marshall, American Samoa, Bikini, and beyond.

Chevron

Since 1902, oil has played a major role in the development of the Point Molate area. As one of the earliest industrial heavyweights in California, Standard Oil’s Richmond Refinery used the promontory of Potrero Island to their advantage, eventually becoming “one of the world’s largest refineries.” Today, Chevron produces 243,000 barrels a day from its Richmond facility; the company boasts of contributing $61 million to community development in the city of Richmond.[9]

Chevron is just as vehement as the Guidiville Rancheria tribe in establishing their interest in Point Molate. In fact, the company hired former San Francisco Mayor Willie Brown to lobby for them with the Richmond City Council.[10] Community leaders contend that Chevron’s interests in the land are to provide a “buffer” of security between their refinery and any further human habitation.

Gary Fisher, a Chevron external affairs manager noted that wildfires and security are some of Chevron’s top concerns. “The opportunity for trespassing and vandalism, including an avoidable increased risk for a potential terrorist act directed towards the refinery, increases with public access,” Fisher wrote.  What Fisher doesn’t mention is perhaps the most compelling reason for Chevron’s interest in the land: Liability and the concern of class action lawsuits. According to an environmental report from the Navy, “an ammonia leak at the refinery could create a toxic cloud,” which would endanger the life of anyone who is nearby.[11]

Chevron offered the City of Richmond $83 million for Point Molate (in addition to the ongoing property taxes assessed for the property) making it the most lucrative up-front offer for the land (the Guidiville Band offered $50 million).[12] Chevron maintained that it intended to keep the land as a privately owned open-space preserve. This produced an unlikely partnership: Environmental groups that are generally “anti-Chevron” joined forces with the oil company to oppose the Point Molate casino project.

Development, Investment Interests and the City of Richmond

Even more powerful than Chevron were the development special interests. They were able to provide the promise of long-term revenue and infrastructure improvements for the cash-strapped city of Richmond. Point Molate development interests are largely represented by their ‘patriarch,’ Jim Levine. Levine is a successful Berkeley developer who made his riches in the toxic cleanup market. The development interests – not the Guidiville tribe – were the first to conceive of Point Molate as a casino Mecca. According to the Berkeley Daily Planet, Levine’s Upstream Development Company “went out and recruited [the Guidiville]… to take the land as a reservation and claim formal ownership of the land.”[13]

Surely, money was a big part of the motive for all parties involved. The city of Richmond hired a consulting company to analyze the casino potential of Point Molate – most telling was that the city did this before they received ownership of the land from the Navy. What the consultants found was a gold mine for the city, but more importantly, for the developers. The report estimated $500 million in economic activity each year; Upstream signed an agreement that the city would receive $20 million annually.[14]

Early in the process, Levine contacted the Canadian Imperial Bank of Commerce (the “leading lender in the world of tribal casinos”); and, ultimately, Harrah’s signed on as financial partner.[15] Thus, the world’s largest gaming corporation had come into the fray, along with Levine and other financial backers. Further cementing the backing Levine’s Upstream had in government circles (particularly in obtaining reservation status from the Bureau of Indian Affairs and approval from the State of California), the powerfully connected William Cohen, Republican from Maine who was Secretary of Defense under President Clinton, joined the team as “consultant.”

In the midst of it all, Levine sold his plan to the public through a combination of promises of largesse (3,000 onsite jobs, 3,600 offsite jobs and 1,000 construction jobs); ^[16] environmentalism (Levine greenwashed the development as the “greenest project ever erected in California”);[17] and rehabilitation of the historic Winehaven buildings (probably to appease the Design Review Board).

Of course, along the way, there was plenty of opposition. Some opposition to the Casino Plan hailed from the County Board of Supervisors (who retracted their opposition upon learning that they – too – would receive $12 million a year from the casino).[18] Later, the State of California filed a lawsuit against Upstream; Governor Schwarzenegger’s office penned a letter to the Bureau of Indian Affairs and Richmond’s mayor, saying the project “undermined the constitutionality of California’s Indian gaming regime.”[19] The state cited Proposition 1A as reasoning for their opposition, and Senators Dianne Feinstein and Barbara Boxer wrote to the Secretary of Interior that they had “serious concerns about the recent practice of tribes and municipalities seeking advantageous gaming opportunities on lands that are not traditionally tribal lands.”[20] It all culminated in April of 2005, when the State Attorney General’s Office joined a lawsuit with Bay Area park agencies against Levine’s Upstream and the city. The suit claimed that that the sale of the land failed to adhere to the California Environmental Quality Act (CEQA). An Environmental Attorney for the Attorney General’s Office, Janill L. Richards spoke for the Attorney General’s office, saying that there was not adequate review “before a decision [was] made on an important piece of public property with significant public interests.”[21]

For a while, it looked like the project was dead in the water, but City Council member Gayle McLaughlin  (who opposed the project) said that the city – perhaps a bit too giddy with their newfound wealth – had already spent some of the $15 million in deposit money that Levine and his partners paid early in the process.[22] Upstream simply restarted from scratch, hiring consultants to draft a behemoth 3000-page Environmental Impact Report. Perhaps most telling about the project, however, came through silence that followed.  There was relative lack of large-scale community involvement in opposition to its plan. Perhaps the Environmental Impact Report was just too long?

Local Environmental Groups/Citizen Groups/Historic Preservation Groups

If one were to read the news reports of the project, one would get the sense that the project was a well-conceived plan with little public opposition – if a bit susceptible to the whims of bureaucratic rigamarole.  Of the dozens of newspaper articles that describe the controversy, very few – if any – include comments from actual community members. In the case that community concerns are cited in stories, it’s usually in the form of concerns that the project won’t go through.  And even in the rare case that community opposition is cited it’s actually community members from communities other than Richmond. It appeared that Richmond wasn’t the developers’ only target – it was simply the most convenient. Napa resident John Salmon, who is a partner with Levine in the project, originally was strongly against casinos in a talk in 2005 to Napa Rotarians. Apparently, Salmon said that the Richmond casino was a good deal for the Napa Valley, because it would relieve pressure that might otherwise lead to a gambling in the middle of Wine Country (where the Guidiville Pomo actually did originate from). The March 5, Napa Rotagram quoted Salmon as saying, “Molate will bear a likeness to Ghirardelli Square, and with its high-end qualities, will take the pressure off Napa and other North Bay locations that may face future casino proposals.”[23] Additionally, The Guidiville had originally proposed a casino in nearby Solano county, but the Board of Supervisors were adamantly against it – along with all community members in attendance at the meeting.

However, the absence of community involvement portrayed in the media isn’t the entire story. When one looks at the appendix of the Environmental  Impact Report – nearly 2000 pages by itself – the true community opposition reveals itself fully.  In Section 4 of Vol.  2, starting at page 74, the public review documents are displayed – over 400 pages in all; many of them state ardent opposition to the plan. Members of the community cited crime, traffic, gambling problems and the need for open space. But towards the end of Section 4, is the impassioned transcript of James Easter, who has lived in Richmond for 57 years. His words sum up – I think – the very real issue of Indian Gaming, and ultimately it arrives at the crux of my thesis and the true reason why communities are most often affected negatively due to Indian gaming, despite their presumed tax bounty.

“So what – I’m against Point Molate. I have been to a casino six or seven times in my life. I don’t consider myself a gambler, but I go through.  I do know that there’s a time and place for all things. It’s hard for us on the South Side. We can’t even get a decent shopping center down there… I’ll donate a little bit of money to the Indian Affairs. And I’m not against Indian gambling, but it seems strange to me that Indians got[sic] so much money to do all of this all of a sudden… I’m against a casino here, because it won’t bring no dollars. We lost Safeway. We lost Ford Motor Company. We lost all the big jobs. And now we’re broke and going to bring a CASINO? I’m against it.”[24]

Footnotes

[1] “Richmond leads per-capital murder rate in California.”

[2] BRAC – which stands for “Base Realignment and Closure,” was an Act of Congress in 1988. The Act helps return former military bases to public and community use.

[3] “BRAC – US Gov,” para. 3.

[4] Korosec, “Exxon, Chevron Win in a Loser Year for Top 500 Companies | BNET Energy Blog | BNET”; “Indian Gaming in California.”

[5] Santiago, “Betting on Point Molate.”

[6] “Draft Environmental Impact Statement / Environmental Impact Report,” 138-139.

[7] Weinstein, “Storming the Castle,” para. 10.

[8] Fronistas, “Before Napa, there was Winehaven,” para. 3.

[9] “Chevron Energy and Hydrogen Renewal Project,” para. 6.

[10] Vega, “Point Molate Casino On Track After City Council OKs Proposal,” para. 3.

[11] Williams, “Point Molate: Waterfront Dream or Terrorist Nightmare?,” para. 6.

[12] Rosen Lum, “ChevronTexaco Hires Willie Brown to Undo the Deal,” 10.

[13] Brenneman, “Berkeley Developer’s Big Dreams Dominate Richmond Landscape,” para. 16.

[14] Simerman, “County ready to back Point Molate casino plan – ContraCostaTimes.com,” para. 8.

[15] Brenneman, “Berkeley Developer’s Big Dreams Dominate Richmond Landscape.”

[16] “Richmond OKs Point Molate casino project,” para. 6.

[17] Brenneman, “Point Molate Casino Gets Fast-Track Status,” para. 4.

[18] Simerman, “County ready to back Point Molate casino plan – ContraCostaTimes.com,” para. 1.

[19] Hoch, “Governor Letter Against Pt Molate,” 1.

[20] Tam, “Sides still divided over Richmond casino-hotel plan’s potential impact – Inside Bay Area,” para. 17.

[21] Brenneman, “State Attorney General Joins Point Molate Casino Fight,” para. 5.

[22] Ibid., para. 19-20.

[23] Brenneman, “Lawsuit Challenges Point Molate Casino. Category: News from The Berkeley Daily Planet – Thursday January 29, 2009,” para. 31.

[24] “Draft Environmental Impact Statement / Environmental Impact Report.”

Sources

“BRAC – US Gov.” Government. http://www.bracpmo.navy.mil/basepage.aspx?baseid=50.

Brenneman, Richard. “Berkeley Developer’s Big Dreams Dominate Richmond Landscape.” Berkeley Daily Planet, April 26, 2005. http://www.berkeleydaily.org/issue/2005-04-26/article/21243?headline=Berkeley-Developer-s-Big-Dreams-Dominate-Richmond-Landscape-By-RICHARD-BRENNEMAN.

———. “Lawsuit Challenges Point Molate Casino. Category: News from The Berkeley Daily Planet – Thursday January 29, 2009,” January 28, 2009. http://www.berkeleydailyplanet.com/issue/2009-01-29/article/32111?headline=Lawsuit-Challenges-Point-Molate-Casino.

———. “Point Molate Casino Gets Fast-Track Status. Category: Front Page News from The Berkeley Daily Planet – Thursday June 12, 2008.” Newspaper, June 12, 2009. http://www.berkeleydaily.org/issue/2008-06-12/article/30235?headline=Point-Molate-Casino-Gets-Fast-Track-Status.

———. “State Attorney General Joins Point Molate Casino Fight.” Berkeley Daily Planet, April 22, 2009. http://www.berkeleydailyplanet.com/issue/2005-04-22/article/21212?headline=State-Attorney-General-Joins-Point-Molate-Casino-Fight-By-RICHARD-BRENNEMAN&status=301.

“Chevron Energy and Hydrogen Renewal Project.” Corporation. Chevron, Spring 2009. http://www.chevron.com/products/sitelets/richmond/renewal/.

“Draft Environmental Impact Statement / Environmental Impact Report.” http://www.pointmolateeis-eir.com/documents/draft_eis-eir/report.htm.

Fronistas, Phoebe. “Before Napa, there was Winehaven.” Blog. Richmond Confidential, October 13, 2009. http://richmondconfidential.org/2009/10/13/before-napa-there-was-winehaven/.

Hoch, Andrea Lynn. Letter. “Governor Letter Against Pt Molate,” October 12, 2009. http://docs.google.com/fileview?id=0B2Vh92XtfvhnNWRkYjNmMTktMjFkYS00NDVlLTk4NjItYTdhNTU3OTA0NTU4&hl=en.

“Indian Gaming in California.” http://igs.berkeley.edu/library/htIndianGaming.htm#Topic1.

Korosec, Kristen. “Exxon, Chevron Win in a Loser Year for Top 500 Companies | BNET Energy Blog | BNET.” News. BNET, April 20, 2009. http://industry.bnet.com/energy/10001114/exxon-chevron-win-in-a-loser-year-for-top-500-companies/.

“Richmond leads per-capital murder rate in California.” San Francisco Chronicle, June 10, 2008. http://www.sfgate.com/cgi-bin/article.cgi?f=/n/a/2008/06/10/state/n103604D95.DTL.

“Richmond OKs Point Molate casino project.” Contra Costa Times, November 10, 2004. http://www.tombutt.com/forum/2004/041111.htm.

Rosen Lum, Rebecca. “ChevronTexaco Hires Willie Brown to Undo the Deal.” Contra Costa Times, November 11, 2004.

Santiago, Chiori. “Betting on Point Molate.” Bay Nature, 2005. http://www.baynature.org/articles/jul-sep-2005/betting-on-point-molate.

Simerman, John. “County ready to back Point Molate casino plan – ContraCostaTimes.com,” October 31, 2009. http://www.contracostatimes.com/ci_13685421?source=most_emailed.

Tam, Katherine. “Sides still divided over Richmond casino-hotel plan’s potential impact – Inside Bay Area.” Oakland Tribune, September 19, 2009. http://www.insidebayarea.com/news/ci_13368891.

Vega, Cecilia. “Point Molate Casino On Track After City Council OKs Proposal.” http://www.sfgate.com/cgi-bin/article.cgi?file=/chronicle/archive/2004/11/11/BAG869PFRE1.DTL.

Weinstein, David. “Storming the Castle.” Preservation Magazine, July 25, 2009. http://www.preservationnation.org/magazine/story-of-the-week/2003/Storming-the-Castle.html.

Williams, Susan. “Point Molate: Waterfront Dream or Terrorist Nightmare?,” October 9, 2009. http://www.baycrossings.com/Archives/2003/09_October/point_molate_waterfront_dream_or_terrorist_nightmare.htm.

Related posts:

1. Pripyat, Chernobyl, and the Future of Nuclear Power
2. Auschwitz “Death Camp” Blueprints Discovered in Berlin Apartment
3. An Abandoned Mansion from Lebanon’s Past

"Ghost Ships" An Image of the J Row of the Mothball Fleet, with the U.S.S. President at the forefront - © Amy Heiden

Floating in the brackish waters of Suisun Bay is a fleet of decaying ships, many which have outlived their useful lives. Known as the Ghost Fleet, a few of these ladies of the deep have survived long enough to serve in three wars.

Gaining access to these closely-watched vessels is a privilege given to a chosen few. Fellow photographer and friend, Amy Heiden, was one of those few – and her recent story about visiting one of the ships (the AS-32 U.S.S. Holland, a 1960s-era Hunley-class submarine tender) is recounted in vivid detail on her website.

The U.S.S. Holland in Spain - Courtesy USSHolland.org, via Amy Heiden.

Amy’s trip to the Holland holds a special place in my heart, particularly because I’m somewhat obsessed with the history of all things nuclear and radioactive. Just browse around this site, and you will become well aware of my unhealthy obsession. So, it goes without saying that her experience on the ship was a true treat. After all: The Holland carried Poseidon warheads – gigantic, menacing submarine-based rockets that traveled 8,000 miles per hour with a payload of up to 14 reentry vehicles (viz. nuclear warheads!). But let’s allow Amy’s words to speak for themselves, shall we?:

“As we descended down a ladder, I reached up to turn on my headlamp, only to discover that we were immersed inside the mess, surrounded by plastic blue tables and yellow seats. Our flashlights blinded our eyes as the beams reflected off the metal cabinets covering the walls. Across the room, I noticed an old soda fountain, complete with drink labels that appeared to have been typed by a computer.”

Later, as Amy follows a cadre of experienced mothball aficionados inside the Holland, she is showna gigantic cargo hold that vertically spans the entire keel of the ship. According to the interview she conducted with a former crew member, the space she saw once held the radioactive waste-water of nuclear-armed submarines. Of course (we can only hope!), Amy arrived in this space long after its cleanup rendered it safe to explore.

"Vertigo" - the once-radioactive modified hull of the U.S.S. Holland a Vietnam-era submarine tender - © Amy Heiden

Amy’s experience is just one of many she’s had. In all she’s taken nearly a half-dozen journeys out to the mothball fleet. And her important documentation couldn’t have come at a better time. The Obama administration – rightly so – has made the removal and dismantling of the toxic ships a top environmental priority. As a result, MARAD is scrambling to find suitable shipyards that will recycle the ships in the most environmentally benign manner. In the last few months, two of the ships that the Suisun Bay fleet hosted have been cleaned and exported to the shipyards in Texas. It’s likely that – soon – Mare Island Naval Shipyard (an abandoned and mothballed naval shipyard in and of itself) will be another facility equipped for handling this delicate and important task.

This image - generously provided through the exhaustive research of Amy, and courtesy of MARAD - shows the Naval Defense Reserve Fleet (NDRF) in the 1950s, when 400 ships were moored along the shores of Suisun Bay.

At one point soon after the second World War, the NDRF fleet held 2,277 ships. Today, that number has dwindled to 230 ships (between 2003 and 2007 alone, 44 ships were removed from the fleet). I’m honored to know someone who has taken up the important task of documenting these relics of history before they’re gone forever. I hope you will take a look at Amy’s story. Do browse around, too, if you have the inclination; Amy’s dedication to photographing the pieces of the past extends far beyond the fascinating journey she narrates in her story about the Holland – nay, even her trips to the NDRF.

Further Reading

Amy’s detailed narrative of visiting the fleet

KQED’s map with history and citations of ship names and dates

San Francisco Chronicle : NDRF cleanup efforts

Related posts:

1. You’re Invited: Mothball Fleet Revealed
2. Adventures in the Abandoned Ships of Suisun Bay
3. Inside a Titan 1 Missile Base

This is the Tunnel leading to the orginal (now exploded) Titan 1 Operational Systems Test Facility on Vandenberg

I see urban exploration as the hobby of appreciating things which, decades after their creation, still manage to make us open our jaws agape at the ingenuity of the human soul. Often, however, such ingenuity is misplaced in hubris. Vandenberg was a logical step at illustrating such schizophrenia of the technocratic imagination – for it was at Vandenberg that our love of all things Nuclear and Ballistic began to take its true Frankenstonian shape.

In January of 2008, soon after my first trip to Neverland, the planning phase for a new, riskier operation was already being laid.  In the months that followed January of ’08, Scott and I would make numerous  forays into  Neverland, but – as it often is with our trips – we invariably tried to find things to do while waiting for the sun to drop below the horizon.

The endangered snowy plover (courtesy U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service)

After all, a trip to Neverland during the day would have been significantly more risky, given the amount of gardeners and caretakers that circulated on the property. On the other hand, gallivanting around an active military base, we figured, would probably best be done during the day. It just so happened, Vandenberg Air Force Base (a mere 30 minutes away from Neverland) was a popular haunt for the rare Snowy Plover (a cause célèbre for all well-informed ornithologists). And the Snowy Plover would make the perfect alibi for the Urbex Desperadoes we had become. On our second trip to Neverland, we added a brief foray out to Vandenberg to our itinerary (really just to “scope” the situation).

Although the base itself is closed to the public, certain portions on the far South and Northeastern side are accessible. On the South side, a sleepy rail station of Surf serves as a bucolic, publicly accessible beach – albeit closely monitored by Vandenberg Security Forces.  In the case of the Northeast side of the base, the Marshalia Ranch golf course is sometimes – though not always – available for public use. My frequent drives out to the edges of Marshalia Ranch confirmed that it, too, is a popular hangout for the 30th Security Forces Squadron.

A member of the Vandenberg 30th Security Forces Squadron at a weightlifting competition at Venice Beach (courtesy Vandenberg AFB Office of Public Relations)

I knew that the consequences of exploring Vandenberg at night could be dire; the “SF,” as the security forces of Vandenberg are known, aren’t your typical slovenly security guards. These protectors of Freedom carry M4 assault rifles and – as you can see in the photo above – can easily crush people like me between their fingers. However, I had strong reason to consider risking it – stupid, maybe, but certainly an alluring prospect. Why, you ask?

Vandenberg, for those of you who don’t know, is a proverbial Disneyland for Cold War era missile defense sites. Atlas D, Atlas E, Atlas F, Titan I, Titan II, Minuteman, Peacekeeper, Thor — you name it and Vandenberg had it. It’s a massive base, 250 square miles in all. But in the vast 3,537,441 square miles that make up the United States land area, it is quite literally a crumb of the total cake. Soon, it had become an executive decision: Vandenberg was my next step in a longer journey and goal (but an increasingly spectral and dangerous journey).

If Vandenberg as a whole is the Disneyland of Missile Defense, then the Northern side of the base would be the equivalent of Frontierland – the place where all of it was born during the Missile Gold Rush of 1959. Most compelling to explorers of missile defense sites such as myself, Vandenberg North was also where the early missile programs died by the late 1960s. In the 1970s Vandenberg North has been abandoned in place of Vandenberg South. Today, the bones of the past at Vandenberg North are ripe for exploration. The old sites had four decades to decay and, in the interim, they had become something of a beautiful sight of their own merit.

But getting inside the perimeter of Vandenberg North isn’t as easy as it seems. Though we had our alibi (we had developed a new-found interest in bird watching), we still didn’t have a way in.  All the roads inside of the base (and thus to the front door of our underground missile sites) were completely sealed off by sentry stations and road blocks.  Security forces regularly patrolled the roads. The sky was filled with Unmanned Aerial Vehicles (UAVs) equipped with infrared cameras. Admittedly, part of what appealed to me was the risk. Some of my recent successful forays had given me a brazen confidence. As part of the MacGyver Generation, I also reveled in the potential of being part of an elite few who had managed to infiltrate an active base undetected. Stupid, yes, but certainly alluring.

Again, members of the Vandenberg 30th Security Forces Squadron - this time training in the field, instead of lifting weights.

The decision started relatively inauspiciously. It began as a terse exchange via email on January 15 of 2008, soon after the three of us had infiltrated and photographed the Sutter Buttes Titan I complex at Beale AFB:

STEPHEN: Are there any underground missile bases other than Titan and Atlas that are abandoned? Are there any Atlas silos that are available to explore [in California]? I heard the Lincoln Titan site is filled with water, anybody have confirmation?

SCOTT: I think the Atlas sites are mostly in the Midwest. There are always the Titan IIs, but those are definitely far, far away. There must be some Nikes around, though…

ME: The first Titan test silos are in the Vandy base, but those are on an active base, as you know.  I still believe they’re accessible, but the risk would be significant.

STEPHEN: Yeah, I might be crazy, but I’m not stupid.  Invading an active base is beyond stupid.  There might be the chance of ‘official’ access to Vandenberg.  Jon, you’re a student at a reputable university who could make a request for access that might actually be listened to.  Or we could just go to the museum, but I hate museums. Was the minuteman missile stored in a silo?

ME: Well the thing about Vandy is that it’s separated into two sectors — the active part, and the semi-abandoned part.  The semi-abandoned part is apparently a popular haunt of bird-watchers, and parts (but not the missile base parts) are open to the public…

STEPHEN: Hey guys, I’m also a devoted bird watcher intent on seeing the silo parakeet in its natural habitat!  Let’s go ‘bird-watching’ on Vandy and track the rarely seen species into its underground lair! Jon, I know you’ve been looking at Vandy.  We’ll have to talk about this on our drive down to Jacko’s place (Neverland).  What’s our schedule by the way?  I need to start planning.

By February 29th, we found ourselves in an overflow parking lot near the Marshalia Ranch golf course. Air Force brass teed off within a few hundred feet of us. Stephen, in his Jeep, turned off the road and towards a pre-designated parking space. We began walking towards our target – the defunct Operational Systems Test Facility, which was the first underground missile base in the United States.

A map of the Operational Systems Test Facility - our first target.

Our “scoping” trip soon turned into a pact to give it a go if we felt safe to do so. We walked within the perimeter of the base and found ourselves within 100 yards of the OSTF. The three of us knew the smell of an abandoned Titan base well. The smell of Titan decay lingers in the surrounding air and – for me – it had slowly become something of an evocative and irresistible scent (what can I say, I’m weird).

As we ducked under the bushes in broad daylight we conferred over the final plans for the last leg towards the silo.  That’s when we saw a white sedan barreling down the road. Sure enough, it was an SF patrol, and he seemed to have known we were there. We saw the SF pull on to a dirt road that led to our trail. Immediately, we turned around and started running back toward Stephen’s Jeep.

Apparently, Vandenberg was teeming with patrols during the day, and a day trip would be impossible. Any passing car could easily evince us from the road that was directly in the path towards the OSTF. We breathed a sigh of relief when we arrived at the Jeep. It was then that we decided any future trip would need to be done at night. We also knew, should we be caught at night, the consequences would be exponentially more severe. At night, we couldn’t pose as avid ornithologists. If caught at night, we would become potential terrorist suspects.

Stephen didn’t show for the second trip to Vandenberg, but we found an able stand-in for him in Aaron. We arrived at Marshalia Ranch around dusk and parked in the overflow lot. The three of us hopped out of the truck and began the hump over to the OSTF – just as we had on our first trip. All of us agreed to keep our flashlights off until we were inside the missile facility. The moon had served as an excellent source of low-level illumination – and, together, we discussed what the protocol would be, should another SF be hot on our trail.

Then it came – this time as a white SUV speeding down the paved road that separated us from the OSTF. Aaron, Scott, and I watched the headlights approach our crossing point. We barely had enough time to drop to the ground and lay low. The car passed, and we continued across the paved road, looking like nimble roadrunners on a desert stretch of asphalt at night. Once across the road, we were separated from the OSTF only by a few hundred feet and a rusty chain-link fence. We squeezed through what seemed like a miniscule hole in the fence and began poking around the remnants of the silo, which had gone through its own travails to become what it was when we saw it.

On Saturday evening, 3 December 1960, a full rehearsal short of actual launch was being conducted by Robert Rhodus, the Martin Company OSTF test conductor. It was the ninth attempt – all of the other attempts had failed due to minor equipment malfunctions. The missile was loaded with liquid oxygen, it was raised to the surface from the silo, and the countdown began. The test was a success, and everyone involved was relieved of their duties. The missile began to be lowered back into the silo, where the propellant probe crew was tasked with reconnecting the hose to offload the oxidizer, but something went horribly wrong.

According to the account of retired USAF CMSGT Les Lawson, relayed to me via email, the elevator was lowered using the “down fast circuit,” instead of the “down slow” mode (which was required for a fully fueled missile). Upon realizing he had done this, the operator quickly switched the mode to down slow and the system responded by braking suddenly.

“The sudden forces on the platform caused the entire support structure to lurch,” Said Lawson, “The hydraulic reservoir located on the upper side of the silo tilted enough to spill hydraulic fluid onto the braking system.” From there, the entire braking system was compromised and the missile began an uncontrollable descent to the bottom of the silo, where LOX and RP1 mixed, causing a massive explosion.

Rhodus watched the entire event transpire from a television screen, about 1/4-mile away, and he “realized with some trepidation that, unlike the buried operational control centers, the room he was in had only 12 inches of dirt on top, not much protection from the tons of concrete that were raining down all around. He also realized it was far too late to run.” Nearby airmen were watching the events on television too – and the SLTF crew, not more than 1,200 feet directly west of the OSTF, saw the “entire elevator assembly, known as the crib, and missile launcher, a total of 160 tons of structural steel, come out of the silo, tumbling up out of the searchlight beams ‘in slow motion.’” In the years that followed, enormous chunks of concrete could be seen on the hills near the Titan I facility, and a complete reference system gyro was found on the Marshalia Ranch Golf Course, more than a mile away from the blast site.

The exploding remnants of the Operational System Test Facility. The 160-ton steel crib assembly lurched out of the silo. On our journey, nothing remained of the crib (which was likely scrapped), but the silo was still there.

Scott, Aaron, and I stood hundreds of feet above the old superstructure of the silo, and looked deep down into the abyss of the disaster area. Over the years, the exploded cylinder had filled with water – and that water had taken on an almost radioactive-looking green appearance, likely from algae that blossomed prodigiously within the stagnant pool. Dead animals were floating in the water. Across the silo, the equipment and fueling terminals stood. Their reinforced capstones made the gigantic, exposed cylinders look like the rooks of medieval castles.

The remnants of the equipment terminal, nearby the OSTF launch assembly. Though this particular silo didn't sustain quite as much damage, its cap was thrown high into the sky, leaving its top exposed to the elements.

It was the most incredible man-made structure I had ever seen in my life. I never had a true sense of the massive scale of a Titan silo until I saw it as I did that night – fully exposed from the outside, maimed by a massive explosion, and slowly returning to the nature it had once usurped.

The three of us squeezed through the window of an above-ground, derelict building. We found old technical specs and blueprints related to the OSTF program. In a back corner of the building, a cavernous passageway led to rooms that went underground. Scott and I fumbled across holes in the floor that once held data cables. We found an old HVAC system and continued through a T-junction to corrugated steel tube that resembled the Titan tunnels at the Sutter Butte site in Northern California (which we had explored just months earlier). The air in that tunnel was filled with the electricity of discovery and our hearts were racing in anticipation.

We pushed aside a blast door and looked down towards an antenna silo – fully intact and carrying a pristine and authentic Titan 1 radome antenna, complete with a canvas inflatable sphere.  This was what the writer of “Titan 1 Epitaph,” whom I’ve interviewed in the past , calls “a very complex system indeed… a radio-inertial missile guidance and tracking package representing, at the time, some of the very latest in technology and miniaturization in solid state electronics.” It was the full system designed by Bell Laboratories and a priceless relic that played a pivotal role in American history. The Western Electric Missile Guidance system (known as an AN/GRW-5 by technocrats) was so important that Titan bases contained two of them for redundancy – one of which could not be raised above-ground unless the other was lowered below-ground.

The schematic for the VAFB OSTF antenna terminal. Because this was a testing phase terminal, it wasn't designed in the same way that all other Titan 1 base antennae were configured. This is a truly one-of-a-kind design.

The pristine inflatable canvas radome of the Titan 1 antenna. I haven't seen anything in a Titan base as well preserved as this was.

Scott and I looked at each other. We had become so accustomed to whispering, that – at first – we hesitated to let out a sound. Then, in a burst of excitement, we hollered in ecstatic glory. A chest bump later, and a few words of congratulation was all it took. We had just seen what few civilians had been privileged to see, and it was sitting there for us to photograph and share with the world. We immediately broke out our camera packs and began a methodical documentation of the two underground antenna silos.

From the bottom of the OSTF antenna terminal, looking up.

The night eventually came to an end, and by dawn we were walking on the public road to our vehicle. We drove 15 miles to an abandoned diatomite mine and I laid my sleeping bag down to rest in the powdery mine tailings. The trip was a success, but Scott and I both knew that it wouldn’t be our last trip to Vandenberg…

It didn’t take long for us to return to Vandenberg – and this time it was decided that we would spend the entire weekend on the base – dwelling during the day underground, and returning topside at night to explore complexes and traverse to other sites.  Our first destination was the Atlas F, which is similar to a Titan II base in layout and configuration.  Upon exploring the Atlas F, we would head south to a grouping of various Atlas D and E pads, both of which had very little in the way of underground space but plenty of interesting accoutrements and panels to shoot.

Our visit to the Atlas F was a hurried attempt with a set time limit.  Our entire route was comprised entirely of overland walking, across miles and miles of scrub, ice plant, and sandy dunes.  Both of us were well aware of the impending sunrise; if we were to find ourselves out of range of a sufficient place of cover by daylight, then we could potentially be seen by patrolling SF. This was compounded by the fact that very little shrubbery existed for such a purpose – so the abandoned missile complexes themselves were our only hope of hiding. The nearest Atlas E was over a mile-and-a-half away and it was 4 A.M. by the time we exited the Atlas F blast door.

About a 1/2-mile away from the Atlas F, on our way to a place of cover, Scott looked over at me and his eyes widened. “Where is your tripod?,” he queried. I looked down and noticed it was gone. I left it at the Atlas F. It was 4:30, and I would lose about 30 minutes going back to get it. Scott laid down in the sand in exasperation, and I began my jog back to retrieve the tripod. I returned about 30 minutes later. Morning birds began making their sounds and the early signs of dawn appeared far across the Casmalia Mountains in the horizon. Our time was running short, and in hushed whispers of urgency we both soon became out of breath.

The next hour was a true race against time. On the route to our next stop, there were numerous active buildings that dotted the Vandenberg landscape. The fact was: Vandenberg North was not truly “abandoned.” Parts of the North are occupied by active Minuteman complexes, and Reagan had instituted a rail-based, garrison missile defense system in the 80s known as the Peacekeeper program.  These nuclear warheads were partly based in Vandenberg, and later became active at Mountain Home AFB in Wyoming.

A schematic of a peacekeeper missile being loaded into its launch tube {click for a larger view}.

Peacekeepers were underground missiles, much like Titans… but on steroids. Each of these solid-fuel missiles could carry 10 REVs (re-entry vehicles), and each REV was capable of carrying a MK 21 nuclear payload. Vandenberg North was pockmarked with underground bunkers that protected the Peacekeeper missiles on rail cars. When the boxcars were not being used, they were stored in the super-hardened bunkers. Buildings with electricity on Vandenberg North were likely related to this program – even though the Peacekeeper program was fully deactivated by 2003. Whether or not these buildings contained anything of strategic importance, Scott, nor I would never truly know. Looking at the siren-like warning lights on the building, we knew that we didn’t wish to find out, so we avoided these buildings as much as possible (unavoidably getting as close as 100 feet away in a few instances).

Our pace was quickening and the corona of the sun was appearing over the tips of the mountains in the distance. We were running out of time. A truck drove up to one of the active buildings behind us; if he had looked in our direction, it was certain he would have seen us. Partly to hide from the truck, Scott and I found an old, overgrown road, which I soon recognized from my mental map of the base. We were close to our destination, and a few minutes later we found ourselves crawling under a rusty fence (one of many rusty fences in this epic journey). We would lay low for a few hours while exploring the Atlas E, take a quick nap, and then continue to the most harrowing leg of the hike.

Sleeping at the Atlas E site was a welcome reprieve. When one is running on adrenaline, one’s bodily functions are in overdrive. The heart rate stays at a steady high. Sweating is more frequent, and body movements are twitchy and unpredictable. Scott and I had been continuously operating on adrenaline all night. When we reached the hard asphalt floor of the well-hidden Atlas E complex, it could have just as well been a billowing bed, filled with perfectly fluffed down pillows. I lay down and was asleep within seconds; I happened to choose a location that was almost directly under what would have once been an 82.5-foot Atlas E Intercontinental Ballistic Missile. I can honestly say, now, that the best nap I’ve ever had was directly below the domain of a nuclear missile – and it’s strange to say this, but I felt safe. I awoke to the sound of a Blackhawk helicopter that was fanning the base in patrol. Scott was taking a picture of me splayed on the floor with his cell phone. We got to our feet and began the portion of the trip that would be most challenging.

Vandenberg North is cut off from Vandenberg South by an impenetrable blanket of vegetation that follows the windy course of San Antonio Creek. There is no possible route across the water other than two dangerous and highly visible crossings. On our way in, we chose the railroad crossing to reach the historic 576th Strategic Missile Squadron – an area rife with both Titan II and Atlas D missile complexes. This required walking a frequently traveled Amtrak railroad trestle hundreds of feet above the canyon. We would return to our vehicle through a different route (which I’ll describe later).

A satellite view of the abandoned bases we chose to explore during our 36-hour overland journey. The red warning triangles were items I marked on the map to avoid - knowing that they might potentially be active Peacekeeper garrison facilities.

After crossing the trestle with little trouble (but a mere minutes before another Amtrak train had careened across the canyon), Scott and I set our sights on our first Titan II. We hopped another rusty fence (see a theme here?) and surveyed the topside conditions for a good entry route. Scott found an emergency exit and began climbing down.

“Oh Shit!!!!” Scott whispered loudly. Immediately after I heard him, a bat swirled around his head, coming from deep within the emergency exit. It flew around Scott’s face and exited the ladder-way. Scott dropped a small rock down the tube to ensure that any bats made their way out and then headed down the ladder. The space of the ladder, approximately 24 inches in diameter, was much too small for me to wear my backpack, so I strapped it in front of me and slowly descended about 100 feet to the bottom of the underground Titan II Control Dome. With a full respirator attached to my face, I felt like an astronaut, boldly stepping into the domain of an extraterrestrial spaceship. The view was incredible. Control panels and ceiling panels were haphazardly strewn across the floor. Rust mixed with benzene – colors that are so unnatural, they make the environment seem more artificial than anything I’d seen in my life.

Inside a Titan II control dome at Vandenberg AFB

Surely everything in the Titan II control domain was artificial, but one could see constant evidence of the intrusion of nature all around: Bats roosting in a place you couldn’t think anything living could survive in, water seeping , cave crickets searching for anything to dine on.  It was beyond surreal. It was unreal. The latest graffiti in the tunnel, potentially from other military men who had spent their R&R time on the base in the best way possible, dated back to the 1970s. Graffiti, overall, was relatively sparse – a welcome surprise, because all of the past silos I had explored in Colorado and Northern California came littered with a liberal smattering of monikers from multiple generations of explorers.

Like we had done in the other complexes, Scott and I busted out our equipment and began the tough work of illuminating our scenes. We snapped a few photos in the access tunnel and walked towards the acoustically designed Titan II silo.

Seeing the interior of a Titan II silo is a rare gift. Under the terms of the Strategic Arms Limitations Talks (SALT) with the U.S.S.R., most Titan II silos were deliberately destroyed in the mid-1980s. Of the 54 Titan II bases built in the U.S., only a few silos remain unmolested. As far as I know, there is only one original Titan II silo that has its launch doors completely open to the elements – and we were at it. This provided an unprecedented opportunity to photograph the silo illuminated by natural moonlight – both from the inside and outside. We were hesitant to leave, but we knew that our time was running short, so we walked another 1/2-mile to our final site and the most historically compelling: The 576^th SMS Atlas D trio.

The Titan II silo from above - fully exposed to the sky, and illuminated by a combination of the moon and a handheld flashlight.

The 576^th Squadron of Atlas D’s comprises three fully intact bases, filled to the brim with original equipment, cables, and artifacts. There was so much to see that we decided on only one complex in the interest of time. We selected the only Atlas D site on the base with its original Gantry, which was easy to spot in the midnight sky. Much like the irresistible scent of a Titan missile, this symbol of our desire had become its own navigation beacon. With our eyes pointed towards the gantry, we walked in a beeline from 395-B (the Titan II that had just de-virginized us). During this walk, I had to stop to really look. The 576^th Squadron is on a bluff overlooking the entire Northern Portion of the base.  I used a brief break in our walk to look out towards the moonlit landscape, and to take note of our accomplishments.

The gantry of the Atlas D ICBM at Vandenberg AFB {click for larger view}

From my vantage, I saw it all – the Atlas F was more than five miles as the crow flies. With the full moon at its zenith, things that were miles away from that bluff were eerily easy to see – the blinking green status lights of the active Peacekeeper buildings, the shadowy form of the Atlas E with its diagonally descending personnel tunnel, the distant lights of active Minuteman bases. All of it seemed like a ghostly dream – much like those dreams you wake from, only to remember the most prosaic of details. And yet, seeing it all – even while actively involved in the process of exploration – immediately made me miss the trip.  I knew that we had about 8 hours until it was completely over, and I soon regretted the notion of leaving this strange post-atomic, no-man’s land.

“Ready to move?” Scott chimed in. He had just finished a granola bar, while I polished off my final orange. Even if I wanted to stay an extra day, I knew it meant going without food or water – a prospect that didn’t seem worth the extra time on base after the first bout of hunger set in.

We arrived at the Atlas D, and it was everything we had hoped it would be: Launch consoles; tanks of liquid nitrogen; lines connecting rocket fuel through snakelike arrangements underground; vast, lengthy tunnels that carried communication and power cables across the complex. It was a beautiful capstone to a trip steeped in visual splendor – and a sobering monument to the military industrial complex – something that even Mercury could even look down upon from the skies of the Roman gods and admire from afar.

Despite how much I bungled and bombasted my way through barriers and sentries in subsequent explorations, nothing could quite match the experience I had with Scott during those fidgety 36 hours. Neverland was only the first notch on a long-lasting relationship with pushing the limits; Vandenberg was a chunk. Soon, I would find myself in an abandoned skyscraper worth $118 million. My ethos would evolve even further when I found myself in a steel factory in Detroit, which was purportedly protected by a shotgun wielding wacko (who actually turned out to be a nice guy). But Vandenberg topped them all.

Scott and I nearly lost each other, deep in the base at 3 A.M. that night. Our phones weren’t working and we had separated somewhere along an overland shortcut to the bridge that crossed San Carlos Creek. For 20 minutes, I frantically tried dialing until my phone’s battery was near death. I rolled through chaparral and descried El Rancho Road (our escape route home) from the top of the bluff.

Down at a turnoff on the side of the road I saw Scott’s dark, pensive frame. We met at the bottom of the bluff and planned the final and most dangerous portion of our epic trip. SF vehicles were rolling back and forth across the bridge. The bridge itself, which was a skyway traversing the entire San Carlos Creek wetland, was much longer than we had imagined while looking at the satellite images.

Considering the frequency with which patrol cars traveled back and forth across the bridge, I indicated to Scott that we could probably make it about halfway across the 300-yard bridge before an SF vehicle would arrive – upon which we would have no place to hide. Scott concurred. The pinch was in, and we had no way out. We briefly considered going back to the railroad trestle, but that would have meant two more days of overland hiking – without food or water. We decided it prudent to at least walk to the bridge to see if there was a possible way across by going under it.

“Look,” I whispered, pointing to the utility pipes hidden behind the cement guardrails on each side of the bridge. “I think we can bail over the side and lay low until the car passes.” We tested the load carrying capacity of the pipes by going on them together. They held our weight. We had to start soon. It was almost dawn, so we both grabbed our gear and began running across the gray, cement skyway. We were lucky, at least until the final 100 yards. It was then that Scott saw the headlights of a distant SF. We swiftly hopped over the side barrier and lay on the utility pipes. The SF passed and we returned to the Skyway, on to our freedom.

We arrived at the Marshalia Ranch Golf Course a full 36 hours after we began our trip. We had traversed twice over chasms; we had seen the entire nuclear smorgasbord of Cold War America; we had evaded a half-dozen SF patrol cars; and every bone in our body ached from 16 miles of hiking on adrenaline. It was finally over.

Part of the guidance system for the Titan 1 base adjoining the OSTF.

I shook Scott’s hand in congratulations and started my long drive home. Halfway up Highway-101 (the road that had so often been my thoroughfare of adventure) I realized that the jacket pocket in which I had stashed my memory card had a hole in it. Every photo was lost. The trip, however, was not entirely lost. I wrote about it because I wanted to remind myself that those pictures aren’t the only thing that matter. If a picture is worth a thousand words – well, then – this particular collection of words is worth at least four.

Perhaps I look at it all so optimistically because of the events that transpired immediately after my return. Often, the biggest blessings come after a difficult journey. I arrived home that evening to discover that my father had a subarachnoid brain hemorrhage. I thought the very worst and threw on a new pair of clothes to fly up to Portland, Oregon. That week I spent in a hospital waiting room was the worst week of my life; by the time I left the hospital, however, it had become the best. My father had fully recovered from something that originally gave him a 10% chance of surviving. It seemed fitting that I emerged from a landscape of Cold, deathly war only to have it conclude in a true story of survival and miracles.

Additional Information

Pete’s description of the Titan 1 radio guidance system

Complete coordinates and details of all abandoned Vandenberg facilities

Related posts:

1. Fleishhacker Pool – A Strange Journey Through S.F. History

It’s easy to forget – at least for me – the proximity with which our current times coincide with one of the most monumental eras of our modern time. What I speak of is the era of the atomic weapon.

It was only 60 years ago that the doomsday machine was set into motion and Oppenheimer had managed to turn a desert experiment into a national source of pride (which ironically also became the very subject of national paranoia). With the atom, we had managed – if only for that brief moment before the Soviets had discovered the same route – to command primacy in the world stage, unfettered by jingoist competition.

An image by LIFE photographer Ralph Crane, from an unpublished assignment on ICBM missile sites in the 1960s.

But what really has me reeling is not the fact that I underappreciate its proximity to my own generation, but the fact that my own generation knows little or nothing about Nikita Khrushchev, Operation Crossroads, Nagasaki, or Hiroshima.

Today we take little note, yet the undercurrents of a post-atomic society are more relevant than they’ve ever been – they manifest themselves in color-coded threat levels, between the margins of network news, and within the very fabric of our modern think tanks. It’s a purely Hegelian wellspring that runs below the surface of American society, but in its seemingly diminuitive nature, it affects every aspect of our politics.

The satellite photo, taken by GeoEye, shows a nuclear enrichment facility at a military site about 20 miles north-northeast of Qum, and 100 miles southwest of Tehran, Iran.

The fact that Iran is about to have one doesn’t seem surprising any more. After all, North Korea is about to have another and it seems to be the modern day mark of Progress for any self-respecting nation. If not a deterrent, it surely is a bargaining chip.

What I saw tonight reopened my eyes to its true meaning. As a collection of ephemera, gathered together from various war department films, promotional spots, talk shows, and propaganda shorts, Atomic Cafe brings you into the mindset of the 1950s – a time when rapid expansion of the federal government led to Eisenhower’s sober warning about the military industrial complex (when a former general – a war-man – decries the unsustainable rise of a state-sponsered defense industry, well, one just has to listen). Isn’t Eisenhower the man who connected all of these atomic bases by a national highway system?

This film is true because it is unaltered and free from the commentary that taints most documentaries these days. It’s not very often that a film simply speaks for itself. Even the modern documentary is rife with shaky secondary sources and personal, impassioned, commentary from the filmmaker. Though Atomic Cafe has no qualms with establishing its strong stance, it’s a very believeable and naturally affinity-inducing stance.

As an explorer, I often find myself in the creations of that era. I did not live through that time. I have no recollection of what it must have felt like – or how my mind would have wrapped itself around the anima in the air. What I do have, as a humble explorer, are my experiences as an observer and analyzer who has catalogued dozens of these places (from the deepest of contaminated ICBM silos to the tallest industrial escalator). In the former, I had stood in front of the 40-foot-wide 150-foot-deep cylinder in awe of its size and demeanor of power; in the latter, I ascended the rusty escalator links to get a birds eye view of where ships contaminated by nuclear tests in the Bikini Atolls were dismantled.

Atomic Cafe reminds me of a project that has special meaning to me: The collection of dying archival materials – many of which are finding themselves vanishing in the midst of the sheer volume of their existence. And two individuals who have adopted this much-needed cause are Rick and Megan Prelinger. The two of them maintain the Prelinger Archives, a collection of ephemera that has recently taken the notice of the Library of Congress.

It didn’t take a nuclear standoff to destroy much our nation’s cultural heritage – much of it simply vanished because of neglect. For example, the Library of Congress says that only 1 in 10 films made before 1928 exist today. Thankfully, what is presented in Atomic Cafe tells us a little about one of the most influential milestones of the millenia. Where we go from here nobody knows. All we can do about these clippings from the past is talk about them, tell the truth, and make sure that these stories don’t die.

Related posts:

1. Marconi, America, and the Monroe Doctrine

On Memorial Day of 2007, and then again in December, I visited two separate Titan I missile sites. The first was quite the introduction. The second was mind-blowing. There are no words to describe being in what is perhaps the world’s largest underground missile complex. In fact, I’ve tried more than once, and in my mind have not achieved an adequate description. Last month, I clicked on a random link and encountered the narrative of another man who had done the same. His words, and his story came much closer to describing the feeling in detail. Even better, this man knew all of the intricacies of the base. He was a true savant of Titan I – and probably the foremost non-military expert of these historic bases. I contacted him and asked if he would be willing to talk about his experience and he readily agreed. Though he prefers to be known here only by his first name, he was more than willing to tell me his story.

Discovering a “Titan” in an Early Tour

It was 1993 and Pete had just moved into Colorado. He managed to come in contact with someone who gave him a tour of one of the nearby sites. “This man had been there once before and had taken some pictures,” Pete said, “but he didn’t really have much in the way of technical information, he simply knew they were there.” Pete’s first impression was much the same as mine: “I was amazed at the scale,” he said.

Years passed, and around 1998 Pete had casually mentioned his visit to a friend, who had become so interested in the Titan site that he developed a business plan around its purchase. That’s how Pete originally got full, unfettered access. It was the beginning of a long-term obsession and the start of detailed foray into the operations and the minutiae of the entire base.

A Dash-1 Opens Doors

In the following months, Pete and two others descended deep into the snakelike passageways of the base discovering bits of the past along the way. With cameras and bright sources of continuous illumination in tow, Pete was able to capture – unlike anyone I’ve known before – the entire Titan complex. Every nook, every tunnel seems to be covered in detail. His site (http://www.chromehooves.net) is filled with what were once top secret blueprints of each staircase and ladder, the silos, terminals, emergency escapes and air shafts. In fact, all of this would perhaps not have been possible had Pete not encountered a serendipitous find: Buried deep beneath stacks of junk, in a small room next to the power dome, Pete had found a complete Dash-1.

What is a Dash-1? It is essentially the technical manual to a Titan 1 complex (You can download a Dash-1 here 75MB – PDF) . “Typically a lot of documents were destroyed,” Pete told me, “A lot of the [documents] I saw down there I haven’t seen anywhere.” Within the 120 lbs of papers he would come to know the inner workings of Titan I’s operation – even the most mundane of activities, including detailed instructions on how to clean the launch console. Pete was able to glean all he needed to know from the Dash-1 and the nearby  materials. It was his source book for his next project. “I had a big set of blueprints for the Titan base and I thought I could translate these things into a game map,” Pete told me matter-of-factly.

The Original Blueprint of the Titan Power Dome

Pete’s Three-dimensional Map of the Power Dome and nearby structures of the Titan base.

On his own, on evenings and weekends, in the period of about six months and comprising well over 100 hours worth of work, he constructed a detailed three-dimensional game environment that depicts what it feels like to be inside of an entire Titan base. As someone who has been inside of a base thrice, I could honestly say that it was an eerie and realistic journey back into those spaces. It sparked memories of visits to the silo that I didn’t know existed. I had felt the same feeling that came upon me as I looked down into the empty void of the silo – and it all happened from my laptop. I knew I had to talk to the man who created this game map.

Titan I Adventures in Narrative

As an interviewee, Pete is quite modest, but modest men are usually those who have the most to be proud of. I know for a fact that nobody but Pete (other than perhaps a few military contractors and past base personnel) could tell me the thickness of concrete inside of the power dome (“less than two feet thick of reinforced concrete at the apex”). The research alone – including the images, which I’ve seen nowhere else despite all of my own former efforts at researching the bases, are telling witness to his fastidiousness. Pete had an explanation for each intricate, working part. For example, he knew the weight of the missile (“in excess of 200,000 pounds”); he knew that the emergency exits were once full of sand (“A winch lowered the hatch safely as the sand poured in and the tunnel cleared”); and he even knew the dirtiest, grittiest details (literally) – the bathroom fixtures were built to be entirely shock proof, the toilets of which are probably the only toilets in the world sitting on shock absorbers.

The facility seems to resurrect itself through Pete’s descriptions. Everything becomes an anthropomorphic organ. The power dome is the “heart” of the site, and the control center (a much smaller dome, but no less important) its “brain.” One gets the sense of a massive, underground living organism, precision-engineered to deliver deadly weapons. Its proper operation is contingent on so many working parts that it almost becomes impossible to fathom how these things ran smoothly with little mishap and few fatalities.

Then there are the construction images… I’m sure Pete spent nearly as much time researching the bases as he did creating the 3-D fly-through of the base. I have never seen construction photos in such detail. Pete was able to dig up images from inside the silo, artistically captured in dramatic lighting and angle. The airman stands on the crib structure; to the side of him is a massive Titan I Missile. Off-gassing liquid oxygen seems to move within the image. The ominous weapon of mass destruction sits — peacefully, ironically — in its crib awaiting orders.

In fact, I myself have received messages from airmen who served within the Titan bases during the most chilling moments of the Cold War. Some recall the tense few months of standoff during the Cuban Missile Crisis. It was perhaps the proudest moment in the history of Titan I and an unplanned yet convenient justification for their construction.

Peter approaches such facts neutrally and without agenda. He seems to see the sites as, primarily, a gigantic artifact ideal for study through observation. Never once do the political or moral implications enter into his narrative. It’s almost refreshing to see his approach materialize. It truly is a rare thing to have such a vast and time-consuming project not become something of a moral crusade.

Pete’s Final Days in the Titan Base

For Pete, though, Politics was too small (or too big?) of a subject to take up when his mind was set on one thing: The complete and unhindered exploration of the base. After all of the webpages one navigates in his site, the crux of it all is saved for last. Clicking through the blueprints you eventually find yourself at the silos themselves. Punctuated by photographs from its operation are the personal reflections of a man obsessed: “The missile is protected within the silo by 2 silo doors, each weighing around 115 tons each and opened and closed hydraulically by 2 pistons that control movement in both directions. Within this steel and concrete chrysalis, the missile rests atop its launcher platform, ensconced within a massive steel cribwork comprising the launcher system where it waits for the orders that will transform it from a mass of inert metals and propellants into a weapon of terrible power.”

In those sentences I finally saw it all. Those of you who have been inside of the silo know the bare nature of the huge cylinder of air. Today, the crib structure is largely absent from all but one or two of the sites today. Instead, what occupies the space is – well – space. And before reading Pete’s description I could finally imagine what it was really like.

Pete knew what he had to do next. His window of opportunity was closing. Pete writes on his site: “There was one place I had seen precious little of, and another I had not seen at all. With my mind completely gone, I set about planning on how to see the catwalk level of the silos.” With only a few months left of access, Pete set out alone towards Silo #3. With a rough sketch of his route planned, he decided to make the climb. Below him was 100 feet of standing water full of volatile organic compounds and god-knows-how-many-dead-rats; above was the catwalk. Between him and the catwalk was a hodge-podge of service pipes, bones of crib beams, and conduits.

Pete went up with no climbing equipment or buddy. His journey was pure madness, but a type of madness that he doesn’t regret. “I can’t say that I wouldn’t do that again.” he frankly told me. “After a while you kind of forget what you see and curiosity sets in again. I just had to see it while I had the opportunity.”

Looking Ahead

As Pete finished up his conversation with me, I knew I wanted to know what final thing: What did he think would happen to these sites. Where will they be in 100, or even 1000 years? I had my own answer, but I knew his take would be much more interesting. He approached my question with a moment of silent thought.

His wheels were turning. He was contemplating the engineering of the site, the thickness of concrete. The supercomputer inside his brain (like any human brain, multiples more powerful than the actual nerve center of the Titan I) was quickly figuring out his answer. Pete said he thinks these bases will remain beyond even 1000 years from now.

His answer was a surprise to me and it only led to a hypothetical soothsayer’s look into these vast, underground ruins. If Rome had its roads and China had its wall – would these voids become monuments to our civilization’s ingenuity long after we’re gone? Will America be known for its military might through these giant sites? Or will we create something even larger and more dramatic to put civilizations centuries ahead of us in awe?

I said goodbye to Pete and closed the screen of my laptop. It was an unusually warm day in San Francisco as I walked down Mission Street. Still, such bright surroundings — sunshine and fresh fruit on sidewalks — couldn’t take my mind off of one thing. Among the many things Pete had seen underground they were mostly dead things, whether they were the rats that had fallen into the 150-foot silo; the unfortunate rabbits that catapulted themselves into an emergency exit portal that went five stories down; or even the garter snake that had somehow navigated its way into the control center only to find itself famished until it had become a skeleton.

Despite the myriad of journeys he took, Pete had never seen a living creature until one of his last trips underground. There, in the bottom of the deck plating of Tunnel Junction #10 he saw a tiny creature fully functioning and alive. The image stayed indelibly imprinted in my mind as an emblematic metaphor.

Then again, I’m always trying to inject meaning into everything. Maybe it was exactly how Pete described it. Maybe it really was just a “lone salamander.”

Related Information

1. Pete’s Web Site, which is entirely devoted to the Titan 1.
2. InfoBunker, where Pete’s current project resides, in Iowa.
3. Album of images of a Titan base in California, here on Terrastories.
4. Full transcript of the interview with Pete.

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1. Inside a Titan 1 Missile Base
2. A California Titan Missile Base
3. Stephen’s Meat – History into a Parking Lot

We live in a post-industrial world, and our connection to the modes of production, our infrastructure, and the cogs of society is becoming more and more disembodied from day-to-day life. This guide is meant to be an introduction to one of the fastest growing hobbies our modern time: Urban Exploration.

Why?

The definition of Urban Exploration may be different for every adherent, but most urban explorers call themselves modern historians, discoverers, archivers, documentarians, and architecture buffs. Some explore for simple aesthetic reasons because they find the crumbling edifices of society to be perfect artistic subjects. Others find a certain level of adventure and excitement in exploring off-limits areas or skirting the law to reach places that most people can’t see. Still others have a purely historical interest in a specific building or complex.

Whatever the reason, Urban Exploration is something that can be traced back hundreds of years, even back to 1793, when an oft-cited “explorer,” Parisian cataphile Philibert Aspairt, became famous for his untimely death in the Catacombs under Paris. To this day, the Paris Catacombs attracts a subculture that descends underground for regular socializing and fraternizing.

How?

The methods of urban exploration, much like the motivations of its adherents, vary. Extensive research is essential for any “virgin” finds. This may often require visits to your local library or archive. Topographic and historical maps, especially Sanborn maps, provide a perfect starting point. Google Earth, Wikipedia, and Wikimapia are vital tools if you wish to get a more up-to-date snapshot of your target location.

Some Urban Explorers have a penchant for Google Alerts; by setting up an alert on Google Alerts for specific keywords, an urban explorer is continually aware of new abandonments. Geotargeted key phrases matched with the word, “abandoned,” or “vacant” also work especially well in researching new “finds.”

The best way to start exploring is to pair up with a buddy.  Much like scuba diving, urban explorers are safest if they explore in small groups. Established communities online, including uer.ca, Infiltration, and Deggi5 allow you to become acquainted with like-minded explorers, some who can provide you with a valuable list of new locations to explore.

Above all, the late Jeff Chapman (who passed away in 2006 after a battle with cancer) published a posthumous book that has become the de-facto Bible of Urban Exploration. Chapman’s book, Access All Areas, provides a full summary of the basics of “Building Hacking.”

The Gear

The hobby is known for its extremely low barriers to entry.  All one
needs is a flashlight, some water, and a passion to discover. Of
course, if you prefer to photograph your finds, a camera always helps,
but the lighter you travel, the better off you are. Certain treks may require more extensive gear-packs – see the Health & Safety Section for more on that.

The Methods

Image by forklift

Methods of entry are important to decide prior to entering your target. Consult with other members in the group.  Lay down ground rules as to how much climbing, crawling, and razor-wire you wish to encounter. Some groups may turn back at the first sight of a fence. Others may jump at the opportunity to try their hand at nine-foot razor-wire. Be absolutely sure of the risks you’re taking and the laws you may potentially be breaking.

Health & Safety

Urban exploration is a dangerous hobby, and it should be treated as such.  Some of the more common hazards include:

• Falling from, or within, multi-story buildings.
• Inhaling dangerous fumes, gases, or particles.
• Stepping on or accidentally touching hypodermic needles from illicit drug use.
• Encroaching on the territory of gangs, drug-users, or hostile vagrants.
• Cuts, scrapes, and bruises — ensure that Tetanus shots are up-to-date.
• In the case of draining, flash floods, or even small amounts of rain could prove deadly if one is confined in a storm system.

Specialized Gear for Health & Safety

Unwritten Codes of Conduct

There are a few unwritten rules in Urban Exploration, and one should be cognizant of the protocol in order to be fully accepted and trusted as a new member of the sub-culture.

The most common and oft-quoted rule follows the mantra of the Sierra Club: “Take only photographs, leave only footprints.” Though not all urban explorers follow this directive, the vast majority do. Many abandonments possess a treasure trove of esoteric objects, unique contraptions, rare industrial components, or special antique items that could sell for a handsome profit on eBay. Despite all this, the community has decided to officially condem taking any object from a building.

Graffiti and vandalism are generally condemned, but there are exceptions. It should be noted that urban explorers are a diverse group of tens of thousands, potentially hundreds of thousands. The diversity of opinions falls in both extremes, but the moderate and mean consensus generally follows the rule of law except for the very notable exception of Trespass.

As of now, there is no officially sanctioned urban exploration moral codex. In fact, “following the rules” would run counter to the central principle of exploring. For this reason, urban explorers have a general understanding of the community’s moral compass and make of it what they will.

Documentation

Most urban explorers consider the documentation of the structure or location to be their prime concern. The most notable method of documentation is by still photograph. Video, sound, and architectural sketches or rough maps are recorded to a lesser degree.

Most explorers are astute photographers, and the artistic liberty taken inside of an abandonment results in a dramatic collection of architectural photography that has only recently been possible. To most, this is the central purpose and goal of their hobby – and they hold it as a very sacred duty in order to record pieces that are often lost within months or years due to the wrecking ball.

The Law

Urban explorers are breaking the law, but it’s generally assumed that such laws are antiquated or unjust. The most notable law that is broken by an explorer is trespass, but others may come into play as well, including:

• Invasion of privacy
• Either purposeful or inadvertent destruction of property
• Certain broadly interpreted anti-terrorism laws
• Liability for the injury of others in your group

In general urban explorers are liable to be prosecuted for criminal and civil judgements for trespassing, but publishing the photographs themselves is considered a separate issue. The only exception is invasion of privacy. If an explorer publishes photos that infringe on the likeness of someone, or put them in a negative light, then he or she may be held liable for that action in civil court.

Conclusion

Urban exploration is, by nature, a very dangerous and illegal activity. At the same time, it can be a very rewarding and engaging pursuit. This guide was meant to inform you of all the safety and legal concerns so you can make an informed decision whether or not urban exploration is right for you.

Resources

The Urban Exploration Resource (Forum)

Author’s Site: Photos and Stories of Historic Architecture

No related posts.

Interior of Castro Theatre image by Katie Spence

Movie Poster Passion of Joan of Arc

The Passion of Joan of Arc is consistently given the laurels as one of the greatest movies of all time. Maria Falconetti’s performance as the 19-year-old Saint, Joan of Arc, has been called the 26th greatest performance in cinema. Sight & Sound’s top ten films poll listed Passion three times (in 1952, 1972, and 1992). But Passion itself is not the remarkable story, despite its revolutionary cinematography and film editing techniques.

No, the real story is that of Director Theodore Dreyer, who spent $9 million in 1928 dollars on the Passion of Joan of Arc only to see its destruction by fire a year later. Dreyer died in 1968 believing that his uncut, 86-minute opus in its original format was lost forever. History, however, has strange ways of creeping back into notoriety.

When Dreyer passed in 1968, there were only a few rudimentary cuts of the film remaining (whatever wasn’t consumed by fire was censored by religious leaders for its harsh portrayal of Joan’s inquisitors who – let’s not forget – were men of ‘religious esteem’). Dreyer painstakingly tried to piece together fragments in a 1933 release that was 61 minutes long (the original was 86). The film circulated for some time in its less then perfect format until the second original was destroyed once again, annoyingly enough by fire once again.

Still, in pure, poetic justice to the film’s namesake and Joan herself (who was given sainthood by the Catholic Church just seven years before the film’s release) an uncut, original release re-emerged in 1981. It appeared in the most unlikely of places: Deep in the bowels of a closet within the maze of passageways of an abandoned psychiatric hospital in Oslo, Norway. An unknown doctor had ordered the film – perhaps intending to show it to his troubled patients as an example of Christian virtue (or maybe even to show his mentally ill patients that divinity is sometimes perceived wrongly as “insanity”). What mattered was that history had rediscovered something it never should have lost — and all because someone forgot to throw away something in their closet.

Falconetti as Joan of Arc

The warm November night I sat admiring the Castro Theater’s Spanish Colonial embellishments and the deco sconces, I imagined the original screening of the film in the very place I was sitting. The Wurlitzer Pipe Organ started the show with verve. The curtains separated. And the lights dimmed. Maria Falconetti’s face appeared, in dramatic close-up. Her tears were palpable, and hundreds of strings heralded the beginning of the oratorio created specifically, and inspired by, the film. Richard Einhorn’s “Voices of Light” could not have been a better match for the dramatic images of Joan of Arc’s final days alive.

As it turned out, Passion would be Falconetti’s final performance as a film actress. After a stint as a stage actor, she escaped from France to Argentina at the height of World War II and lived her final days in peace (no doubt from Dreyer’s authoriatarian style of directing). But the re-discovery of The Passion of Joan of Arc will always be considered one of the great blessings of modern cinema. Chances of its survival were slim – the Library of Congress estimates that only 10% of films made before 1928 exist today. But in its 1,300 individual shots, its three-dimensional multi-million dollar set, and the painful passion exhibited on the face of Maria Falconetti we see a new purpose in the preservation of history, even for something as ‘kitsch’ as a reel of old film.

Related posts:

1. Frank Lloyd Wright and His Forgotten Larkin Building
2. Auschwitz “Death Camp” Blueprints Discovered in Berlin Apartment
3. Discovering the History of a Titan I Base

photo credit: One From RM

It was in January of 1942 that it was widely believed Nazi Germany made the decision to kill 11 million Jews, homosexuals, Jehovah’s witnesses, Roma, political prisoners, and Blacks. Since then, the January 1942 epoch is what all historians have marked the actual beginning of the “purge.” But recent architectural drawings, discovered in a flat in Berlin seem to indicate that the decision was dated much earlier than widely assumed. The newly discovered Auschwitz plans (also known as Oświęcim) contain 28 pages of yellowing renderings – largely drawn by SS technicians, but also by inmates who may have eventually faced the death camp itself. These plans may provide definitive proof that the decision to purge the Jews was made as early as the drawing of these documents: Oct 23, 1941.

The documents, other than the vital evidence they provide in the way of dates, also point towards the systematic and deliberate understanding of most SS officers and high-ranking German officials: Hitler’s plan was not a secretly carried out attempt, but rather a well-recorded and deliberate effort, of which even low-level officers were well aware.

The gas chamber architectural drawing for Auschwitz, recently discovered.

The blueprints themselves reveal chilling details.  One area, boldly marked the “Gaskammer,” or gas chamber, shows a 11.66 metre by 11.20 metre room where prisoners were tricked into entering by believing they were communal showers.

“The documents disprove beyond all doubt that which Holocaust deniers claim…” said Hans-Dieter Kreikamp, head of the federal archives office in Berlin, “… That Auschwitz was nothing more than a labour camp where no gassing took place.”

Kreikamp even affirms that a portion of the blueprints, drawn in distinctive green ink, are from the pen of none other than SS chief Heinrich Himmler. Still, speculation is swirling about the potential authenticity of the documents. Prof. Robert Jan van Pelt, an expert on the planning and construction of Auschwitz, believes that the plans are not Auschwitz, but rather plans for a forced labor camp meant to house 130,000 prisoners. He said the plans have been acknowledged for years, and that they may exist in the Polish National Museum at Auschwitz and in an archive in Moscow.

These blueprints show a building whose basement contained a gas chamber.

Even though the plans that were in the SS offices in Berlin during the 1944 bombings by Allied forces were said to be destroyed, it’s possible that they survived, but unlikely. Van Pelt believes that the “gas chamber” room in the drawings was likely a room meant to disinfect clothing, and that Heinrich Himmler, as such a high-ranking official, would not be found scribbling on the plans of a camp, despite how large. Van Pelt speculates that the document itself is likely a forge, likely copied from the Polish National Archives record, considering the large interest and market for Nazi memorabilia online.

Further Research

http://www.haaretz.com/hasen/spages/1035958.html

http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/worldnews/europe/germany/3411647/Auschwitz-plans-found-in-Berlin-flat.html

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