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"content": "\u003cp>\u003cem>\u003ca href=\"#A\">View the full episode transcript.\u003c/a>\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Golden Gate Park is one of those magical places where \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/news/11915065/take-a-very-curious-golden-gate-park-walking-tour\">it’s possible to stumble upon something new\u003c/a>, even after visiting hundreds of times. \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/news/11915008/golden-gate-park-was-once-miles-and-miles-of-sand-dunes\">It’s full of hidden trails\u003c/a>, tucked-away lakes and \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/news/11915788/healing-in-nature-at-the-aids-memorial-grove\">private dells\u003c/a>. And then, there are park features that are smack dab in the middle of everything but somehow become almost invisible in their ubiquity. That’s the case for a waterfall along John F Kennedy Promenade, just east of Crossover Drive. Hundreds of people jog, bike or stroll past Rainbow Falls daily, but few stop.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[baycuriousbug]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The spot where the falls sit today used to be a small quarry, used to supply stone for a number of park projects. Many of the early roads in the park were made with stone from here. Later, it became a public dumping ground, so neighbors called on the city to build something beautiful. \u003ca href=\"https://www.tclf.org/pioneer/john-mclaren\">The superintendent at the time, John McLaren\u003c/a>, listened and oversaw the creation of the waterfall we see today. The falls opened in 1930 with a spectacular evening dedication that featured a multi-hued light display shining on the waterfall. That’s how the falls got their name — Rainbow Falls. No lights can be seen now, but look closely, and you can see the bronze light fixtures from near the top of the falls.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Bay Curious listener Persie Nakonechny has definitely noticed this waterfall, but mostly because there’s something not quite right about it.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“The water at Rainbow Falls and the creek that runs from it into Lloyd Lake is sometimes an alarming shade of green,” Nakonechny said. “I’m not sure if it’s algae or an attempt to stop people from being tempted to drink it or something else.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>What’s going on with the almost fluorescent green hue the water takes on sometimes?\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12030785\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2560px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12030785\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/rainbow-falls-in-golden-gate-park-v0-o57ezz7t1cc91-copy-scaled.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2560\" height=\"1920\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/rainbow-falls-in-golden-gate-park-v0-o57ezz7t1cc91-copy-scaled.jpg 2560w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/rainbow-falls-in-golden-gate-park-v0-o57ezz7t1cc91-copy-800x600.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/rainbow-falls-in-golden-gate-park-v0-o57ezz7t1cc91-copy-1020x765.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/rainbow-falls-in-golden-gate-park-v0-o57ezz7t1cc91-copy-160x120.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/rainbow-falls-in-golden-gate-park-v0-o57ezz7t1cc91-copy-1536x1152.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/rainbow-falls-in-golden-gate-park-v0-o57ezz7t1cc91-copy-2048x1536.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/rainbow-falls-in-golden-gate-park-v0-o57ezz7t1cc91-copy-1920x1440.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2560px) 100vw, 2560px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">The ‘greenness’ of the waterfall fluctuates with the seasons, but Reddit user wopwopdoowop captured a particularly green moment. \u003ccite>(wopwopdoowop/Reddit)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>The answer is actually fairly simple — it’s an algae bloom, said Dave Iribarne, superintendent of Golden Gate Park for the San Francisco Recreation and Parks Department. He describes the color as “neon green with a hint of lime.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“It’s just an alarming shade,” he said. “So it kind of freaks people out, but there’s really nothing harmful about it.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The color changes throughout the year, he explained, depending on what’s going on with the algae and various efforts by San Francisco Recreation & Parks Department to control its growth. The water from the falls drops into a pool, then runs downhill next to the JFK promenade for several hundred feet until it drains into Lloyd Lake. From there, it is pumped back up to the top of the falls.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>To keep the algae at bay, Rec and Park has installed aeration in Lloyd Lake, and they add a powder to the water, called flocculant, that sticks to the algae and weighs it down to the bottom. On top of all that, they also introduce microbiotics to the water that eat the algae. Still, at certain times of year, the water is unmistakably green.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“It’s so funny to me that it’s a natural substance,” question asker Persie Nakonechny said. “Nature’s weird.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12029892\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 958px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12029892\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/opensfhistory_wnp37.01750-e1741215795356.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"958\" height=\"738\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/opensfhistory_wnp37.01750-e1741215795356.jpg 958w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/opensfhistory_wnp37.01750-e1741215795356-800x616.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/opensfhistory_wnp37.01750-e1741215795356-160x123.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 958px) 100vw, 958px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Golden Gate Park’s \u003ca href=\"https://opensfhistory.org/Display/wnp37.01750.jpg\">Rainbow Falls, San Francisco,\u003c/a> circa 1933. \u003ccite>(OpenSFHistory/wnp37.01750)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>[baycuriousquestion]\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>\u003ca id=\"A\">\u003c/a>Episode Transcript\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>This is a computer-generated transcript. While our team has reviewed it, there may be errors. \u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>Hey everyone, I’m Olivia Allen-Price. And this is Bay Curious, the show that answers listener questions about the San Francisco Bay Area.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Today’s show takes us to the city of Richmond where something magical is happening within the small bayside neighborhood of Point Richmond. That’s where a Bay Curious listener, who also happens to be a KQED employee, Laura Benitez lives. She was on a stroll with her toddler, passing the local fire station when…\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Laura Benitez:\u003c/strong> Next to the fire station, there was a tiny fairy house fire station. And it was just the cutest thing. And she played with it for like half an hour. And I then kind of heard from other people in the neighborhood that there was a whole series of fairy houses.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>Sprinkled all up and down Washington Street you’ll find more miniature homes and the public services to support them. They’re all brimming with the personality of their imaginary fairy inhabitants and highly detailed.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The wee buildings have been dubbed “Little Point Richmond” and Laura loves them.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Laura Benitez:\u003c/strong> I appreciate all things whimsical and artistic and those little things that make life more meaningful.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>But she wants to know: where did this little fairy amusement park come from? Who is behind it?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Today on the show we explore some of the hidden treasures you’ve been wondering about as you explore your neighborhoods. We’ll start in the tucked away community of Point Richmond in the East Bay and then make our way to Golden Gate Park in San Francisco to visit a very green waterfall. Stay with us.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Sponsor break\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Laura Benitez:\u003c/strong> Scattered across the Point Richmond neighborhood are dozens of intricate fairy houses. KQED reporter Pauline Bartolone set out to discover who is behind them all.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Sounds of kids running\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Kid 1:\u003c/strong> “Oh I found something!”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone:\u003c/strong> Every time my five year old daughter and I go to Little Point Richmond, there’s something new to explore. On a recent Saturday with one of her buddies it felt like we were on an easter egg hunt.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Kid 2:\u003c/strong> Over here!\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone:\u003c/strong> At least thirty magical creations, in all shapes and colors, flank the sidewalks. Some are hidden under branches, others are on the ground in plain sight.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Kid 1: \u003c/strong>Ahhh! Fairyhouse…\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Kid 2: \u003c/strong>Ah… there’s too many of them…\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/strong>They jut out from tree trunks, or perched on stumps and concrete walls. When found, they’re a total delight.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Kid 1:\u003c/strong> Another fairyhouse… Pretty…\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Kid 2:\u003c/strong> Let’s go!\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/strong>They’re like tiny dollhouses made of gourds, popsicle sticks, or sawed-off baskets. Each has their own theme.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Kid 2:\u003c/strong> We gotta ring the bell!\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/strong>And there’s plenty to interact with… windchimes, marble slides…\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Kid 2:\u003c/strong> See how it goes?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Sounds of a bell ringing and a marble rolling down a shoot.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/strong>Open up a tiny door and you’ll peak into a miniature world of whimsy. Furniture crafted with found things, like a stool made with a bottle cap. You’ll find a one inch salmon dinner and thumbnail-sized mailboxes. The scenes make these preschoolers bust out into song.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Kid 1 singing: \u003c/strong>Go on the bench and go in your cozy fairy house and sit on your little chair. Close the fairy house house and you’re all ready now.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/strong>Just a few minutes of playing with the wee dwellings inspire deep questions:\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Kid 2:\u003c/strong> Who made these?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/strong>Neighbors say the fairy houses just pop up like mushrooms after a good rain. But there is indeed one artist behind them, who so far has been pretty elusive.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jimmie Robinson:\u003c/strong> I’ve been hiding for so long \u003cem>(laughs)\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone:\u003c/strong> Jimmie Robinson. He’s a professional illustrator and successful comic book artist. He lives on the street with all the fairy houses, but he doesn’t sign his works. And this is the first time he’s publicly spoken about being the fairy house creator.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jimmie Robinson:\u003c/strong> Just here in the basement is my little workshop of sorts.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone:\u003c/strong> Call it social anxiety, or maybe humility, Jimmie prefers the work space underneath his house over being seen outside with his creations.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jimmie Robinson:\u003c/strong> I do not want the spotlight. This is true. I wanted people to see the fairy houses, but not see me.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone:\u003c/strong> Jimmie says this public art project, it all started about eight years ago. On a wall outside his own house. All the flowers had died in one of his planter boxes.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jimmie Robinson: \u003c/strong>I put this little tiny garden shed, like a gnome garden shed there as if, you know, “Hey, I’m working on new flowers. Don’t worry.” And the flowers never came back, but I just kept building off of the garden shed. So made a little pathway for it. And then a house for the garden shed. People would stop and look at it and it was funny. That’s where it all started.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone:\u003c/strong> Then he built one for his neighbor. And then another one. He’s friendly with people on the block so he knew enough about them to cater his creations to their specific jobs and interests.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jimmie Robinson:\u003c/strong> So I already knew that Rosa was a librarian, that, you know, that Aveline was from France.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone:\u003c/strong> He says some of his neighbors are touched when fairy houses pop up in their yards.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jimmie Robinson: \u003c/strong>You know, Tien, she’s from Laos, she’s Laotian and when I did the Laotian flag and I researched how to make the numbers. And so I did them in their native language and they were just like, they’re bringing all their friends and neighbors and family over to see it.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone:\u003c/strong> But most of the time, he doesn’t see their reactions. Because he’s often putting the houses up at night, when no one is looking.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jimmie Robinson:\u003c/strong> I do get notes. I get letters. I get stuff left in the mailbox.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone:\u003c/strong> Little Point Richmond became more of a town for fairies a few years ago when Jimmie started crafting mini public services. There’s now a fire station, a post office, a school and a little library, with yes, miniature books and pages to turn.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It takes Jimmie about a month to craft a fairy dwelling. But each project is different.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jimmie Robinson: \u003c/strong>And I’ll be down here six hours a day, all day, or barely at all.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone:\u003c/strong> Jimmie says he’s always been a tinkerer, back to when he was growing up in Oakland.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jimmie Robinson: \u003c/strong>I’m an only child. My mom’s very creative herself as a seamstress and so I didn’t have brothers and sisters to play with. I had to create worlds. I had to imagine my own places, uh, or build things that had a story as well.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/strong>He says building fairy houses is different from his two-dimensional work as an illustrator. With comic books, he completes the story for the reader. But fairy houses invite people to imagine their own stories.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jimmie Robinson: \u003c/strong>Fairy houses are open ended. They’re, you know, open for interpretation and all that. There’s no figures. There’s just the house. You don’t know what it does, what lives there, how it lives, what it eats, what it does.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jimmie Robinson:\u003c/strong> Ooh, this one’s going to need some work.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/strong>On a walk down the fairy house street, Jimmie shows me all the things people add to the houses.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jimmie Robinson: \u003c/strong>Oh, yeah. See somebody’s added a bunch of stuff here.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/strong>People leave a lot of fairy figurines, of course, but unexpected treasures show up too.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jimmie Robinson:\u003c/strong> Yeah, there’s salamanders and little glass rocks and pebbles and a candy wrapper. There’s a little nut back there.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/strong>Jimmie has to make a lot of repairs to these little worlds…he checks on them once a week. But the way visitors interact with them gives him new ideas, too. …Like the marble slide.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jimmie Robinson:\u003c/strong> I was finding marbles, they were part of this little landscape and the thing was the kids would mess with them and the marbles would roll down the hill. And so that’s when I came up with making my own marble run.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/strong>Jimmie says, Little Point Richmond is all about inclusivity.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jimmie Robinson: \u003c/strong>The houses aren’t just for fairies — gnomes and insects can live here too.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>And to be a fairy tourist, you don’t have to be a kid. In fact, lately, people of all ages come by the bus load. It’s on Google Maps.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jimmie Robinson:\u003c/strong> My intention with the fairy houses is to make an environment that you can walk into an interactive experience. That’s what I want. I don’t care if it’s a kid or adult or whatever or my neighbors. It is you’re walking into an area that’s now Little Point Richmond.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/strong>The latest addition to the neighborhood? A mini Louvre, as in the French national art museum, where visitors can contribute bite-sized works of art.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>That was KQED reporter Pauline Bartalone. She first reported on the fairy houses for Craftsmanship Magazine. Thanks also to Eli Rosenberg.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Those fairy homes are quite the draw for kids. We’re currently working on an episode about other kid-friendly places and activities in the Bay Area and we want to hear from you. If you have kids in your life, what are some of your favorite places to have fun? Whether it’s a business, outdoor space, cultural center or an offbeat hidden gem — we want to hear about it and why you love it. Use your phone to send a voice memo to \u003ca href=\"mailto:baycurious@kqed.org\">baycurious@kqed.org\u003c/a> or leave us a voicemail. Just call 415-553-3334.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Next up we’re heading across the Bay Bridge to San Francisco’s Golden Gate Park where another listener question is waiting for us.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Persie Nakonechny:\u003c/strong> I’ve lived in San Francisco for over 30 years but my husband and I moved to the Richmond district a couple of years ago and during COVID, it was awesome to get out into the park and be around other people, but at a distance.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>This is Persie Nakonechny.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Persie Nakonechny:\u003c/strong> That’s when we really took a closer look at a lot of the little hollows, the museums, the little areas that are made, you know, just for people to enjoy and hang out.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>There’s one particular feature in Golden Gate Park that Persie has wondered about whenever she passes it. Rainbow Falls… a man-made waterfall on John F. Kennedy Promenade near Crossover Drive.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Persie Nakonechny:\u003c/strong> the water at Rainbow Falls and the creek that runs from it into Lloyd Lake is sometimes an alarming shade of green. with a weird foam. I’m not sure if it’s algae or an attempt to stop people from being tempted to drink it or something else.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>We passed this one along to KQED editor Chris Hambrick.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Sounds of a stream gurgling, birds singing, wind\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Chris Hambrick:\u003c/strong> I had to see this green waterfall for myself. Even though it’s man-made, the area is serene with trees, tall grasses and bushes bordering the lake. I even saw a few ducks.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Chris Hambrick in tape: \u003c/strong>Time to hang out with the ducks. \u003cem>(Sounds of wings flapping) \u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Chris Hambrick: \u003c/strong>This spot used to be a quarry. Many of the original roads in Golden Gate Park were built with rock from here. When the quarry closed, neighbors wanted something beautiful and Park Superintendent John McLaren listened. The Falls opened in 1930. General Electric lit up the water with multicolored lights for the dedication, thus the name “Rainbow Falls.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The lights don’t work nowadays, but both the waterfall and the pool below it are green, bright green. I talked to someone who can tell me why.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dave Iribarne: \u003c/strong>My name is Dave Iribarne. I’m the superintendent of Golden Gate Park for the San Francisco Recreation and Parks Department.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Chris Hambrick in tape:\u003c/strong> What color would you call this green?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dave Iribarne: \u003c/strong>I would say it’s definitely neon green with a hint of lime.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Chris Hambrick in tape: \u003c/strong>What causes water in this lake and the corresponding falls to be this shade of green?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dave Iribarne:\u003c/strong> Basically, it’s just a natural algae bloom. it’s just an alarming shade. So it kind of freaks people out, but there’s really nothing harmful about it.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Chris Hambrick: \u003c/strong>Dave tells me that the shade of green changes depending on what’s going on with the algae, and today when I arrive, I see that he and his crew are draining the falls for maintenance.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dave Iribarne:\u003c/strong> We’re right now in the process of, uh, installing aeration in Lloyd Lake, which feeds Rainbow Falls. And then we’re going to put some flocculant. It’s like a powder that gets poured in, and it actually grabs onto the algae and weighs it down and sinks it down to the bottom so that it can’t keep reproducing.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Chris Hambrick:\u003c/strong> To help control algae growth, they also add in some microbiotics, which are living organisms that actually feed on the algae.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dave Iribarne:\u003c/strong> And then we put in a dye, like a green dye. It’s pretty unnatural looking. We have it in many of our lakes in the park. But the dye prevents the sunlight from feeding the algae.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Chris Hambrick in tape: \u003c/strong>Okay, but it is like for sure for sure it’s the algae that causes this color.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dave Iribarne:\u003c/strong> 100 percent it’s the algae that causes the color.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Chris Hambrick in tape:\u003c/strong> That’s so interesting.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dave Iribarne: \u003c/strong>Yeah, we’re actually getting ready for St. Patrick’s Day. So, you know, we just dye it green. Just kidding.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Chris Hambrick:\u003c/strong> I take all this info back to Persie to see what she thinks.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Persie Nakonechny:\u003c/strong> So that’s natural. And maybe the change in the color would make sense to that, like in the summer, when there’s more sunlight that it’s growing more, and that’s why it turns that fluorescent green. It’s so funny to me that it’s a natural substance. But nature’s weird.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Chris Hambrick: \u003c/strong>Indeed, it is.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price:\u003c/strong> That was KQED editor Chris Hambrick.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Bay Curious is made in San Francisco at member-supported KQED.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Our show is produced by Katrina Schwartz, Christopher Beale, and me, Olivia Allen-Price.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Extra support from Jen Chien, Katie Sprenger, Maha Senad, Alana Walker, Holly Kernan and everyone at team KQED.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I’m Olivia Allen-Price, have a great week.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad floatright]\u003c/p>\n",
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"excerpt": "San Francisco’s Golden Gate Park has some seriously weird water sometimes. Rainbow Falls, off of JFK Promenade, often has neon green-colored water. Here’s why.",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>\u003cem>\u003ca href=\"#A\">View the full episode transcript.\u003c/a>\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Golden Gate Park is one of those magical places where \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/news/11915065/take-a-very-curious-golden-gate-park-walking-tour\">it’s possible to stumble upon something new\u003c/a>, even after visiting hundreds of times. \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/news/11915008/golden-gate-park-was-once-miles-and-miles-of-sand-dunes\">It’s full of hidden trails\u003c/a>, tucked-away lakes and \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/news/11915788/healing-in-nature-at-the-aids-memorial-grove\">private dells\u003c/a>. And then, there are park features that are smack dab in the middle of everything but somehow become almost invisible in their ubiquity. That’s the case for a waterfall along John F Kennedy Promenade, just east of Crossover Drive. Hundreds of people jog, bike or stroll past Rainbow Falls daily, but few stop.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003caside class=\"alignleft utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__bayCuriousPodcastShortcode__bayCurious\">\u003cimg src=https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/2023/02/bayCuriousLogo.png alt=\"Bay Curious Podcast\" loading=\"lazy\" />\n What do you wonder about the Bay Area, its culture or people that you want KQED to investigate?\n \u003ca href=\"/news/series/baycurious\">Ask Bay Curious.\u003c/a>\u003c/aside>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The spot where the falls sit today used to be a small quarry, used to supply stone for a number of park projects. Many of the early roads in the park were made with stone from here. Later, it became a public dumping ground, so neighbors called on the city to build something beautiful. \u003ca href=\"https://www.tclf.org/pioneer/john-mclaren\">The superintendent at the time, John McLaren\u003c/a>, listened and oversaw the creation of the waterfall we see today. The falls opened in 1930 with a spectacular evening dedication that featured a multi-hued light display shining on the waterfall. That’s how the falls got their name — Rainbow Falls. No lights can be seen now, but look closely, and you can see the bronze light fixtures from near the top of the falls.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Bay Curious listener Persie Nakonechny has definitely noticed this waterfall, but mostly because there’s something not quite right about it.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“The water at Rainbow Falls and the creek that runs from it into Lloyd Lake is sometimes an alarming shade of green,” Nakonechny said. “I’m not sure if it’s algae or an attempt to stop people from being tempted to drink it or something else.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>What’s going on with the almost fluorescent green hue the water takes on sometimes?\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12030785\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2560px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12030785\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/rainbow-falls-in-golden-gate-park-v0-o57ezz7t1cc91-copy-scaled.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2560\" height=\"1920\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/rainbow-falls-in-golden-gate-park-v0-o57ezz7t1cc91-copy-scaled.jpg 2560w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/rainbow-falls-in-golden-gate-park-v0-o57ezz7t1cc91-copy-800x600.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/rainbow-falls-in-golden-gate-park-v0-o57ezz7t1cc91-copy-1020x765.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/rainbow-falls-in-golden-gate-park-v0-o57ezz7t1cc91-copy-160x120.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/rainbow-falls-in-golden-gate-park-v0-o57ezz7t1cc91-copy-1536x1152.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/rainbow-falls-in-golden-gate-park-v0-o57ezz7t1cc91-copy-2048x1536.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/rainbow-falls-in-golden-gate-park-v0-o57ezz7t1cc91-copy-1920x1440.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2560px) 100vw, 2560px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">The ‘greenness’ of the waterfall fluctuates with the seasons, but Reddit user wopwopdoowop captured a particularly green moment. \u003ccite>(wopwopdoowop/Reddit)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>The answer is actually fairly simple — it’s an algae bloom, said Dave Iribarne, superintendent of Golden Gate Park for the San Francisco Recreation and Parks Department. He describes the color as “neon green with a hint of lime.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“It’s just an alarming shade,” he said. “So it kind of freaks people out, but there’s really nothing harmful about it.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The color changes throughout the year, he explained, depending on what’s going on with the algae and various efforts by San Francisco Recreation & Parks Department to control its growth. The water from the falls drops into a pool, then runs downhill next to the JFK promenade for several hundred feet until it drains into Lloyd Lake. From there, it is pumped back up to the top of the falls.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>To keep the algae at bay, Rec and Park has installed aeration in Lloyd Lake, and they add a powder to the water, called flocculant, that sticks to the algae and weighs it down to the bottom. On top of all that, they also introduce microbiotics to the water that eat the algae. Still, at certain times of year, the water is unmistakably green.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“It’s so funny to me that it’s a natural substance,” question asker Persie Nakonechny said. “Nature’s weird.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12029892\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 958px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12029892\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/opensfhistory_wnp37.01750-e1741215795356.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"958\" height=\"738\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/opensfhistory_wnp37.01750-e1741215795356.jpg 958w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/opensfhistory_wnp37.01750-e1741215795356-800x616.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/opensfhistory_wnp37.01750-e1741215795356-160x123.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 958px) 100vw, 958px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Golden Gate Park’s \u003ca href=\"https://opensfhistory.org/Display/wnp37.01750.jpg\">Rainbow Falls, San Francisco,\u003c/a> circa 1933. \u003ccite>(OpenSFHistory/wnp37.01750)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>\u003ca id=\"A\">\u003c/a>Episode Transcript\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>This is a computer-generated transcript. While our team has reviewed it, there may be errors. \u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>Hey everyone, I’m Olivia Allen-Price. And this is Bay Curious, the show that answers listener questions about the San Francisco Bay Area.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Today’s show takes us to the city of Richmond where something magical is happening within the small bayside neighborhood of Point Richmond. That’s where a Bay Curious listener, who also happens to be a KQED employee, Laura Benitez lives. She was on a stroll with her toddler, passing the local fire station when…\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Laura Benitez:\u003c/strong> Next to the fire station, there was a tiny fairy house fire station. And it was just the cutest thing. And she played with it for like half an hour. And I then kind of heard from other people in the neighborhood that there was a whole series of fairy houses.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>Sprinkled all up and down Washington Street you’ll find more miniature homes and the public services to support them. They’re all brimming with the personality of their imaginary fairy inhabitants and highly detailed.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The wee buildings have been dubbed “Little Point Richmond” and Laura loves them.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Laura Benitez:\u003c/strong> I appreciate all things whimsical and artistic and those little things that make life more meaningful.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>But she wants to know: where did this little fairy amusement park come from? Who is behind it?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Today on the show we explore some of the hidden treasures you’ve been wondering about as you explore your neighborhoods. We’ll start in the tucked away community of Point Richmond in the East Bay and then make our way to Golden Gate Park in San Francisco to visit a very green waterfall. Stay with us.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Sponsor break\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Laura Benitez:\u003c/strong> Scattered across the Point Richmond neighborhood are dozens of intricate fairy houses. KQED reporter Pauline Bartolone set out to discover who is behind them all.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Sounds of kids running\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Kid 1:\u003c/strong> “Oh I found something!”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone:\u003c/strong> Every time my five year old daughter and I go to Little Point Richmond, there’s something new to explore. On a recent Saturday with one of her buddies it felt like we were on an easter egg hunt.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Kid 2:\u003c/strong> Over here!\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone:\u003c/strong> At least thirty magical creations, in all shapes and colors, flank the sidewalks. Some are hidden under branches, others are on the ground in plain sight.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Kid 1: \u003c/strong>Ahhh! Fairyhouse…\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Kid 2: \u003c/strong>Ah… there’s too many of them…\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/strong>They jut out from tree trunks, or perched on stumps and concrete walls. When found, they’re a total delight.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Kid 1:\u003c/strong> Another fairyhouse… Pretty…\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Kid 2:\u003c/strong> Let’s go!\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/strong>They’re like tiny dollhouses made of gourds, popsicle sticks, or sawed-off baskets. Each has their own theme.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Kid 2:\u003c/strong> We gotta ring the bell!\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/strong>And there’s plenty to interact with… windchimes, marble slides…\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Kid 2:\u003c/strong> See how it goes?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Sounds of a bell ringing and a marble rolling down a shoot.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/strong>Open up a tiny door and you’ll peak into a miniature world of whimsy. Furniture crafted with found things, like a stool made with a bottle cap. You’ll find a one inch salmon dinner and thumbnail-sized mailboxes. The scenes make these preschoolers bust out into song.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Kid 1 singing: \u003c/strong>Go on the bench and go in your cozy fairy house and sit on your little chair. Close the fairy house house and you’re all ready now.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/strong>Just a few minutes of playing with the wee dwellings inspire deep questions:\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Kid 2:\u003c/strong> Who made these?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/strong>Neighbors say the fairy houses just pop up like mushrooms after a good rain. But there is indeed one artist behind them, who so far has been pretty elusive.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jimmie Robinson:\u003c/strong> I’ve been hiding for so long \u003cem>(laughs)\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone:\u003c/strong> Jimmie Robinson. He’s a professional illustrator and successful comic book artist. He lives on the street with all the fairy houses, but he doesn’t sign his works. And this is the first time he’s publicly spoken about being the fairy house creator.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jimmie Robinson:\u003c/strong> Just here in the basement is my little workshop of sorts.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone:\u003c/strong> Call it social anxiety, or maybe humility, Jimmie prefers the work space underneath his house over being seen outside with his creations.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jimmie Robinson:\u003c/strong> I do not want the spotlight. This is true. I wanted people to see the fairy houses, but not see me.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone:\u003c/strong> Jimmie says this public art project, it all started about eight years ago. On a wall outside his own house. All the flowers had died in one of his planter boxes.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jimmie Robinson: \u003c/strong>I put this little tiny garden shed, like a gnome garden shed there as if, you know, “Hey, I’m working on new flowers. Don’t worry.” And the flowers never came back, but I just kept building off of the garden shed. So made a little pathway for it. And then a house for the garden shed. People would stop and look at it and it was funny. That’s where it all started.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone:\u003c/strong> Then he built one for his neighbor. And then another one. He’s friendly with people on the block so he knew enough about them to cater his creations to their specific jobs and interests.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jimmie Robinson:\u003c/strong> So I already knew that Rosa was a librarian, that, you know, that Aveline was from France.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone:\u003c/strong> He says some of his neighbors are touched when fairy houses pop up in their yards.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jimmie Robinson: \u003c/strong>You know, Tien, she’s from Laos, she’s Laotian and when I did the Laotian flag and I researched how to make the numbers. And so I did them in their native language and they were just like, they’re bringing all their friends and neighbors and family over to see it.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone:\u003c/strong> But most of the time, he doesn’t see their reactions. Because he’s often putting the houses up at night, when no one is looking.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jimmie Robinson:\u003c/strong> I do get notes. I get letters. I get stuff left in the mailbox.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone:\u003c/strong> Little Point Richmond became more of a town for fairies a few years ago when Jimmie started crafting mini public services. There’s now a fire station, a post office, a school and a little library, with yes, miniature books and pages to turn.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It takes Jimmie about a month to craft a fairy dwelling. But each project is different.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jimmie Robinson: \u003c/strong>And I’ll be down here six hours a day, all day, or barely at all.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone:\u003c/strong> Jimmie says he’s always been a tinkerer, back to when he was growing up in Oakland.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jimmie Robinson: \u003c/strong>I’m an only child. My mom’s very creative herself as a seamstress and so I didn’t have brothers and sisters to play with. I had to create worlds. I had to imagine my own places, uh, or build things that had a story as well.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/strong>He says building fairy houses is different from his two-dimensional work as an illustrator. With comic books, he completes the story for the reader. But fairy houses invite people to imagine their own stories.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jimmie Robinson: \u003c/strong>Fairy houses are open ended. They’re, you know, open for interpretation and all that. There’s no figures. There’s just the house. You don’t know what it does, what lives there, how it lives, what it eats, what it does.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jimmie Robinson:\u003c/strong> Ooh, this one’s going to need some work.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/strong>On a walk down the fairy house street, Jimmie shows me all the things people add to the houses.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jimmie Robinson: \u003c/strong>Oh, yeah. See somebody’s added a bunch of stuff here.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/strong>People leave a lot of fairy figurines, of course, but unexpected treasures show up too.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jimmie Robinson:\u003c/strong> Yeah, there’s salamanders and little glass rocks and pebbles and a candy wrapper. There’s a little nut back there.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/strong>Jimmie has to make a lot of repairs to these little worlds…he checks on them once a week. But the way visitors interact with them gives him new ideas, too. …Like the marble slide.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jimmie Robinson:\u003c/strong> I was finding marbles, they were part of this little landscape and the thing was the kids would mess with them and the marbles would roll down the hill. And so that’s when I came up with making my own marble run.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/strong>Jimmie says, Little Point Richmond is all about inclusivity.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jimmie Robinson: \u003c/strong>The houses aren’t just for fairies — gnomes and insects can live here too.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>And to be a fairy tourist, you don’t have to be a kid. In fact, lately, people of all ages come by the bus load. It’s on Google Maps.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jimmie Robinson:\u003c/strong> My intention with the fairy houses is to make an environment that you can walk into an interactive experience. That’s what I want. I don’t care if it’s a kid or adult or whatever or my neighbors. It is you’re walking into an area that’s now Little Point Richmond.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/strong>The latest addition to the neighborhood? A mini Louvre, as in the French national art museum, where visitors can contribute bite-sized works of art.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>That was KQED reporter Pauline Bartalone. She first reported on the fairy houses for Craftsmanship Magazine. Thanks also to Eli Rosenberg.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Those fairy homes are quite the draw for kids. We’re currently working on an episode about other kid-friendly places and activities in the Bay Area and we want to hear from you. If you have kids in your life, what are some of your favorite places to have fun? Whether it’s a business, outdoor space, cultural center or an offbeat hidden gem — we want to hear about it and why you love it. Use your phone to send a voice memo to \u003ca href=\"mailto:baycurious@kqed.org\">baycurious@kqed.org\u003c/a> or leave us a voicemail. Just call 415-553-3334.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Next up we’re heading across the Bay Bridge to San Francisco’s Golden Gate Park where another listener question is waiting for us.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Persie Nakonechny:\u003c/strong> I’ve lived in San Francisco for over 30 years but my husband and I moved to the Richmond district a couple of years ago and during COVID, it was awesome to get out into the park and be around other people, but at a distance.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>This is Persie Nakonechny.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Persie Nakonechny:\u003c/strong> That’s when we really took a closer look at a lot of the little hollows, the museums, the little areas that are made, you know, just for people to enjoy and hang out.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>There’s one particular feature in Golden Gate Park that Persie has wondered about whenever she passes it. Rainbow Falls… a man-made waterfall on John F. Kennedy Promenade near Crossover Drive.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Persie Nakonechny:\u003c/strong> the water at Rainbow Falls and the creek that runs from it into Lloyd Lake is sometimes an alarming shade of green. with a weird foam. I’m not sure if it’s algae or an attempt to stop people from being tempted to drink it or something else.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>We passed this one along to KQED editor Chris Hambrick.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Sounds of a stream gurgling, birds singing, wind\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Chris Hambrick:\u003c/strong> I had to see this green waterfall for myself. Even though it’s man-made, the area is serene with trees, tall grasses and bushes bordering the lake. I even saw a few ducks.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Chris Hambrick in tape: \u003c/strong>Time to hang out with the ducks. \u003cem>(Sounds of wings flapping) \u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Chris Hambrick: \u003c/strong>This spot used to be a quarry. Many of the original roads in Golden Gate Park were built with rock from here. When the quarry closed, neighbors wanted something beautiful and Park Superintendent John McLaren listened. The Falls opened in 1930. General Electric lit up the water with multicolored lights for the dedication, thus the name “Rainbow Falls.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The lights don’t work nowadays, but both the waterfall and the pool below it are green, bright green. I talked to someone who can tell me why.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dave Iribarne: \u003c/strong>My name is Dave Iribarne. I’m the superintendent of Golden Gate Park for the San Francisco Recreation and Parks Department.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Chris Hambrick in tape:\u003c/strong> What color would you call this green?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dave Iribarne: \u003c/strong>I would say it’s definitely neon green with a hint of lime.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Chris Hambrick in tape: \u003c/strong>What causes water in this lake and the corresponding falls to be this shade of green?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dave Iribarne:\u003c/strong> Basically, it’s just a natural algae bloom. it’s just an alarming shade. So it kind of freaks people out, but there’s really nothing harmful about it.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Chris Hambrick: \u003c/strong>Dave tells me that the shade of green changes depending on what’s going on with the algae, and today when I arrive, I see that he and his crew are draining the falls for maintenance.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dave Iribarne:\u003c/strong> We’re right now in the process of, uh, installing aeration in Lloyd Lake, which feeds Rainbow Falls. And then we’re going to put some flocculant. It’s like a powder that gets poured in, and it actually grabs onto the algae and weighs it down and sinks it down to the bottom so that it can’t keep reproducing.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Chris Hambrick:\u003c/strong> To help control algae growth, they also add in some microbiotics, which are living organisms that actually feed on the algae.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dave Iribarne:\u003c/strong> And then we put in a dye, like a green dye. It’s pretty unnatural looking. We have it in many of our lakes in the park. But the dye prevents the sunlight from feeding the algae.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Chris Hambrick in tape: \u003c/strong>Okay, but it is like for sure for sure it’s the algae that causes this color.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dave Iribarne:\u003c/strong> 100 percent it’s the algae that causes the color.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Chris Hambrick in tape:\u003c/strong> That’s so interesting.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dave Iribarne: \u003c/strong>Yeah, we’re actually getting ready for St. Patrick’s Day. So, you know, we just dye it green. Just kidding.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Chris Hambrick:\u003c/strong> I take all this info back to Persie to see what she thinks.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Persie Nakonechny:\u003c/strong> So that’s natural. And maybe the change in the color would make sense to that, like in the summer, when there’s more sunlight that it’s growing more, and that’s why it turns that fluorescent green. It’s so funny to me that it’s a natural substance. But nature’s weird.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Chris Hambrick: \u003c/strong>Indeed, it is.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price:\u003c/strong> That was KQED editor Chris Hambrick.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Bay Curious is made in San Francisco at member-supported KQED.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Our show is produced by Katrina Schwartz, Christopher Beale, and me, Olivia Allen-Price.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Extra support from Jen Chien, Katie Sprenger, Maha Senad, Alana Walker, Holly Kernan and everyone at team KQED.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I’m Olivia Allen-Price, have a great week.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cp>\u003ci>\u003ca href=\"#A\">View the full episode transcript.\u003c/a>\u003c/i>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Residents of the artsy East Bay neighborhood of Point Richmond have at least 30 fun reasons to take a walk around their neighborhood.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[baycuriousbug]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Dozens of little fairy dwellings are scattered along three blocks of Washington Avenue, inviting pedestrians to delight in their magical worlds.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Bay Curious listener Laura Benitez’s toddler spotted one right after they moved to the area a few years ago. During a stroll downtown, her daughter noticed a wee fire station right outside the building for human firefighters.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“It was just the cutest thing,” Benitez said. “She played with it for like half an hour.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12028902\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12028902\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/20250220_PtRichmondFairyHouses_GC-15.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/20250220_PtRichmondFairyHouses_GC-15.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/20250220_PtRichmondFairyHouses_GC-15-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/20250220_PtRichmondFairyHouses_GC-15-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/20250220_PtRichmondFairyHouses_GC-15-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/20250220_PtRichmondFairyHouses_GC-15-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/20250220_PtRichmondFairyHouses_GC-15-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">The Fairy Fire Department fairy installation on Washington Avenue, on Feb. 20, 2025. \u003ccite>(Gina Castro/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12030373\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2500px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12030373\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-6.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2500\" height=\"833\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-6.jpg 2500w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-6-800x267.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-6-1020x340.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-6-160x53.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-6-1536x512.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-6-2048x682.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-6-1920x640.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2500px) 100vw, 2500px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Left: Marc’s Arts fairy house on Washington Avenue. Right: The ‘Little Louvre,’ a newly built fairy museum, also on Washington Avenue. \u003ccite>(Gina Castro/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Benitez soon learned that the fire station was part of an entire village of miniature fairy houses nearby. Ever since, she’s been taking her daughter to “Little Point Richmond,” the stretch of small dollhouse-like dwellings made of gourds, popsicle sticks and sawed-off baskets.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Benitez was curious about this fairy amusement park that had been such a treat to her and her daughter.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I would love to know where the idea came from\u003cem>,” \u003c/em>Benitez said. “I appreciate all things whimsical and artistic.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12030372\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2560px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12030372\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/LittlePointRichmond-scaled.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2560\" height=\"1920\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/LittlePointRichmond-scaled.jpg 2560w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/LittlePointRichmond-800x600.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/LittlePointRichmond-1020x765.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/LittlePointRichmond-160x120.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/LittlePointRichmond-1536x1152.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/LittlePointRichmond-2048x1536.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/LittlePointRichmond-1920x1440.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2560px) 100vw, 2560px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A fairy installation with a ‘Little Point Richmond’ welcome billboard. \u003ccite>(Pauline Bartolone/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>\u003cstrong>Popping up like mushrooms after a good rain\u003c/strong>\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>Taking a stroll down Washington Street feels like going on an easter egg hunt. Foot-high fairy dwellings flank the sidewalk. Some are hidden under branches, others are in plain sight, resting on a tree stump or a concrete wall.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Each house opens up into a miniature world of whimsy. There’s a 1-inch salmon dinner, a stool made out of a bottle cap, and thumbnail-sized mailboxes.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Neighbors say the magical dwellings just appear like mushrooms after a good rain. But there is indeed one artist behind them who often works when no one is looking.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12028904\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12028904\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/20250220_PtRichmondFairyHouses_GC-18.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/20250220_PtRichmondFairyHouses_GC-18.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/20250220_PtRichmondFairyHouses_GC-18-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/20250220_PtRichmondFairyHouses_GC-18-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/20250220_PtRichmondFairyHouses_GC-18-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/20250220_PtRichmondFairyHouses_GC-18-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/20250220_PtRichmondFairyHouses_GC-18-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Jimmie Robinson installs the ‘Little Louvre’ at a neighbor’s house on Washington Avenue in Richmond on Feb. 20, 2025. \u003ccite>(Gina Castro/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>His name is Jimmie Robinson. He’s a professional illustrator and \u003ca href=\"https://imagecomics.com/creators/jimmie-robinson\">comic book artist\u003c/a> who lives with the humans in “Little Point Richmond.” And he’s been making the houses for about eight years now.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I’ve been hiding for so long,” Robinson said with a laugh.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Due to some social anxiety, and a little humility, Jimmie hasn’t wanted attention for his creations. He likes surprising his neighbors with each new addition to the neighborhood. He puts the houses up at night or in the early hours of the morning so people don’t see him.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I do not want the spotlight,” Jimmie said. “I wanted people to see the fairy houses but not see me.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12028907\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003ca href=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/20250220_PtRichmondFairyHouses_GC-33.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12028907\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/20250220_PtRichmondFairyHouses_GC-33.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/20250220_PtRichmondFairyHouses_GC-33.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/20250220_PtRichmondFairyHouses_GC-33-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/20250220_PtRichmondFairyHouses_GC-33-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/20250220_PtRichmondFairyHouses_GC-33-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/20250220_PtRichmondFairyHouses_GC-33-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/20250220_PtRichmondFairyHouses_GC-33-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Jimmie Robinson poses for a photo at his home in Richmond on Feb. 20, 2025. \u003ccite>(Gina Castro/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12030722\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2500px\">\u003ca href=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-9.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12030722\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-9.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2500\" height=\"833\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-9.jpg 2500w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-9-800x267.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-9-1020x340.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-9-160x53.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-9-1536x512.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-9-2048x682.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-9-1920x640.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2500px) 100vw, 2500px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Left: Robinson works on a fairy house in his workshop. Right: Robinson looks at the site where he installed fairy houses on Washington Avenue. \u003ccite>(Gina Castro/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>The public art project started on a whim, he said, when all the flowers had died in one of the planter boxes outside his home. To temporarily fill the void, Robinson put a tiny gnome-sized garden shed there.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“The flowers never came back, but I just kept building off of the garden shed,” Jimmie said. He added a pathway for the shed that connects to a house — the inaugural fairy house. “People would stop and look at it, and it was funny,” Robinson said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Soon after that, he built a tiny house for his neighbor. And then another neighbor. He’s friendly with people on his block, so he caters his creations to their specific jobs and interests.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I already knew that Rosa was a librarian, that Eveline was from France,” he said. “It just kept going and going.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12030439\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12030439\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/20250220_PtRichmondFairyHouses_GC-32_qed.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/20250220_PtRichmondFairyHouses_GC-32_qed.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/20250220_PtRichmondFairyHouses_GC-32_qed-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/20250220_PtRichmondFairyHouses_GC-32_qed-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/20250220_PtRichmondFairyHouses_GC-32_qed-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/20250220_PtRichmondFairyHouses_GC-32_qed-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/20250220_PtRichmondFairyHouses_GC-32_qed-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">The inside of Robinson’s Little Point School of Magic. \u003ccite>(Gina Castro/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>When the daughter of a neighbor joined the Air Force, Jimmie installed a hanging toy helicopter outside their house. The real estate agents on the block got a modern tiny — tiny — home with a realtor sign. And when he included a sign in Lao script for his Laotian neighbor, she was so excited that she brought all her friends and neighbors over to see it.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It takes Jimmie about a month to craft each structure. He often works late into the night when he’s especially into a project.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Little Point Richmond became more of a \u003cem>fairy village\u003c/em> when Jimmie started crafting mini-public services. There’s now a fire station, a post office, a school and a little library with, yes, miniature books and pages to turn.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12030436\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2560px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12030436\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/IMG_1842-scaled.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2560\" height=\"1920\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/IMG_1842-scaled.jpg 2560w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/IMG_1842-800x600.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/IMG_1842-1020x765.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/IMG_1842-160x120.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/IMG_1842-1536x1152.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/IMG_1842-2048x1536.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/IMG_1842-1920x1440.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2560px) 100vw, 2560px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">The miniature fairy book created by Robinson. \u003ccite>(Pauline Bartolone/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12030739\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12030739\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/20250220_PtRichmondFairyHouses_GC-29_qed.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1234\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/20250220_PtRichmondFairyHouses_GC-29_qed.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/20250220_PtRichmondFairyHouses_GC-29_qed-800x494.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/20250220_PtRichmondFairyHouses_GC-29_qed-1020x629.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/20250220_PtRichmondFairyHouses_GC-29_qed-160x99.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/20250220_PtRichmondFairyHouses_GC-29_qed-1536x948.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/20250220_PtRichmondFairyHouses_GC-29_qed-1920x1185.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A fairy clothesline built by Robinson on Washington Avenue. \u003ccite>(Gina Castro/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>\u003cstrong>A different type of creative work\u003c/strong>\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>Robinson grew up in Oakland. His mother was a seamstress and infused creativity into his life. He said, growing up, he was always tinkering with something. And as an only child, his imagination was everything.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I didn’t have brothers and sisters to play with. I had to create worlds,” he said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Building fairy houses is different from his two-dimensional illustration work, he said. With comic books, he completes the story for the reader. But fairy houses invite people to create their own stories.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Fairy houses are open-ended,” he said. “There’s no figures. There’s just the house. You don’t know what it does; what lives there, how it lives, what it eats.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12030440\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2500px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12030440\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-8.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2500\" height=\"833\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-8.jpg 2500w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-8-800x267.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-8-1020x340.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-8-160x53.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-8-1536x512.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-8-2048x682.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-8-1920x640.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2500px) 100vw, 2500px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Left: The Little Point School of Magic. Right: A fairy house under repair. \u003ccite>(Gina Castro/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>\u003cstrong>Repairing little worlds \u003c/strong>\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>About once a week, Jimmie checks on the houses to make repairs. Weather and grabby hands cause wear and tear. So sometimes, he needs to glue a sign back on, refasten a door, or fix a broken ladder.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“It’s public art … these things happen,” he said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Sometimes, his creations are dismantled or stolen. But people contribute as well, leaving offerings of fairy figurines and less desirable pebbles and candy wrappers. Other times, he finds a stranger has added a whole other structure to a cluster of fairy houses.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12030442\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2560px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12030442\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/IMG_1853-scaled.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2560\" height=\"1920\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/IMG_1853-scaled.jpg 2560w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/IMG_1853-800x600.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/IMG_1853-1020x765.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/IMG_1853-160x120.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/IMG_1853-1536x1152.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/IMG_1853-2048x1536.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/IMG_1853-1920x1440.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2560px) 100vw, 2560px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A miniature map to Little Point Richmond. \u003ccite>(Pauline Bartolone/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>The way people interact with the art inspires Jimmie, too. He created a marble slide when he learned that glass balls were rolling down the sidewalk when kids played with one of his toy landscapes.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But Jimmie’s world isn’t just for children. He wants everyone to feel they’re walking into an “interactive experience.” And busloads of fairy tourists are coming for it. The Little Point Richmond fairy houses are on Google Maps now.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12028910\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12028910\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/20250220_PtRichmondFairyHouses_GC-41.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/20250220_PtRichmondFairyHouses_GC-41.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/20250220_PtRichmondFairyHouses_GC-41-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/20250220_PtRichmondFairyHouses_GC-41-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/20250220_PtRichmondFairyHouses_GC-41-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/20250220_PtRichmondFairyHouses_GC-41-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/20250220_PtRichmondFairyHouses_GC-41-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Fairy houses that Robinson built and installed on a tree on Washington Avenue on Feb. 20, 2025. \u003ccite>(Gina Castro/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12030730\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2500px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12030730\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-10.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2500\" height=\"833\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-10.jpg 2500w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-10-800x267.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-10-1020x340.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-10-160x53.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-10-1536x512.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-10-2048x682.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-10-1920x640.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2500px) 100vw, 2500px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Fairy houses by Robinson along Washington Avenue on Feb. 20, 2025. \u003ccite>(Gina Castro/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Pauline Bartolone first reported on the Point Richmond fairy houses for Craftsmanship Magazine.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[baycuriousquestion]\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>\u003ca id=\"A\">\u003c/a>Episode Transcript\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>This is a computer-generated transcript. While our team has reviewed it, there may be errors. \u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>Hey everyone, I’m Olivia Allen-Price. And this is Bay Curious, the show that answers listener questions about the San Francisco Bay Area.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Today’s show takes us to the city of Richmond where something magical is happening within the small bayside neighborhood of Point Richmond. That’s where a Bay Curious listener, who also happens to be a KQED employee, Laura Benitez lives. She was on a stroll with her toddler, passing the local fire station when…\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Laura Benitez:\u003c/strong> Next to the fire station, there was a tiny fairy house fire station. And it was just the cutest thing. And she played with it for like half an hour. And I then kind of heard from other people in the neighborhood that there was a whole series of fairy houses.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>Sprinkled all up and down Washington Street you’ll find more miniature homes and the public services to support them. They’re all brimming with the personality of their imaginary fairy inhabitants and highly detailed.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The wee buildings have been dubbed “Little Point Richmond” and Laura loves them.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Laura Benitez:\u003c/strong> I appreciate all things whimsical and artistic and those little things that make life more meaningful.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>But she wants to know: where did this little fairy amusement park come from? Who is behind it?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Today on the show we explore some of the hidden treasures you’ve been wondering about as you explore your neighborhoods. We’ll start in the tucked away community of Point Richmond in the East Bay and then make our way to Golden Gate Park in San Francisco to visit a very green waterfall. Stay with us.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Sponsor break\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Laura Benitez:\u003c/strong> Scattered across the Point Richmond neighborhood are dozens of intricate fairy houses. KQED reporter Pauline Bartolone set out to discover who is behind them all.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Sounds of kids running\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Kid 1:\u003c/strong> “Oh I found something!”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone:\u003c/strong> Every time my five year old daughter and I go to Little Point Richmond, there’s something new to explore. On a recent Saturday with one of her buddies it felt like we were on an easter egg hunt.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Kid 2:\u003c/strong> Over here!\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone:\u003c/strong> At least thirty magical creations, in all shapes and colors, flank the sidewalks. Some are hidden under branches, others are on the ground in plain sight.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Kid 1: \u003c/strong>Ahhh! Fairyhouse…\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Kid 2: \u003c/strong>Ah… there’s too many of them…\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/strong>They jut out from tree trunks, or perched on stumps and concrete walls. When found, they’re a total delight.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Kid 1:\u003c/strong> Another fairyhouse… Pretty…\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Kid 2:\u003c/strong> Let’s go!\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/strong>They’re like tiny dollhouses made of gourds, popsicle sticks, or sawed-off baskets. Each has their own theme.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Kid 2:\u003c/strong> We gotta ring the bell!\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/strong>And there’s plenty to interact with… windchimes, marble slides…\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Kid 2:\u003c/strong> See how it goes?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Sounds of a bell ringing and a marble rolling down a shoot.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/strong>Open up a tiny door and you’ll peak into a miniature world of whimsy. Furniture crafted with found things, like a stool made with a bottle cap. You’ll find a one inch salmon dinner and thumbnail-sized mailboxes. The scenes make these preschoolers bust out into song.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Kid 1 singing: \u003c/strong>Go on the bench and go in your cozy fairy house and sit on your little chair. Close the fairy house house and you’re all ready now.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/strong>Just a few minutes of playing with the wee dwellings inspire deep questions:\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Kid 2:\u003c/strong> Who made these?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/strong>Neighbors say the fairy houses just pop up like mushrooms after a good rain. But there is indeed one artist behind them, who so far has been pretty elusive.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jimmie Robinson:\u003c/strong> I’ve been hiding for so long \u003cem>(laughs)\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone:\u003c/strong> Jimmie Robinson. He’s a professional illustrator and successful comic book artist. He lives on the street with all the fairy houses, but he doesn’t sign his works. And this is the first time he’s publicly spoken about being the fairy house creator.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jimmie Robinson:\u003c/strong> Just here in the basement is my little workshop of sorts.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone:\u003c/strong> Call it social anxiety, or maybe humility, Jimmie prefers the work space underneath his house over being seen outside with his creations.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jimmie Robinson:\u003c/strong> I do not want the spotlight. This is true. I wanted people to see the fairy houses, but not see me.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone:\u003c/strong> Jimmie says this public art project, it all started about eight years ago. On a wall outside his own house. All the flowers had died in one of his planter boxes.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jimmie Robinson: \u003c/strong>I put this little tiny garden shed, like a gnome garden shed there as if, you know, “Hey, I’m working on new flowers. Don’t worry.” And the flowers never came back, but I just kept building off of the garden shed. So made a little pathway for it. And then a house for the garden shed. People would stop and look at it and it was funny. That’s where it all started.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone:\u003c/strong> Then he built one for his neighbor. And then another one. He’s friendly with people on the block so he knew enough about them to cater his creations to their specific jobs and interests.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jimmie Robinson:\u003c/strong> So I already knew that Rosa was a librarian, that, you know, that Aveline was from France.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone:\u003c/strong> He says some of his neighbors are touched when fairy houses pop up in their yards.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jimmie Robinson: \u003c/strong>You know, Tien, she’s from Laos, she’s Laotian and when I did the Laotian flag and I researched how to make the numbers. And so I did them in their native language and they were just like, they’re bringing all their friends and neighbors and family over to see it.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone:\u003c/strong> But most of the time, he doesn’t see their reactions. Because he’s often putting the houses up at night, when no one is looking.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jimmie Robinson:\u003c/strong> I do get notes. I get letters. I get stuff left in the mailbox.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone:\u003c/strong> Little Point Richmond became more of a town for fairies a few years ago when Jimmie started crafting mini public services. There’s now a fire station, a post office, a school and a little library, with yes, miniature books and pages to turn.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It takes Jimmie about a month to craft a fairy dwelling. But each project is different.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jimmie Robinson: \u003c/strong>And I’ll be down here six hours a day, all day, or barely at all.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone:\u003c/strong> Jimmie says he’s always been a tinkerer, back to when he was growing up in Oakland.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jimmie Robinson: \u003c/strong>I’m an only child. My mom’s very creative herself as a seamstress and so I didn’t have brothers and sisters to play with. I had to create worlds. I had to imagine my own places, uh, or build things that had a story as well.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/strong>He says building fairy houses is different from his two-dimensional work as an illustrator. With comic books, he completes the story for the reader. But fairy houses invite people to imagine their own stories.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jimmie Robinson: \u003c/strong>Fairy houses are open ended. They’re, you know, open for interpretation and all that. There’s no figures. There’s just the house. You don’t know what it does, what lives there, how it lives, what it eats, what it does.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jimmie Robinson:\u003c/strong> Ooh, this one’s going to need some work.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/strong>On a walk down the fairy house street, Jimmie shows me all the things people add to the houses.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jimmie Robinson: \u003c/strong>Oh, yeah. See somebody’s added a bunch of stuff here.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/strong>People leave a lot of fairy figurines, of course, but unexpected treasures show up too.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jimmie Robinson:\u003c/strong> Yeah, there’s salamanders and little glass rocks and pebbles and a candy wrapper. There’s a little nut back there.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/strong>Jimmie has to make a lot of repairs to these little worlds…he checks on them once a week. But the way visitors interact with them gives him new ideas, too. …Like the marble slide.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jimmie Robinson:\u003c/strong> I was finding marbles, they were part of this little landscape and the thing was the kids would mess with them and the marbles would roll down the hill. And so that’s when I came up with making my own marble run.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/strong>Jimmie says, Little Point Richmond is all about inclusivity.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jimmie Robinson: \u003c/strong>The houses aren’t just for fairies — gnomes and insects can live here too.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>And to be a fairy tourist, you don’t have to be a kid. In fact, lately, people of all ages come by the bus load. It’s on Google Maps.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jimmie Robinson:\u003c/strong> My intention with the fairy houses is to make an environment that you can walk into an interactive experience. That’s what I want. I don’t care if it’s a kid or adult or whatever or my neighbors. It is you’re walking into an area that’s now Little Point Richmond.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/strong>The latest addition to the neighborhood? A mini Louvre, as in the French national art museum, where visitors can contribute bite-sized works of art.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>That was KQED reporter Pauline Bartalone. She first reported on the fairy houses for Craftsmanship Magazine. Thanks also to Eli Rosenberg.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Those fairy homes are quite the draw for kids. We’re currently working on an episode about other kid-friendly places and activities in the Bay Area and we want to hear from you. If you have kids in your life, what are some of your favorite places to have fun? Whether it’s a business, outdoor space, cultural center or an offbeat hidden gem — we want to hear about it and why you love it. Use your phone to send a voice memo to \u003ca href=\"mailto:baycurious@kqed.org\">baycurious@kqed.org\u003c/a> or leave us a voicemail. Just call 415-553-3334.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Next up we’re heading across the Bay Bridge to San Francisco’s Golden Gate Park where another listener question is waiting for us.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Persie Nakonechny:\u003c/strong> I’ve lived in San Francisco for over 30 years but my husband and I moved to the Richmond district a couple of years ago and during COVID, it was awesome to get out into the park and be around other people, but at a distance.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>This is Persie Nakonechny.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Persie Nakonechny:\u003c/strong> That’s when we really took a closer look at a lot of the little hollows, the museums, the little areas that are made, you know, just for people to enjoy and hang out.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>There’s one particular feature in Golden Gate Park that Persie has wondered about whenever she passes it. Rainbow Falls… a man-made waterfall on John F. Kennedy Promenade near Crossover Drive.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Persie Nakonechny:\u003c/strong> the water at Rainbow Falls and the creek that runs from it into Lloyd Lake is sometimes an alarming shade of green. with a weird foam. I’m not sure if it’s algae or an attempt to stop people from being tempted to drink it or something else.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>We passed this one along to KQED editor Chris Hambrick.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Sounds of a stream gurgling, birds singing, wind\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Chris Hambrick:\u003c/strong> I had to see this green waterfall for myself. Even though it’s man-made, the area is serene with trees, tall grasses and bushes bordering the lake. I even saw a few ducks.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Chris Hambrick in tape: \u003c/strong>Time to hang out with the ducks. \u003cem>(Sounds of wings flapping) \u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Chris Hambrick: \u003c/strong>This spot used to be a quarry. Many of the original roads in Golden Gate Park were built with rock from here. When the quarry closed, neighbors wanted something beautiful and Park Superintendent John McLaren listened. The Falls opened in 1930. General Electric lit up the water with multicolored lights for the dedication, thus the name “Rainbow Falls.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The lights don’t work nowadays, but both the waterfall and the pool below it are green, bright green. I talked to someone who can tell me why.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dave Iribarne: \u003c/strong>My name is Dave Iribarne. I’m the superintendent of Golden Gate Park for the San Francisco Recreation and Parks Department.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Chris Hambrick in tape:\u003c/strong> What color would you call this green?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dave Iribarne: \u003c/strong>I would say it’s definitely neon green with a hint of lime.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Chris Hambrick in tape: \u003c/strong>What causes water in this lake and the corresponding falls to be this shade of green?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dave Iribarne:\u003c/strong> Basically, it’s just a natural algae bloom. it’s just an alarming shade. So it kind of freaks people out, but there’s really nothing harmful about it.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Chris Hambrick: \u003c/strong>Dave tells me that the shade of green changes depending on what’s going on with the algae, and today when I arrive, I see that he and his crew are draining the falls for maintenance.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dave Iribarne:\u003c/strong> We’re right now in the process of, uh, installing aeration in Lloyd Lake, which feeds Rainbow Falls. And then we’re going to put some flocculant. It’s like a powder that gets poured in, and it actually grabs onto the algae and weighs it down and sinks it down to the bottom so that it can’t keep reproducing.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Chris Hambrick:\u003c/strong> To help control algae growth, they also add in some microbiotics, which are living organisms that actually feed on the algae.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dave Iribarne:\u003c/strong> And then we put in a dye, like a green dye. It’s pretty unnatural looking. We have it in many of our lakes in the park. But the dye prevents the sunlight from feeding the algae.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Chris Hambrick in tape: \u003c/strong>Okay, but it is like for sure for sure it’s the algae that causes this color.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dave Iribarne:\u003c/strong> 100 percent it’s the algae that causes the color.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Chris Hambrick in tape:\u003c/strong> That’s so interesting.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dave Iribarne: \u003c/strong>Yeah, we’re actually getting ready for St. Patrick’s Day. So, you know, we just dye it green. Just kidding.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Chris Hambrick:\u003c/strong> I take all this info back to Persie to see what she thinks.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Persie Nakonechny:\u003c/strong> So that’s natural. And maybe the change in the color would make sense to that, like in the summer, when there’s more sunlight that it’s growing more, and that’s why it turns that fluorescent green. It’s so funny to me that it’s a natural substance. But nature’s weird.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Chris Hambrick: \u003c/strong>Indeed, it is.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price:\u003c/strong> That was KQED editor Chris Hambrick.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Bay Curious is made in San Francisco at member-supported KQED.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Our show is produced by Katrina Schwartz, Christopher Beale, and me, Olivia Allen-Price.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Extra support from Jen Chien, Katie Sprenger, Maha Senad, Alana Walker, Holly Kernan and everyone at team KQED.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I’m Olivia Allen-Price, have a great week.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad floatright]\u003c/p>\n",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>\u003ci>\u003ca href=\"#A\">View the full episode transcript.\u003c/a>\u003c/i>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Residents of the artsy East Bay neighborhood of Point Richmond have at least 30 fun reasons to take a walk around their neighborhood.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003caside class=\"alignleft utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__bayCuriousPodcastShortcode__bayCurious\">\u003cimg src=https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/2023/02/bayCuriousLogo.png alt=\"Bay Curious Podcast\" loading=\"lazy\" />\n What do you wonder about the Bay Area, its culture or people that you want KQED to investigate?\n \u003ca href=\"/news/series/baycurious\">Ask Bay Curious.\u003c/a>\u003c/aside>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Dozens of little fairy dwellings are scattered along three blocks of Washington Avenue, inviting pedestrians to delight in their magical worlds.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Bay Curious listener Laura Benitez’s toddler spotted one right after they moved to the area a few years ago. During a stroll downtown, her daughter noticed a wee fire station right outside the building for human firefighters.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“It was just the cutest thing,” Benitez said. “She played with it for like half an hour.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12028902\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12028902\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/20250220_PtRichmondFairyHouses_GC-15.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/20250220_PtRichmondFairyHouses_GC-15.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/20250220_PtRichmondFairyHouses_GC-15-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/20250220_PtRichmondFairyHouses_GC-15-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/20250220_PtRichmondFairyHouses_GC-15-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/20250220_PtRichmondFairyHouses_GC-15-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/20250220_PtRichmondFairyHouses_GC-15-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">The Fairy Fire Department fairy installation on Washington Avenue, on Feb. 20, 2025. \u003ccite>(Gina Castro/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12030373\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2500px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12030373\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-6.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2500\" height=\"833\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-6.jpg 2500w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-6-800x267.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-6-1020x340.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-6-160x53.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-6-1536x512.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-6-2048x682.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-6-1920x640.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2500px) 100vw, 2500px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Left: Marc’s Arts fairy house on Washington Avenue. Right: The ‘Little Louvre,’ a newly built fairy museum, also on Washington Avenue. \u003ccite>(Gina Castro/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Benitez soon learned that the fire station was part of an entire village of miniature fairy houses nearby. Ever since, she’s been taking her daughter to “Little Point Richmond,” the stretch of small dollhouse-like dwellings made of gourds, popsicle sticks and sawed-off baskets.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Benitez was curious about this fairy amusement park that had been such a treat to her and her daughter.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I would love to know where the idea came from\u003cem>,” \u003c/em>Benitez said. “I appreciate all things whimsical and artistic.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12030372\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2560px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12030372\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/LittlePointRichmond-scaled.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2560\" height=\"1920\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/LittlePointRichmond-scaled.jpg 2560w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/LittlePointRichmond-800x600.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/LittlePointRichmond-1020x765.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/LittlePointRichmond-160x120.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/LittlePointRichmond-1536x1152.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/LittlePointRichmond-2048x1536.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/LittlePointRichmond-1920x1440.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2560px) 100vw, 2560px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A fairy installation with a ‘Little Point Richmond’ welcome billboard. \u003ccite>(Pauline Bartolone/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>\u003cstrong>Popping up like mushrooms after a good rain\u003c/strong>\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>Taking a stroll down Washington Street feels like going on an easter egg hunt. Foot-high fairy dwellings flank the sidewalk. Some are hidden under branches, others are in plain sight, resting on a tree stump or a concrete wall.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Each house opens up into a miniature world of whimsy. There’s a 1-inch salmon dinner, a stool made out of a bottle cap, and thumbnail-sized mailboxes.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Neighbors say the magical dwellings just appear like mushrooms after a good rain. But there is indeed one artist behind them who often works when no one is looking.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12028904\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12028904\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/20250220_PtRichmondFairyHouses_GC-18.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/20250220_PtRichmondFairyHouses_GC-18.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/20250220_PtRichmondFairyHouses_GC-18-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/20250220_PtRichmondFairyHouses_GC-18-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/20250220_PtRichmondFairyHouses_GC-18-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/20250220_PtRichmondFairyHouses_GC-18-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/20250220_PtRichmondFairyHouses_GC-18-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Jimmie Robinson installs the ‘Little Louvre’ at a neighbor’s house on Washington Avenue in Richmond on Feb. 20, 2025. \u003ccite>(Gina Castro/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>His name is Jimmie Robinson. He’s a professional illustrator and \u003ca href=\"https://imagecomics.com/creators/jimmie-robinson\">comic book artist\u003c/a> who lives with the humans in “Little Point Richmond.” And he’s been making the houses for about eight years now.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I’ve been hiding for so long,” Robinson said with a laugh.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Due to some social anxiety, and a little humility, Jimmie hasn’t wanted attention for his creations. He likes surprising his neighbors with each new addition to the neighborhood. He puts the houses up at night or in the early hours of the morning so people don’t see him.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I do not want the spotlight,” Jimmie said. “I wanted people to see the fairy houses but not see me.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12028907\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003ca href=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/20250220_PtRichmondFairyHouses_GC-33.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12028907\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/20250220_PtRichmondFairyHouses_GC-33.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/20250220_PtRichmondFairyHouses_GC-33.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/20250220_PtRichmondFairyHouses_GC-33-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/20250220_PtRichmondFairyHouses_GC-33-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/20250220_PtRichmondFairyHouses_GC-33-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/20250220_PtRichmondFairyHouses_GC-33-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/20250220_PtRichmondFairyHouses_GC-33-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Jimmie Robinson poses for a photo at his home in Richmond on Feb. 20, 2025. \u003ccite>(Gina Castro/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12030722\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2500px\">\u003ca href=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-9.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12030722\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-9.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2500\" height=\"833\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-9.jpg 2500w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-9-800x267.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-9-1020x340.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-9-160x53.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-9-1536x512.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-9-2048x682.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-9-1920x640.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2500px) 100vw, 2500px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Left: Robinson works on a fairy house in his workshop. Right: Robinson looks at the site where he installed fairy houses on Washington Avenue. \u003ccite>(Gina Castro/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>The public art project started on a whim, he said, when all the flowers had died in one of the planter boxes outside his home. To temporarily fill the void, Robinson put a tiny gnome-sized garden shed there.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“The flowers never came back, but I just kept building off of the garden shed,” Jimmie said. He added a pathway for the shed that connects to a house — the inaugural fairy house. “People would stop and look at it, and it was funny,” Robinson said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Soon after that, he built a tiny house for his neighbor. And then another neighbor. He’s friendly with people on his block, so he caters his creations to their specific jobs and interests.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I already knew that Rosa was a librarian, that Eveline was from France,” he said. “It just kept going and going.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12030439\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12030439\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/20250220_PtRichmondFairyHouses_GC-32_qed.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/20250220_PtRichmondFairyHouses_GC-32_qed.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/20250220_PtRichmondFairyHouses_GC-32_qed-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/20250220_PtRichmondFairyHouses_GC-32_qed-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/20250220_PtRichmondFairyHouses_GC-32_qed-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/20250220_PtRichmondFairyHouses_GC-32_qed-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/20250220_PtRichmondFairyHouses_GC-32_qed-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">The inside of Robinson’s Little Point School of Magic. \u003ccite>(Gina Castro/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>When the daughter of a neighbor joined the Air Force, Jimmie installed a hanging toy helicopter outside their house. The real estate agents on the block got a modern tiny — tiny — home with a realtor sign. And when he included a sign in Lao script for his Laotian neighbor, she was so excited that she brought all her friends and neighbors over to see it.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It takes Jimmie about a month to craft each structure. He often works late into the night when he’s especially into a project.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Little Point Richmond became more of a \u003cem>fairy village\u003c/em> when Jimmie started crafting mini-public services. There’s now a fire station, a post office, a school and a little library with, yes, miniature books and pages to turn.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12030436\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2560px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12030436\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/IMG_1842-scaled.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2560\" height=\"1920\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/IMG_1842-scaled.jpg 2560w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/IMG_1842-800x600.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/IMG_1842-1020x765.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/IMG_1842-160x120.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/IMG_1842-1536x1152.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/IMG_1842-2048x1536.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/IMG_1842-1920x1440.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2560px) 100vw, 2560px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">The miniature fairy book created by Robinson. \u003ccite>(Pauline Bartolone/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12030739\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12030739\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/20250220_PtRichmondFairyHouses_GC-29_qed.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1234\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/20250220_PtRichmondFairyHouses_GC-29_qed.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/20250220_PtRichmondFairyHouses_GC-29_qed-800x494.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/20250220_PtRichmondFairyHouses_GC-29_qed-1020x629.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/20250220_PtRichmondFairyHouses_GC-29_qed-160x99.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/20250220_PtRichmondFairyHouses_GC-29_qed-1536x948.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/20250220_PtRichmondFairyHouses_GC-29_qed-1920x1185.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A fairy clothesline built by Robinson on Washington Avenue. \u003ccite>(Gina Castro/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>\u003cstrong>A different type of creative work\u003c/strong>\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>Robinson grew up in Oakland. His mother was a seamstress and infused creativity into his life. He said, growing up, he was always tinkering with something. And as an only child, his imagination was everything.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I didn’t have brothers and sisters to play with. I had to create worlds,” he said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Building fairy houses is different from his two-dimensional illustration work, he said. With comic books, he completes the story for the reader. But fairy houses invite people to create their own stories.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Fairy houses are open-ended,” he said. “There’s no figures. There’s just the house. You don’t know what it does; what lives there, how it lives, what it eats.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12030440\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2500px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12030440\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-8.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2500\" height=\"833\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-8.jpg 2500w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-8-800x267.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-8-1020x340.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-8-160x53.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-8-1536x512.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-8-2048x682.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-8-1920x640.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2500px) 100vw, 2500px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Left: The Little Point School of Magic. Right: A fairy house under repair. \u003ccite>(Gina Castro/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>\u003cstrong>Repairing little worlds \u003c/strong>\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>About once a week, Jimmie checks on the houses to make repairs. Weather and grabby hands cause wear and tear. So sometimes, he needs to glue a sign back on, refasten a door, or fix a broken ladder.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“It’s public art … these things happen,” he said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Sometimes, his creations are dismantled or stolen. But people contribute as well, leaving offerings of fairy figurines and less desirable pebbles and candy wrappers. Other times, he finds a stranger has added a whole other structure to a cluster of fairy houses.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12030442\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2560px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12030442\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/IMG_1853-scaled.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2560\" height=\"1920\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/IMG_1853-scaled.jpg 2560w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/IMG_1853-800x600.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/IMG_1853-1020x765.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/IMG_1853-160x120.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/IMG_1853-1536x1152.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/IMG_1853-2048x1536.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/IMG_1853-1920x1440.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2560px) 100vw, 2560px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A miniature map to Little Point Richmond. \u003ccite>(Pauline Bartolone/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>The way people interact with the art inspires Jimmie, too. He created a marble slide when he learned that glass balls were rolling down the sidewalk when kids played with one of his toy landscapes.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But Jimmie’s world isn’t just for children. He wants everyone to feel they’re walking into an “interactive experience.” And busloads of fairy tourists are coming for it. The Little Point Richmond fairy houses are on Google Maps now.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12028910\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12028910\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/20250220_PtRichmondFairyHouses_GC-41.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/20250220_PtRichmondFairyHouses_GC-41.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/20250220_PtRichmondFairyHouses_GC-41-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/20250220_PtRichmondFairyHouses_GC-41-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/20250220_PtRichmondFairyHouses_GC-41-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/20250220_PtRichmondFairyHouses_GC-41-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/02/20250220_PtRichmondFairyHouses_GC-41-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Fairy houses that Robinson built and installed on a tree on Washington Avenue on Feb. 20, 2025. \u003ccite>(Gina Castro/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12030730\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2500px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12030730\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-10.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2500\" height=\"833\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-10.jpg 2500w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-10-800x267.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-10-1020x340.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-10-160x53.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-10-1536x512.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-10-2048x682.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-10-1920x640.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2500px) 100vw, 2500px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Fairy houses by Robinson along Washington Avenue on Feb. 20, 2025. \u003ccite>(Gina Castro/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Pauline Bartolone first reported on the Point Richmond fairy houses for Craftsmanship Magazine.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>\u003ca id=\"A\">\u003c/a>Episode Transcript\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>This is a computer-generated transcript. While our team has reviewed it, there may be errors. \u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>Hey everyone, I’m Olivia Allen-Price. And this is Bay Curious, the show that answers listener questions about the San Francisco Bay Area.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Today’s show takes us to the city of Richmond where something magical is happening within the small bayside neighborhood of Point Richmond. That’s where a Bay Curious listener, who also happens to be a KQED employee, Laura Benitez lives. She was on a stroll with her toddler, passing the local fire station when…\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Laura Benitez:\u003c/strong> Next to the fire station, there was a tiny fairy house fire station. And it was just the cutest thing. And she played with it for like half an hour. And I then kind of heard from other people in the neighborhood that there was a whole series of fairy houses.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>Sprinkled all up and down Washington Street you’ll find more miniature homes and the public services to support them. They’re all brimming with the personality of their imaginary fairy inhabitants and highly detailed.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The wee buildings have been dubbed “Little Point Richmond” and Laura loves them.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Laura Benitez:\u003c/strong> I appreciate all things whimsical and artistic and those little things that make life more meaningful.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>But she wants to know: where did this little fairy amusement park come from? Who is behind it?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Today on the show we explore some of the hidden treasures you’ve been wondering about as you explore your neighborhoods. We’ll start in the tucked away community of Point Richmond in the East Bay and then make our way to Golden Gate Park in San Francisco to visit a very green waterfall. Stay with us.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Sponsor break\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Laura Benitez:\u003c/strong> Scattered across the Point Richmond neighborhood are dozens of intricate fairy houses. KQED reporter Pauline Bartolone set out to discover who is behind them all.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Sounds of kids running\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Kid 1:\u003c/strong> “Oh I found something!”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone:\u003c/strong> Every time my five year old daughter and I go to Little Point Richmond, there’s something new to explore. On a recent Saturday with one of her buddies it felt like we were on an easter egg hunt.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Kid 2:\u003c/strong> Over here!\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone:\u003c/strong> At least thirty magical creations, in all shapes and colors, flank the sidewalks. Some are hidden under branches, others are on the ground in plain sight.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Kid 1: \u003c/strong>Ahhh! Fairyhouse…\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Kid 2: \u003c/strong>Ah… there’s too many of them…\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/strong>They jut out from tree trunks, or perched on stumps and concrete walls. When found, they’re a total delight.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Kid 1:\u003c/strong> Another fairyhouse… Pretty…\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Kid 2:\u003c/strong> Let’s go!\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/strong>They’re like tiny dollhouses made of gourds, popsicle sticks, or sawed-off baskets. Each has their own theme.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Kid 2:\u003c/strong> We gotta ring the bell!\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/strong>And there’s plenty to interact with… windchimes, marble slides…\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Kid 2:\u003c/strong> See how it goes?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Sounds of a bell ringing and a marble rolling down a shoot.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/strong>Open up a tiny door and you’ll peak into a miniature world of whimsy. Furniture crafted with found things, like a stool made with a bottle cap. You’ll find a one inch salmon dinner and thumbnail-sized mailboxes. The scenes make these preschoolers bust out into song.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Kid 1 singing: \u003c/strong>Go on the bench and go in your cozy fairy house and sit on your little chair. Close the fairy house house and you’re all ready now.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/strong>Just a few minutes of playing with the wee dwellings inspire deep questions:\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Kid 2:\u003c/strong> Who made these?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/strong>Neighbors say the fairy houses just pop up like mushrooms after a good rain. But there is indeed one artist behind them, who so far has been pretty elusive.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jimmie Robinson:\u003c/strong> I’ve been hiding for so long \u003cem>(laughs)\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone:\u003c/strong> Jimmie Robinson. He’s a professional illustrator and successful comic book artist. He lives on the street with all the fairy houses, but he doesn’t sign his works. And this is the first time he’s publicly spoken about being the fairy house creator.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jimmie Robinson:\u003c/strong> Just here in the basement is my little workshop of sorts.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone:\u003c/strong> Call it social anxiety, or maybe humility, Jimmie prefers the work space underneath his house over being seen outside with his creations.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jimmie Robinson:\u003c/strong> I do not want the spotlight. This is true. I wanted people to see the fairy houses, but not see me.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone:\u003c/strong> Jimmie says this public art project, it all started about eight years ago. On a wall outside his own house. All the flowers had died in one of his planter boxes.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jimmie Robinson: \u003c/strong>I put this little tiny garden shed, like a gnome garden shed there as if, you know, “Hey, I’m working on new flowers. Don’t worry.” And the flowers never came back, but I just kept building off of the garden shed. So made a little pathway for it. And then a house for the garden shed. People would stop and look at it and it was funny. That’s where it all started.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone:\u003c/strong> Then he built one for his neighbor. And then another one. He’s friendly with people on the block so he knew enough about them to cater his creations to their specific jobs and interests.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jimmie Robinson:\u003c/strong> So I already knew that Rosa was a librarian, that, you know, that Aveline was from France.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone:\u003c/strong> He says some of his neighbors are touched when fairy houses pop up in their yards.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jimmie Robinson: \u003c/strong>You know, Tien, she’s from Laos, she’s Laotian and when I did the Laotian flag and I researched how to make the numbers. And so I did them in their native language and they were just like, they’re bringing all their friends and neighbors and family over to see it.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone:\u003c/strong> But most of the time, he doesn’t see their reactions. Because he’s often putting the houses up at night, when no one is looking.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jimmie Robinson:\u003c/strong> I do get notes. I get letters. I get stuff left in the mailbox.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone:\u003c/strong> Little Point Richmond became more of a town for fairies a few years ago when Jimmie started crafting mini public services. There’s now a fire station, a post office, a school and a little library, with yes, miniature books and pages to turn.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It takes Jimmie about a month to craft a fairy dwelling. But each project is different.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jimmie Robinson: \u003c/strong>And I’ll be down here six hours a day, all day, or barely at all.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone:\u003c/strong> Jimmie says he’s always been a tinkerer, back to when he was growing up in Oakland.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jimmie Robinson: \u003c/strong>I’m an only child. My mom’s very creative herself as a seamstress and so I didn’t have brothers and sisters to play with. I had to create worlds. I had to imagine my own places, uh, or build things that had a story as well.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/strong>He says building fairy houses is different from his two-dimensional work as an illustrator. With comic books, he completes the story for the reader. But fairy houses invite people to imagine their own stories.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jimmie Robinson: \u003c/strong>Fairy houses are open ended. They’re, you know, open for interpretation and all that. There’s no figures. There’s just the house. You don’t know what it does, what lives there, how it lives, what it eats, what it does.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jimmie Robinson:\u003c/strong> Ooh, this one’s going to need some work.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/strong>On a walk down the fairy house street, Jimmie shows me all the things people add to the houses.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jimmie Robinson: \u003c/strong>Oh, yeah. See somebody’s added a bunch of stuff here.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/strong>People leave a lot of fairy figurines, of course, but unexpected treasures show up too.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jimmie Robinson:\u003c/strong> Yeah, there’s salamanders and little glass rocks and pebbles and a candy wrapper. There’s a little nut back there.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/strong>Jimmie has to make a lot of repairs to these little worlds…he checks on them once a week. But the way visitors interact with them gives him new ideas, too. …Like the marble slide.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jimmie Robinson:\u003c/strong> I was finding marbles, they were part of this little landscape and the thing was the kids would mess with them and the marbles would roll down the hill. And so that’s when I came up with making my own marble run.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/strong>Jimmie says, Little Point Richmond is all about inclusivity.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jimmie Robinson: \u003c/strong>The houses aren’t just for fairies — gnomes and insects can live here too.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>And to be a fairy tourist, you don’t have to be a kid. In fact, lately, people of all ages come by the bus load. It’s on Google Maps.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Jimmie Robinson:\u003c/strong> My intention with the fairy houses is to make an environment that you can walk into an interactive experience. That’s what I want. I don’t care if it’s a kid or adult or whatever or my neighbors. It is you’re walking into an area that’s now Little Point Richmond.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/strong>The latest addition to the neighborhood? A mini Louvre, as in the French national art museum, where visitors can contribute bite-sized works of art.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>That was KQED reporter Pauline Bartalone. She first reported on the fairy houses for Craftsmanship Magazine. Thanks also to Eli Rosenberg.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Those fairy homes are quite the draw for kids. We’re currently working on an episode about other kid-friendly places and activities in the Bay Area and we want to hear from you. If you have kids in your life, what are some of your favorite places to have fun? Whether it’s a business, outdoor space, cultural center or an offbeat hidden gem — we want to hear about it and why you love it. Use your phone to send a voice memo to \u003ca href=\"mailto:baycurious@kqed.org\">baycurious@kqed.org\u003c/a> or leave us a voicemail. Just call 415-553-3334.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Next up we’re heading across the Bay Bridge to San Francisco’s Golden Gate Park where another listener question is waiting for us.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Persie Nakonechny:\u003c/strong> I’ve lived in San Francisco for over 30 years but my husband and I moved to the Richmond district a couple of years ago and during COVID, it was awesome to get out into the park and be around other people, but at a distance.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>This is Persie Nakonechny.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Persie Nakonechny:\u003c/strong> That’s when we really took a closer look at a lot of the little hollows, the museums, the little areas that are made, you know, just for people to enjoy and hang out.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>There’s one particular feature in Golden Gate Park that Persie has wondered about whenever she passes it. Rainbow Falls… a man-made waterfall on John F. Kennedy Promenade near Crossover Drive.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Persie Nakonechny:\u003c/strong> the water at Rainbow Falls and the creek that runs from it into Lloyd Lake is sometimes an alarming shade of green. with a weird foam. I’m not sure if it’s algae or an attempt to stop people from being tempted to drink it or something else.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>We passed this one along to KQED editor Chris Hambrick.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Sounds of a stream gurgling, birds singing, wind\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Chris Hambrick:\u003c/strong> I had to see this green waterfall for myself. Even though it’s man-made, the area is serene with trees, tall grasses and bushes bordering the lake. I even saw a few ducks.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Chris Hambrick in tape: \u003c/strong>Time to hang out with the ducks. \u003cem>(Sounds of wings flapping) \u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Chris Hambrick: \u003c/strong>This spot used to be a quarry. Many of the original roads in Golden Gate Park were built with rock from here. When the quarry closed, neighbors wanted something beautiful and Park Superintendent John McLaren listened. The Falls opened in 1930. General Electric lit up the water with multicolored lights for the dedication, thus the name “Rainbow Falls.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The lights don’t work nowadays, but both the waterfall and the pool below it are green, bright green. I talked to someone who can tell me why.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dave Iribarne: \u003c/strong>My name is Dave Iribarne. I’m the superintendent of Golden Gate Park for the San Francisco Recreation and Parks Department.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Chris Hambrick in tape:\u003c/strong> What color would you call this green?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dave Iribarne: \u003c/strong>I would say it’s definitely neon green with a hint of lime.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Chris Hambrick in tape: \u003c/strong>What causes water in this lake and the corresponding falls to be this shade of green?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dave Iribarne:\u003c/strong> Basically, it’s just a natural algae bloom. it’s just an alarming shade. So it kind of freaks people out, but there’s really nothing harmful about it.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Chris Hambrick: \u003c/strong>Dave tells me that the shade of green changes depending on what’s going on with the algae, and today when I arrive, I see that he and his crew are draining the falls for maintenance.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dave Iribarne:\u003c/strong> We’re right now in the process of, uh, installing aeration in Lloyd Lake, which feeds Rainbow Falls. And then we’re going to put some flocculant. It’s like a powder that gets poured in, and it actually grabs onto the algae and weighs it down and sinks it down to the bottom so that it can’t keep reproducing.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Chris Hambrick:\u003c/strong> To help control algae growth, they also add in some microbiotics, which are living organisms that actually feed on the algae.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dave Iribarne:\u003c/strong> And then we put in a dye, like a green dye. It’s pretty unnatural looking. We have it in many of our lakes in the park. But the dye prevents the sunlight from feeding the algae.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Chris Hambrick in tape: \u003c/strong>Okay, but it is like for sure for sure it’s the algae that causes this color.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dave Iribarne:\u003c/strong> 100 percent it’s the algae that causes the color.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Chris Hambrick in tape:\u003c/strong> That’s so interesting.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dave Iribarne: \u003c/strong>Yeah, we’re actually getting ready for St. Patrick’s Day. So, you know, we just dye it green. Just kidding.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Chris Hambrick:\u003c/strong> I take all this info back to Persie to see what she thinks.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Persie Nakonechny:\u003c/strong> So that’s natural. And maybe the change in the color would make sense to that, like in the summer, when there’s more sunlight that it’s growing more, and that’s why it turns that fluorescent green. It’s so funny to me that it’s a natural substance. But nature’s weird.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Chris Hambrick: \u003c/strong>Indeed, it is.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price:\u003c/strong> That was KQED editor Chris Hambrick.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Bay Curious is made in San Francisco at member-supported KQED.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Our show is produced by Katrina Schwartz, Christopher Beale, and me, Olivia Allen-Price.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Extra support from Jen Chien, Katie Sprenger, Maha Senad, Alana Walker, Holly Kernan and everyone at team KQED.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I’m Olivia Allen-Price, have a great week.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"slug": "san-franciscos-oldest-lesbian-bar-has-been-a-safe-space-for-more-than-60-years",
"title": "San Francisco’s Oldest Lesbian Bar Has Been a Safe Space for More Than 60 Years",
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"headTitle": "San Francisco’s Oldest Lesbian Bar Has Been a Safe Space for More Than 60 Years | KQED",
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"content": "\u003cp>\u003cem>\u003ca href=\"#A\">View the full episode transcript.\u003c/a>\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>San Francisco has long been an epicenter for lesbian life and culture. Even back in the 1930s, spots like Mona’s 440 Club were known as hubs for lesbians to enjoy drag king performances and socialize. But in the past 30 years, the number of lesbian bars all over the country has seen \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/forum/2010101895055/why-are-there-so-few-lesbian-bars\">a steep decline\u003c/a>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[baycuriouspodcastinfo]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Of the few remaining lesbian bars in San Francisco, there’s one spot that stands out for its longevity. The Wild Side West has been a staple of lesbian culture in the city for the past 63 years.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Located in the Bernal Heights neighborhood of San Francisco, The Wild Side West is an iconic spot. Inside, the bar feels like it’s always been this way, with women playing pool, kegs lining the walls, and paintings of nude women hanging from the ceiling.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>And if there is one person who knows this bar well, it’s Timotha Doane, an 80-year-old lesbian who has been a regular at the bar since she was 24. When she walks into the bar, everyone seems to know her.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12029582\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003ca href=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250205-WildSideWest-15-BL_qed.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12029582\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250205-WildSideWest-15-BL_qed.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250205-WildSideWest-15-BL_qed.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250205-WildSideWest-15-BL_qed-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250205-WildSideWest-15-BL_qed-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250205-WildSideWest-15-BL_qed-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250205-WildSideWest-15-BL_qed-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250205-WildSideWest-15-BL_qed-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Bartender Heather Dunham works at the Wild Side West on Feb. 6, 2025. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12029585\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2500px\">\u003ca href=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-2.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12029585\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-2.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2500\" height=\"833\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-2.jpg 2500w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-2-800x267.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-2-1020x340.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-2-160x53.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-2-1536x512.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-2-2048x682.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-2-1920x640.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2500px) 100vw, 2500px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Left: The exterior of The Wild Side West. Right: Timotha Doane talks with fellow patrons at the Wild Side West on Jan. 28, 2025. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“I come here almost every day,” Doane said with a laugh. “Sometimes I take a break. I don’t want to encourage too much drinking.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Doane said she’s had some wild nights here over the decades. She remembers when Janis Joplin was a regular and had stories to tell about many past girlfriends.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“There’s just so much history [here],” she said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Originally called The Wild Side, Pat Ramseyer and Nancy White were lesbian partners who founded this bar in North Oakland in 1962. Shortly after opening, they relocated the business to San Francisco and became The Wild Side \u003cem>West\u003c/em>, laying down roots in the North Beach neighborhood on Broadway.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12029588\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003ca href=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250205-WildSideWest-01-BL_qed.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12029588\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250205-WildSideWest-01-BL_qed.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250205-WildSideWest-01-BL_qed.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250205-WildSideWest-01-BL_qed-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250205-WildSideWest-01-BL_qed-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250205-WildSideWest-01-BL_qed-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250205-WildSideWest-01-BL_qed-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250205-WildSideWest-01-BL_qed-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Paintings hang on the wall at The Wild Side West. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>While San Francisco at the time was already becoming a cultural hub for the LGBTQ community, queerness during the early 1960s was still marked by policing, discrimination and violence.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Even in the most progressive cities, the dominant narrative around LGBTQ was that homosexuality was a sickness, a problem that needed to be handled. Doane remembers one time in New York City in the ’60s when she was targeted for her lesbian identity and masculine presentation. Several young men beat her up in broad daylight.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>At the time The Wild Side West opened, consensual acts between same-sex individuals were still criminalized in California, and it was illegal to employ women bartenders. In San Francisco, well-known gay and lesbian watering holes were often raided by police. Officers would arrest patrons and were known to extort money from bar and club owners.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12029589\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2500px\">\u003ca href=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-3.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12029589\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-3.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2500\" height=\"833\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-3.jpg 2500w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-3-800x267.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-3-1020x340.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-3-160x53.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-3-1536x512.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-3-2048x682.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-3-1920x640.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2500px) 100vw, 2500px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Left: Patrons play pool at Wild Side West on Jan. 28, 2025. Right: The wall behind a pool table is filled with posters and photos at The Wild Side West. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>In this climate, a bar owned by lesbians, catering to the lesbian community, was bold.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The Wild Side West quickly became a space of joy and community for many women. It was a place where dancers from the nearby strip clubs gathered, where lesbians could find safety, and where an eccentric crowd of artists drank.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“It’s hard to express what it means to find a refuge and respect,” Doane said. “A place where you can have fun and not worry about being attacked.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But anti-gay sentiment was still alive in San Francisco just outside the doors of the bar.[aside postID=forum_2010101906556 hero='https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/43/2024/07/M6A1369_qed-1020x680.jpg']When The Wild Side West moved to its current Bernal Heights location in 1976, some neighbors weren’t happy about it. It was not uncommon for trash, broken toilets, and bathtubs to be dumped against the door of the bar.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“On a very, very regular basis, [Pat and Nancy] would have to move all of those things in order to get the bar open,” said long-time regular Mimi Caesar.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Pat Ramseyer and Nancy White would drag the broken sinks and bathtubs to the back of the bar and turn them into art pieces or planters. Decades later, those pieces make unique seating areas for patrons, adorned with vines and surrounded by eclectic statues.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12029593\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003ca href=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250128-WildSideWest-09-BL_qed.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12029593\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250128-WildSideWest-09-BL_qed.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250128-WildSideWest-09-BL_qed.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250128-WildSideWest-09-BL_qed-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250128-WildSideWest-09-BL_qed-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250128-WildSideWest-09-BL_qed-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250128-WildSideWest-09-BL_qed-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250128-WildSideWest-09-BL_qed-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">The bar opens to a sculpture-filled garden at The Wild Side West. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>In recent years, many lesbian establishments across San Francisco\u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13929998/historic-lesbian-bars-san-francisco-mauds-pegs-front-anns-monas-440-tommy-vasu\"> have closed\u003c/a>, but it’s hard to know exactly why. Some people think that the rise of dating apps has made it easier to meet romantic partners, rendering physical lesbian bars less necessary. Some former lesbian bar owners cite gentrification as a root cause. Or, it could be that in a city as expensive as San Francisco, it’s hard for bars to stay afloat if they cater exclusively to women — especially gay women, many of whom have\u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/forum/2010101895055/why-are-there-so-few-lesbian-bars\"> faced discrimination in the workplace \u003c/a>for both gender and sexuality, which can lower earnings and limit spending power.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But The Wild Side West has managed to stay open. One reason it has survived is the committed clientele. Some people have been consistently coming to the bar for 10, 20, or even 50 years, like Timotha Doane. It might also be that in recent years, more men have started going to the bar. Either way, The Wild Side West has continued to be a refuge for lesbians in a time where the LGBTQ community faces a new wave of attacks.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Women come here, and they feel safe to be whoever they are, however they want to be,” Doane said. “And to me, that is a treasure that cannot be praised highly enough.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[baycuriousquestion]\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>\u003ca id=\"A\">\u003c/a>Episode Transcript\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>This is a computer-generated transcript. While our team has reviewed it, there may be errors.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price:\u003c/strong> Maybe you’ve seen this iconic picture of San Francisco history — two women, walking proudly in San Francisco’s gay freedom parade in 1979.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Sounds of a parade\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>They’re holding up a huge banner that says: “A day without lesbians is like a day without sunshine.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The Bay Area has long been known as an epicenter for queer life — and queer women have been building community in San Francisco for almost \u003cem>100 years\u003c/em>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>1930s era music starts playing\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Even way back in the 1930’s San Francisco already had places like Mona’s 440 Club.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price:\u003c/strong> It was known as the first lesbian night club in San Francisco and it was \u003cem>the \u003c/em>destination for genderfluid lesbians. At Mona’s, drag king performances were front and center, and the club was advertised as a place “Where girls can be boys.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Since then, San Francisco has seen a lot of lesbian establishments come and go. But, there is one spot that has survived the longest — The Wild Side West.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>This week on Bay Curious, we’re heading to the Bernal Heights bar that has been serving lesbians since 1962. We meet a longtime patron who has seen the culture of the city and the lesbian community transform over the decades.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I’m Olivia Allen-Price, stay with us.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Music ends\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>[SPONSOR MESSAGE]\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>To tell us about lesbian history in San Francisco, we’re passing it to our very own queer reporter Ana De Almeida Amaral.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ana De Almeida Amaral: \u003c/strong>The Wild Side West has been around for over 60 years. And while so much has changed in the decades since it opened, the inside of the bar feels like it’s always been this way. Kegs lined up against the wall, old portraits of nude women hanging from the ceiling. But the\u003cem> defining\u003c/em> characteristic of the Wild Side West is the garden. To get there you walk through the bar, out the back door and down a steep flight of wooden stairs.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ana De Almeida Amaral in tape: \u003c/strong>So there’s a sign that says Pat’s magical garden. And there is just already so many really odd pieces of art. A lot of frog statues … quite a few mannequin limbs. And then over here, there’s like an old bathtub that has been turned into a planter and it has a bunch of plants growing out of it.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ana De Almeida Amaral: \u003c/strong>People sit and chat among a maze of greenery and statues. The space feels whimsical and intimate.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The Wild Side West is located in the Bernal Heights neighborhood of San Francisco, which for a while was known as a lesbian enclave. And while today, some may consider it to be a neighborhood dive bar, the identity of this place and the commitment of its patrons make it an institution.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>And if there is anyone who can tell us about the history and spirit of this bar, it is Timotha Doane.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Timotha Doane: \u003c/strong>I am talking to you in the oldest lesbian bar in San Francisco, and I’m the oldest lesbian in it \u003cem>(laughs)\u003c/em>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ana De Almeida Amaral: \u003c/strong>Timotha is 80 years old and has been coming to this bar for 57 years. The original owners of The Wild Side West have passed away, so Timotha is one of few people who have been coming here since its very early days. She’s someone who can talk about what it was like to be a lesbian at the time this bar was founded.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I met Timotha at the bar on a weekday afternoon.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Music and sounds of the bar start \u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Timotha Doane: \u003c/strong>I come here almost every day. Sometimes I take a break. I don’t want to encourage too much drinking \u003cem>(laughs)\u003c/em>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ana De Almeida Amaral: \u003c/strong>We sit down next to a painting of a topless woman and she starts telling me about herself.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Timotha Doane: \u003c/strong>I came out when I was 18, in 1962.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ana De Almeida Amaral: \u003c/strong>She says there were moments when being as open as she is made her a target for violence\u003cem>. \u003c/em>She told me about one instance in New York City, when she was in college in the 60’s, just a short time after she came out.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Timotha Doane:\u003c/strong> I don’t know why this is coming up in my mind right now, but it is — walking down MacDougal Street and me and my butch self, I’ve got two women, one on each arm. On the other side of the street is a group of men my same age, 18, 19 years old. And they came across the street, got in my face. You think you don’t need a man, bitch? And beat the shit out of me.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ana De Almeida Amaral: \u003c/strong>Timotha says this was a pivotal moment of awakening for her.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Timotha Doane: \u003c/strong>So that was the beginning of it. And I just felt like I need to make being a lesbian a safe, reasonable, honest thing to do.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Sounds of the bar fade out\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ana De Almeida Amaral: \u003c/strong>Being openly lesbian, like Timotha, was still a radical act in the 1960s. And even in the most progressive cities like New York and San Francisco, queer people faced discrimination and violence.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Cascade of archival news tape\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Clip 1: \u003c/strong>During the year 1964, we arrested 3,000 homosexuals. Don’t think you won’t get caught because this is one thing you will not get away with. And the rest of your life will be a living hell.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Clip 2: \u003c/strong>The problem of homosexuality …\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Clip 3: \u003c/strong>We do not employ homosexuals and if we discover homosexuals in our department, we discharge them.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Music starts\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ana De Almeida Amaral: \u003c/strong>The dominant narrative around gay people was that they were sick or a problem to be dealt with. And it was in this climate, in 1962, that Pat Ramseyer and Nancy White opened The Wild Side in North Oakland.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>A few years later it moved to San Francisco and became the Wild Side West. Pat and Nancy were lesbians and life partners who managed to open the bar during a time when it was still illegal to employ women as bartenders in California. They’ve both since passed away, but Timotha remembers them fondly.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Timotha Doane: \u003c/strong>They were wild women, but they were also good business women. And we respected them for that. And at the time, having places for women only took courage.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Music fades out\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ana De Almeida Amaral: \u003c/strong>When the bar set up shop on Broadway in North Beach, the relationship between the LGBT community and the city was … complicated. On one hand, San Francisco had already been established as a capital for gay life. But even here, the policing of queer life was pervasive and consensual acts between same-sex adults were criminalized. The police were known to extort money from gay and lesbian establishments and often raided them to arrest patrons. All of this was part of a playbook to keep queer people from freely socializing. So a bar owned by lesbians, catering to lesbians was bold.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Music starts\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>During this era, Timotha moved to SF and found The Wild Side West.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Timotha Doane: \u003c/strong>And I started coming to this bar when I was 24 years old. I was working as a stripper on Broadway. Just two doors up the street. So on my breaks, I would put a trench coat on over my G-string and trot on up the street.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ana De Almeida Amaral: \u003c/strong>Since then, Wild Side West has been a place of joy and community for her. It’s where dancers gathered, where lesbians could flirt and hang out, and where an eccentric crowd of artists drank with friends.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Music posts\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Timotha Doane:\u003c/strong> It’s hard to express what it means to find a refuge. And respect and a place where you can have fun and not worry about being attacked.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ana De Almeida Amaral: \u003c/strong>But anti-gay sentiment was still-alive just outside the doors of the bar.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Music starts\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ana De Almeida Amaral: \u003c/strong>In 1976, the bar moved to its current Bernal Heights location and some neighbors weren’t happy about it. Mimi, a long-time regular, remembers this era.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Mimi: \u003c/strong>The folks up there who did not want a lesbian bar, would pretty much show up every morning before opening and put toilet bowls and bathtubs and sinks up against the door so that they couldn’t open it. And on a very, very regular basis, they would have to move all of those things in order to get the bar open.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ana De Almeida Amaral: \u003c/strong>Nancy and Pat would lug the toilets and broken sinks to the backyard and transform them into planters, becoming the first pieces in their eccentric backyard collection.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Today, The Wild Side West is one of three dedicated lesbian bars in San Francisco. But there used to be many more.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Here’s Mimi again:\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Mimi: \u003c/strong>When I first got here, there were 10 or 11, seven-day-a-week lesbian bars. And one by one by one drifted. But almost every neighborhood in this city had them, and they all had a different flavor. But that did change.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ana De Almeida Amaral: \u003c/strong>It’s hard to know why lesbian bars have been going out of business over the last 20 years.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Music starts\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Some people think dating apps have made it easier to meet romantic partners, making physical lesbian bars less necessary. Others say our culture has changed and lots of spaces now feel safe to queer folks. Or, it could be that in a city as expensive as San Francisco, it’s hard for bars to stay afloat if they cater exclusively to women.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But the Wild Side West has endured despite the odds. One obvious explanation is the committed clientele. I mean, there are regulars who’ve been coming here 10, 20 … even 50 years … like Timotha. And in more recent years, it’s also not uncommon to see men here.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Music fades out\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Timotha Doane: \u003c/strong>At the time I started coming here there weren’t any men. But economically, the dyke community couldn’t have supported it to become what it is now.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ana De Almeida Amaral: \u003c/strong>Either way, the gritty and tough spirit of this bar perseveres.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Music starts\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The Wild Side West is a staple of lesbian history in San Francisco and it’s the oldest, still standing lesbian bar in the city. Lesbians have gathered here for decades. It’s always been a refuge from the violence and discrimination of the outside world.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Timotha Doane: \u003c/strong>Women come here and they feel safe. And to me, that is a treasure that cannot be praised highly enough.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ana De Almeida Amaral: \u003c/strong>As the LGBT community faces a new wave of attacks, regulars like Timotha are once again reminded of how powerful a sanctuary like this can be. They hope the Wild Side West remains a safe place for generations of lesbians to come.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>That was KQED’s Ana De Almeida Amaral.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Music ends\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Special thanks to Caroline Smith, who collected tape for this episode.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Bay Curious is made in San Francisco at member-supported KQED. Individual support from our audience means more than ever right now. If you’d like to help keep shows like Bay Curious going, head to \u003ca href=\"http://kqed.org/donate\">KQED.org/donate\u003c/a>. Every bit does help. Thanks!\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Our show is made by: Katrina Schwartz, Christopher Beale, and me, Olivia Allen-Price.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Additional engineering this week by Brian Douglas.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Special thanks to those in the KQED podcasting department: Maha Sanad, Katie Springer, Alana Wilson, Jen Chien, Holly Kernan, and everyone on Team KQED.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Some members of the KQED podcast team are represented by The Screen Actors Guild, American Federation of Television and Radio Artists. San Francisco Northern California Local.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I’m Olivia Allen-Price. Have a great week!\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad floatright]\u003c/p>\n",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>\u003cem>\u003ca href=\"#A\">View the full episode transcript.\u003c/a>\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>San Francisco has long been an epicenter for lesbian life and culture. Even back in the 1930s, spots like Mona’s 440 Club were known as hubs for lesbians to enjoy drag king performances and socialize. But in the past 30 years, the number of lesbian bars all over the country has seen \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/forum/2010101895055/why-are-there-so-few-lesbian-bars\">a steep decline\u003c/a>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003caside class=\"alignleft utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__bayCuriousPodcastShortcode__bayCurious\">\u003cimg src=https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/2023/02/bayCuriousLogo.png alt=\"Bay Curious Podcast\" loading=\"lazy\" />\n \u003ca href=\"/news/series/baycurious\">Bay Curious\u003c/a> is a podcast that answers your questions about the Bay Area.\n Subscribe on \u003ca href=\"https://itunes.apple.com/us/podcast/bay-curious/id1172473406\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">Apple Podcasts\u003c/a>,\n \u003ca href=\"http://www.npr.org/podcasts/500557090/bay-curious\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">NPR One\u003c/a> or your favorite podcast platform.\u003c/aside>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Of the few remaining lesbian bars in San Francisco, there’s one spot that stands out for its longevity. The Wild Side West has been a staple of lesbian culture in the city for the past 63 years.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Located in the Bernal Heights neighborhood of San Francisco, The Wild Side West is an iconic spot. Inside, the bar feels like it’s always been this way, with women playing pool, kegs lining the walls, and paintings of nude women hanging from the ceiling.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>And if there is one person who knows this bar well, it’s Timotha Doane, an 80-year-old lesbian who has been a regular at the bar since she was 24. When she walks into the bar, everyone seems to know her.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12029582\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003ca href=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250205-WildSideWest-15-BL_qed.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12029582\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250205-WildSideWest-15-BL_qed.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250205-WildSideWest-15-BL_qed.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250205-WildSideWest-15-BL_qed-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250205-WildSideWest-15-BL_qed-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250205-WildSideWest-15-BL_qed-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250205-WildSideWest-15-BL_qed-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250205-WildSideWest-15-BL_qed-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Bartender Heather Dunham works at the Wild Side West on Feb. 6, 2025. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12029585\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2500px\">\u003ca href=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-2.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12029585\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-2.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2500\" height=\"833\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-2.jpg 2500w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-2-800x267.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-2-1020x340.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-2-160x53.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-2-1536x512.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-2-2048x682.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-2-1920x640.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2500px) 100vw, 2500px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Left: The exterior of The Wild Side West. Right: Timotha Doane talks with fellow patrons at the Wild Side West on Jan. 28, 2025. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“I come here almost every day,” Doane said with a laugh. “Sometimes I take a break. I don’t want to encourage too much drinking.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Doane said she’s had some wild nights here over the decades. She remembers when Janis Joplin was a regular and had stories to tell about many past girlfriends.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“There’s just so much history [here],” she said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Originally called The Wild Side, Pat Ramseyer and Nancy White were lesbian partners who founded this bar in North Oakland in 1962. Shortly after opening, they relocated the business to San Francisco and became The Wild Side \u003cem>West\u003c/em>, laying down roots in the North Beach neighborhood on Broadway.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12029588\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003ca href=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250205-WildSideWest-01-BL_qed.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12029588\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250205-WildSideWest-01-BL_qed.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250205-WildSideWest-01-BL_qed.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250205-WildSideWest-01-BL_qed-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250205-WildSideWest-01-BL_qed-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250205-WildSideWest-01-BL_qed-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250205-WildSideWest-01-BL_qed-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250205-WildSideWest-01-BL_qed-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Paintings hang on the wall at The Wild Side West. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>While San Francisco at the time was already becoming a cultural hub for the LGBTQ community, queerness during the early 1960s was still marked by policing, discrimination and violence.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Even in the most progressive cities, the dominant narrative around LGBTQ was that homosexuality was a sickness, a problem that needed to be handled. Doane remembers one time in New York City in the ’60s when she was targeted for her lesbian identity and masculine presentation. Several young men beat her up in broad daylight.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>At the time The Wild Side West opened, consensual acts between same-sex individuals were still criminalized in California, and it was illegal to employ women bartenders. In San Francisco, well-known gay and lesbian watering holes were often raided by police. Officers would arrest patrons and were known to extort money from bar and club owners.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12029589\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2500px\">\u003ca href=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-3.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12029589\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-3.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2500\" height=\"833\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-3.jpg 2500w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-3-800x267.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-3-1020x340.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-3-160x53.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-3-1536x512.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-3-2048x682.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-3-1920x640.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2500px) 100vw, 2500px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Left: Patrons play pool at Wild Side West on Jan. 28, 2025. Right: The wall behind a pool table is filled with posters and photos at The Wild Side West. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>In this climate, a bar owned by lesbians, catering to the lesbian community, was bold.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The Wild Side West quickly became a space of joy and community for many women. It was a place where dancers from the nearby strip clubs gathered, where lesbians could find safety, and where an eccentric crowd of artists drank.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“It’s hard to express what it means to find a refuge and respect,” Doane said. “A place where you can have fun and not worry about being attacked.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But anti-gay sentiment was still alive in San Francisco just outside the doors of the bar.\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>When The Wild Side West moved to its current Bernal Heights location in 1976, some neighbors weren’t happy about it. It was not uncommon for trash, broken toilets, and bathtubs to be dumped against the door of the bar.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“On a very, very regular basis, [Pat and Nancy] would have to move all of those things in order to get the bar open,” said long-time regular Mimi Caesar.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Pat Ramseyer and Nancy White would drag the broken sinks and bathtubs to the back of the bar and turn them into art pieces or planters. Decades later, those pieces make unique seating areas for patrons, adorned with vines and surrounded by eclectic statues.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12029593\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003ca href=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250128-WildSideWest-09-BL_qed.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12029593\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250128-WildSideWest-09-BL_qed.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250128-WildSideWest-09-BL_qed.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250128-WildSideWest-09-BL_qed-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250128-WildSideWest-09-BL_qed-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250128-WildSideWest-09-BL_qed-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250128-WildSideWest-09-BL_qed-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/03/250128-WildSideWest-09-BL_qed-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">The bar opens to a sculpture-filled garden at The Wild Side West. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>In recent years, many lesbian establishments across San Francisco\u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13929998/historic-lesbian-bars-san-francisco-mauds-pegs-front-anns-monas-440-tommy-vasu\"> have closed\u003c/a>, but it’s hard to know exactly why. Some people think that the rise of dating apps has made it easier to meet romantic partners, rendering physical lesbian bars less necessary. Some former lesbian bar owners cite gentrification as a root cause. Or, it could be that in a city as expensive as San Francisco, it’s hard for bars to stay afloat if they cater exclusively to women — especially gay women, many of whom have\u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/forum/2010101895055/why-are-there-so-few-lesbian-bars\"> faced discrimination in the workplace \u003c/a>for both gender and sexuality, which can lower earnings and limit spending power.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But The Wild Side West has managed to stay open. One reason it has survived is the committed clientele. Some people have been consistently coming to the bar for 10, 20, or even 50 years, like Timotha Doane. It might also be that in recent years, more men have started going to the bar. Either way, The Wild Side West has continued to be a refuge for lesbians in a time where the LGBTQ community faces a new wave of attacks.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Women come here, and they feel safe to be whoever they are, however they want to be,” Doane said. “And to me, that is a treasure that cannot be praised highly enough.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>\u003ca id=\"A\">\u003c/a>Episode Transcript\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>This is a computer-generated transcript. While our team has reviewed it, there may be errors.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price:\u003c/strong> Maybe you’ve seen this iconic picture of San Francisco history — two women, walking proudly in San Francisco’s gay freedom parade in 1979.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Sounds of a parade\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>They’re holding up a huge banner that says: “A day without lesbians is like a day without sunshine.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The Bay Area has long been known as an epicenter for queer life — and queer women have been building community in San Francisco for almost \u003cem>100 years\u003c/em>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>1930s era music starts playing\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Even way back in the 1930’s San Francisco already had places like Mona’s 440 Club.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price:\u003c/strong> It was known as the first lesbian night club in San Francisco and it was \u003cem>the \u003c/em>destination for genderfluid lesbians. At Mona’s, drag king performances were front and center, and the club was advertised as a place “Where girls can be boys.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Since then, San Francisco has seen a lot of lesbian establishments come and go. But, there is one spot that has survived the longest — The Wild Side West.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>This week on Bay Curious, we’re heading to the Bernal Heights bar that has been serving lesbians since 1962. We meet a longtime patron who has seen the culture of the city and the lesbian community transform over the decades.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I’m Olivia Allen-Price, stay with us.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Music ends\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>[SPONSOR MESSAGE]\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>To tell us about lesbian history in San Francisco, we’re passing it to our very own queer reporter Ana De Almeida Amaral.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ana De Almeida Amaral: \u003c/strong>The Wild Side West has been around for over 60 years. And while so much has changed in the decades since it opened, the inside of the bar feels like it’s always been this way. Kegs lined up against the wall, old portraits of nude women hanging from the ceiling. But the\u003cem> defining\u003c/em> characteristic of the Wild Side West is the garden. To get there you walk through the bar, out the back door and down a steep flight of wooden stairs.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ana De Almeida Amaral in tape: \u003c/strong>So there’s a sign that says Pat’s magical garden. And there is just already so many really odd pieces of art. A lot of frog statues … quite a few mannequin limbs. And then over here, there’s like an old bathtub that has been turned into a planter and it has a bunch of plants growing out of it.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ana De Almeida Amaral: \u003c/strong>People sit and chat among a maze of greenery and statues. The space feels whimsical and intimate.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The Wild Side West is located in the Bernal Heights neighborhood of San Francisco, which for a while was known as a lesbian enclave. And while today, some may consider it to be a neighborhood dive bar, the identity of this place and the commitment of its patrons make it an institution.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>And if there is anyone who can tell us about the history and spirit of this bar, it is Timotha Doane.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Timotha Doane: \u003c/strong>I am talking to you in the oldest lesbian bar in San Francisco, and I’m the oldest lesbian in it \u003cem>(laughs)\u003c/em>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ana De Almeida Amaral: \u003c/strong>Timotha is 80 years old and has been coming to this bar for 57 years. The original owners of The Wild Side West have passed away, so Timotha is one of few people who have been coming here since its very early days. She’s someone who can talk about what it was like to be a lesbian at the time this bar was founded.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I met Timotha at the bar on a weekday afternoon.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Music and sounds of the bar start \u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Timotha Doane: \u003c/strong>I come here almost every day. Sometimes I take a break. I don’t want to encourage too much drinking \u003cem>(laughs)\u003c/em>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ana De Almeida Amaral: \u003c/strong>We sit down next to a painting of a topless woman and she starts telling me about herself.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Timotha Doane: \u003c/strong>I came out when I was 18, in 1962.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ana De Almeida Amaral: \u003c/strong>She says there were moments when being as open as she is made her a target for violence\u003cem>. \u003c/em>She told me about one instance in New York City, when she was in college in the 60’s, just a short time after she came out.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Timotha Doane:\u003c/strong> I don’t know why this is coming up in my mind right now, but it is — walking down MacDougal Street and me and my butch self, I’ve got two women, one on each arm. On the other side of the street is a group of men my same age, 18, 19 years old. And they came across the street, got in my face. You think you don’t need a man, bitch? And beat the shit out of me.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ana De Almeida Amaral: \u003c/strong>Timotha says this was a pivotal moment of awakening for her.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Timotha Doane: \u003c/strong>So that was the beginning of it. And I just felt like I need to make being a lesbian a safe, reasonable, honest thing to do.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Sounds of the bar fade out\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ana De Almeida Amaral: \u003c/strong>Being openly lesbian, like Timotha, was still a radical act in the 1960s. And even in the most progressive cities like New York and San Francisco, queer people faced discrimination and violence.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Cascade of archival news tape\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Clip 1: \u003c/strong>During the year 1964, we arrested 3,000 homosexuals. Don’t think you won’t get caught because this is one thing you will not get away with. And the rest of your life will be a living hell.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Clip 2: \u003c/strong>The problem of homosexuality …\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Clip 3: \u003c/strong>We do not employ homosexuals and if we discover homosexuals in our department, we discharge them.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Music starts\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ana De Almeida Amaral: \u003c/strong>The dominant narrative around gay people was that they were sick or a problem to be dealt with. And it was in this climate, in 1962, that Pat Ramseyer and Nancy White opened The Wild Side in North Oakland.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>A few years later it moved to San Francisco and became the Wild Side West. Pat and Nancy were lesbians and life partners who managed to open the bar during a time when it was still illegal to employ women as bartenders in California. They’ve both since passed away, but Timotha remembers them fondly.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Timotha Doane: \u003c/strong>They were wild women, but they were also good business women. And we respected them for that. And at the time, having places for women only took courage.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Music fades out\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ana De Almeida Amaral: \u003c/strong>When the bar set up shop on Broadway in North Beach, the relationship between the LGBT community and the city was … complicated. On one hand, San Francisco had already been established as a capital for gay life. But even here, the policing of queer life was pervasive and consensual acts between same-sex adults were criminalized. The police were known to extort money from gay and lesbian establishments and often raided them to arrest patrons. All of this was part of a playbook to keep queer people from freely socializing. So a bar owned by lesbians, catering to lesbians was bold.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Music starts\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>During this era, Timotha moved to SF and found The Wild Side West.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Timotha Doane: \u003c/strong>And I started coming to this bar when I was 24 years old. I was working as a stripper on Broadway. Just two doors up the street. So on my breaks, I would put a trench coat on over my G-string and trot on up the street.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ana De Almeida Amaral: \u003c/strong>Since then, Wild Side West has been a place of joy and community for her. It’s where dancers gathered, where lesbians could flirt and hang out, and where an eccentric crowd of artists drank with friends.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Music posts\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Timotha Doane:\u003c/strong> It’s hard to express what it means to find a refuge. And respect and a place where you can have fun and not worry about being attacked.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ana De Almeida Amaral: \u003c/strong>But anti-gay sentiment was still-alive just outside the doors of the bar.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Music starts\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ana De Almeida Amaral: \u003c/strong>In 1976, the bar moved to its current Bernal Heights location and some neighbors weren’t happy about it. Mimi, a long-time regular, remembers this era.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Mimi: \u003c/strong>The folks up there who did not want a lesbian bar, would pretty much show up every morning before opening and put toilet bowls and bathtubs and sinks up against the door so that they couldn’t open it. And on a very, very regular basis, they would have to move all of those things in order to get the bar open.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ana De Almeida Amaral: \u003c/strong>Nancy and Pat would lug the toilets and broken sinks to the backyard and transform them into planters, becoming the first pieces in their eccentric backyard collection.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Today, The Wild Side West is one of three dedicated lesbian bars in San Francisco. But there used to be many more.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Here’s Mimi again:\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Mimi: \u003c/strong>When I first got here, there were 10 or 11, seven-day-a-week lesbian bars. And one by one by one drifted. But almost every neighborhood in this city had them, and they all had a different flavor. But that did change.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ana De Almeida Amaral: \u003c/strong>It’s hard to know why lesbian bars have been going out of business over the last 20 years.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Music starts\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Some people think dating apps have made it easier to meet romantic partners, making physical lesbian bars less necessary. Others say our culture has changed and lots of spaces now feel safe to queer folks. Or, it could be that in a city as expensive as San Francisco, it’s hard for bars to stay afloat if they cater exclusively to women.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But the Wild Side West has endured despite the odds. One obvious explanation is the committed clientele. I mean, there are regulars who’ve been coming here 10, 20 … even 50 years … like Timotha. And in more recent years, it’s also not uncommon to see men here.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Music fades out\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Timotha Doane: \u003c/strong>At the time I started coming here there weren’t any men. But economically, the dyke community couldn’t have supported it to become what it is now.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ana De Almeida Amaral: \u003c/strong>Either way, the gritty and tough spirit of this bar perseveres.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Music starts\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The Wild Side West is a staple of lesbian history in San Francisco and it’s the oldest, still standing lesbian bar in the city. Lesbians have gathered here for decades. It’s always been a refuge from the violence and discrimination of the outside world.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Timotha Doane: \u003c/strong>Women come here and they feel safe. And to me, that is a treasure that cannot be praised highly enough.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ana De Almeida Amaral: \u003c/strong>As the LGBT community faces a new wave of attacks, regulars like Timotha are once again reminded of how powerful a sanctuary like this can be. They hope the Wild Side West remains a safe place for generations of lesbians to come.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>That was KQED’s Ana De Almeida Amaral.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Music ends\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Special thanks to Caroline Smith, who collected tape for this episode.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Bay Curious is made in San Francisco at member-supported KQED. Individual support from our audience means more than ever right now. If you’d like to help keep shows like Bay Curious going, head to \u003ca href=\"http://kqed.org/donate\">KQED.org/donate\u003c/a>. Every bit does help. Thanks!\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Our show is made by: Katrina Schwartz, Christopher Beale, and me, Olivia Allen-Price.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Additional engineering this week by Brian Douglas.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Special thanks to those in the KQED podcasting department: Maha Sanad, Katie Springer, Alana Wilson, Jen Chien, Holly Kernan, and everyone on Team KQED.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Some members of the KQED podcast team are represented by The Screen Actors Guild, American Federation of Television and Radio Artists. San Francisco Northern California Local.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I’m Olivia Allen-Price. Have a great week!\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"title": "Discovering Brooks Island, a Scenic Surprise in San Francisco Bay",
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"content": "\u003cp>\u003cem>\u003ca href=\"#A\">View the full episode transcript.\u003c/a>\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>As we cross the Bay Area’s bridges and stroll along its shoreline, we pass many islands. In fact there are more than 15 of them within 20 miles of San Francisco. Some are big or famous, like Alcatraz or Alameda, but others are uninhabited and bare, and as we go about our lives they fade into the backdrop.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[baycuriouspodcastinfo]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>For Bay Curious listener David Stein, one lesser-known island kept grabbing his attention. During his daily walk along the Bay Trail in Richmond he kept noticing a smallish island that rose to a low peak, about half a mile offshore — Brooks Island.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“How do you get out there?” Stein wondered. “Could I paddle out there in a kayak maybe? Would I get turned away?”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>He’s also noticed a small house on the island and is curious if anybody lives there — like a caretaker.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“It’s got to be one of the loneliest jobs in the city,” he said.\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>A journey to the island\u003c/h2>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12024363\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12024363\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/250127-BrooksIsland-42-BL.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/250127-BrooksIsland-42-BL.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/250127-BrooksIsland-42-BL-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/250127-BrooksIsland-42-BL-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/250127-BrooksIsland-42-BL-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/250127-BrooksIsland-42-BL-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/250127-BrooksIsland-42-BL-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A boat sails near Brooks Island Regional Preserve, a 373-acre bird sanctuary and habitat for native plants and wildlife in San Francisco Bay near Richmond, on Jan. 27, 2025, with the San Francisco skyline in the background. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>It turns out you \u003cem>can\u003c/em> visit, but only on a guided tour with the East Bay Regional Parks District. The boat and kayak tours are infrequent, and get canceled often due to bad weather, so it can take a couple of tries to get out there. But it’s worth it. The seemingly quiet little scrap of land has an active series of past lives and is home to hundreds of species of native plants and birds.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The kayak tour starts at the Richmond Marina and after about half an hour of paddling, nears the island’s shore. Rotting pilings and bits of rebar jut up from the bay floor.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“There’s a lot of debris in the water that’ll slice a boat open,” said Brooks Island caretaker Matthew Steven Allen.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12024632\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1575px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12024632\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/IMG_1915-e1738182588726.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1575\" height=\"976\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/IMG_1915-e1738182588726.jpg 1575w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/IMG_1915-e1738182588726-800x496.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/IMG_1915-e1738182588726-1020x632.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/IMG_1915-e1738182588726-160x99.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/IMG_1915-e1738182588726-1536x952.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 1575px) 100vw, 1575px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A kayak tour to Brooks Island is about to set off from Richmond Marina. \u003ccite>(Courtesy of Toby Fray)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Allen is the island’s sole resident. A Navy veteran and former motorcycle mechanic, he lives with his pitbull Honey in the tan, rectangular house just above the landing area. It has solar power, a compost toilet and well water.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Allen regularly turns away kayakers and boaters who try to come to the island on their own. He said the tides and the debris make it dangerous to land.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“My job is to make sure people are protected and safe,” said Allen, “and keep the island as rural as possible so that it stays the way it was 4,000 years ago.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Indigenous Ohlone people lived here first, at least seasonally. They fished, gathered shellfish and hunted birds. Along a 2-mile loop that wraps around Brooks Island, you can spot many of the native plants the Ohlone used, like buckeye and soap root.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Reaching the island’s 160-foot rocky peak, you’ll find a 360-degree view of the bay.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12024361\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12024361\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/250127-BrooksIsland-33-BL.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/250127-BrooksIsland-33-BL.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/250127-BrooksIsland-33-BL-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/250127-BrooksIsland-33-BL-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/250127-BrooksIsland-33-BL-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/250127-BrooksIsland-33-BL-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/250127-BrooksIsland-33-BL-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">An aerial view of Brooks Island Regional Preserve, a 373-acre bird sanctuary and habitat for native plants and wildlife in San Francisco Bay near Richmond, on Jan. 27, 2025. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003c!-- iframe plugin v.4.3 wordpress.org/plugins/iframe/ -->\u003cbr>\n\u003ciframe loading=\"lazy\" frameborder=\"0\" height=\"200\" scrolling=\"no\" src=\"https://playlist.megaphone.fm?e=KQINC4382592108\" width=\"100%\" class=\"iframe-class\">\u003c/iframe>\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>\u003cstrong>The former lives of Brooks Island\u003c/strong>\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>When the Spanish mapped the region in the 1700s, they called the island “Isla de Carmen.” By 1850 (by which time California was American territory), it was called Brooks Island on maps, but no record of who Brooks was remains.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In the late 1800s, a Croatian man called Luccas Gargurevich settled on the island with his wife and raised 10 children. They grew grapes and raised goats. In something of an inside joke, Gargurevich called the place Sheep Island because somebody was raising sheep on Treasure Island at the time and calling it Goat Island.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>On the back side of the island there’s a rocky beach where strange objects wash ashore from all over the Pacific. There’s an entire gray whale skeleton — baleen and all — and all manner of garbage, from plastic dinosaurs to coolers.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Anything that floats will show up here,” said East Bay Regional Parks District recreation leader Tony Mistretta. “It just collects.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12024627\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2560px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12024627\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/IMG_7244-scaled.jpeg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2560\" height=\"1920\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/IMG_7244-scaled.jpeg 2560w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/IMG_7244-800x600.jpeg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/IMG_7244-1020x765.jpeg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/IMG_7244-160x120.jpeg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/IMG_7244-1536x1152.jpeg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/IMG_7244-2048x1536.jpeg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/IMG_7244-1920x1440.jpeg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2560px) 100vw, 2560px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">The skeleton of a gray whale that has washed ashore on Brooks Island. \u003ccite>(Courtesy of John Sappington)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12024650\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2500px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12024650\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-4.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2500\" height=\"833\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-4.jpg 2500w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-4-800x267.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-4-1020x340.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-4-160x53.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-4-1536x512.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-4-2048x682.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-4-1920x640.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2500px) 100vw, 2500px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A tour group led by East Bay Recreation and Parks Department naturalist Erin Blackwell (left) explores Brooks Island. \u003ccite>(Courtesy of Toby Fray)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>But Brooks Island wasn’t always this deserted and quiet. Continuing along the hiking loop, you’ll see a massive crescent-shaped scar on the south face of the island. It’s an old rock quarry where workers blasted out stone and hauled it off to build San Francisco’s great seawall around the Embarcadero, and later the Carquinez Bridge, Bay Bridge toll plaza, and the Berkeley Marina.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>During World War I there were plans to connect the island to Point Isabel, to make a battleship harbor, but the Navy chose Hunter’s Point instead.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>And in the 1960s some famous people turned this island into a private bird hunting reserve.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Singer Bing Crosby was one of the members of the exclusive Sheep Island Gun Club, and so was Trader Vic — the self-proclaimed inventor of the mai tai. They kept a houseboat docked here. They’d boat over from Richmond, release pheasants and other exotic birds, and shoot them.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12024358\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12024358\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/250127-BrooksIsland-13-BL.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/250127-BrooksIsland-13-BL.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/250127-BrooksIsland-13-BL-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/250127-BrooksIsland-13-BL-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/250127-BrooksIsland-13-BL-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/250127-BrooksIsland-13-BL-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/250127-BrooksIsland-13-BL-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">An aerial view of Brooks Island Regional Preserve, a 373-acre bird sanctuary and habitat for native plants and wildlife in San Francisco Bay near Richmond, on Jan. 27, 2025. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“They probably cooked them right up right there,” said EBRPD naturalist Erin Blackwell, pointing at an old barbecue grill tucked behind one of Brooks Island’s freshwater ponds.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The island’s current incarnation kicked off in 1968 when the East Bay Regional Parks District bought it, promising residents a new public park with swimming and boating and camping facilities. But the district kept leasing the island to the gun club for another 20 years. Finally, in 1988, it bowed to public pressure and told the rich and famous hunters it was time to go.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Two years later this became Brooks Island Regional Preserve: a sanctuary for birds and native plants. Nowhere is that more visible than at the last stop on the tour, a sandspit that extends from the island’s northern tip. It’s a nesting site for the Caspian tern, a mostly white bird with a bright orange beak.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“These are birds that were eating a lot of salmon up in Oregon and Washington,” said Blackwell.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12024357\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12024357\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/250127-BrooksIsland-08-BL.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/250127-BrooksIsland-08-BL.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/250127-BrooksIsland-08-BL-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/250127-BrooksIsland-08-BL-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/250127-BrooksIsland-08-BL-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/250127-BrooksIsland-08-BL-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/250127-BrooksIsland-08-BL-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">An aerial view of Brooks Island Regional Preserve, a 373-acre bird sanctuary and habitat for native plants and wildlife in San Francisco Bay near Richmond, on Jan. 27, 2025. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>To protect the salmon, wildlife officials up there slowly chased off the terns. The birds eventually made their way here, where they started eating local salmon but still enjoyed some protections. They’re one of the many species that find a home on Brooks Island.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>For Allen, the sole human inhabitant, the island’s natural beauty and timeless feeling make living there well worth the isolation.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Everything is a little different and it’s just a little special,” he said. “And so I like protecting it. So I’ll be there for a while.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[baycuriousquestion]\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>\u003ca id=\"A\">\u003c/a>Episode Transcript\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>\u003ci>This is a computer-generated transcript. While our team has reviewed it, there may be errors.\u003c/i>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price:\u003c/strong> Let’s start today’s episode in the East Bay with our question-asker…\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>David Stein:\u003c/strong> My name is David Stein and I live in Richmond, California.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price:\u003c/strong> David loves spending time along the Richmond shoreline, overlooking the San Francisco Bay.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>David Stein:\u003c/strong> I do a daily walk along the Bay Trail, and every day, sometimes twice a day, I always see this island that’s right offshore.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price:\u003c/strong> The island is wide — more than a mile from end to end at low tide. But it’s low, reaching a little more than 100 feet tall.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>David Stein:\u003c/strong> And there’s one house on it. I never see any people out there. Maybe there’s a caretaker. It’s got to be like one of the loneliest jobs in the city.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price:\u003c/strong> This island, the little house — It’s all got David wondering…\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>David Stein:\u003c/strong> How do you get out there? Are people allowed to go out there? Could I paddle out there in a kayak maybe? [Laughs] Would I get turned away?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price:\u003c/strong> This is Bay Curious, the podcast that answers listener questions about the San Francisco Bay Area. I’m Olivia Allen-Price. Today we’ll find out about how this seemingly quiet little scrap of land has an active series of past lives. And we’ll meet the guy with one of the loneliest jobs in the Bay Area. Stick with us…\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[Sponsor message]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price:\u003c/strong> So, spoiler alert — you can paddle to Brooks Island. But it has to be on a guided tour with the East Bay Regional Parks District. The tours get canceled a lot due to bad weather, so it took a couple of tries for us to get out there. But finally, a calm, sunny day came along, and Bay Curious reporter Katherine Monahan put her microphone in a dry bag and climbed into a kayak.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>[Sounds of paddling kayaks on the water “Yeah, it’s a little tippy right now. There you go.”] \u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan:\u003c/strong> About 20 of us are launching out from the Richmond Marina towards this long, low island. It’s beautiful. Just a strip of grey and green against a fresh blue sky. After paddling about half a mile, we’re close to the shore where some wicked rotting pilings and bits of rebar are jutting out of the bay bottom.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>[Paddling continues, “I see how it is. Oh!”]\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan:\u003c/strong> We steer carefully through them, into the narrow landing area, and climb onto Brooks Island.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>[People walking on shore, birds chirping]\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan:\u003c/strong> Above us is a rectangular, tan-colored house — the one our question-asker David has spotted from shore. It’s the only home on the island, which has a population of one: caretaker Matthew Steven Allen. He says those pilings we just passed are dangerous.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Matthew Steven Allen:\u003c/strong> There’s a lot of debris in the water that’ll slice a boat open, slice your leg open, that you can run your boat into and then crash your boat.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan:\u003c/strong> So, part of his job is to turn away kayakers who try to come on their own.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Matthew Steven Allen:\u003c/strong> COVID was bad. Every single group of people I talked to: “I just got this three days ago. I didn’t know.” Well, that’s why I’m here. My job is to make sure people are protected and safe and keep the island as rural as possible so that it stays the way it was 4,000 years ago.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan:\u003c/strong> Allen likes it like that. He says he applied for this job with the East Bay Regional Parks District in 2011 after a motorcycle accident left him too injured to continue working as a mechanic.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Matthew Steven Allen:\u003c/strong> They came out and showed me the island and the house. And the only question they asked me was, uh, ‘Have we scared you off yet?’ And I said, nope.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan:\u003c/strong> [Laughing] That sounds like a great job interview.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Matthew Steven Allen:\u003c/strong> Yeah\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan:\u003c/strong> He was told that the previous caretakers had had mental health issues — presumably made worse by the isolation.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Matthew Steven Allen:\u003c/strong> When I got the job, like everybody all the way up to the board members, “You’re doing great. Don’t go crazy,” Verbatim. “Don’t go crazy.” I’m like, OK.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan:\u003c/strong> And so far so good. He lives out here with his pit bull Honey. He’s got well water and solar power and a compost toilet. He boats over to Richmond when it’s time for groceries, and he finds all kinds of strange objects on the shores.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>To kick off our tour, naturalist Erin Blackwood with the East Bay Regional Parks District leads us to where Allen has laid out some of those curiosities — on a picnic table next to a big buckeye tree.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Erin Blackwood:\u003c/strong> Including this message in the bottle, which, who knows where this came from.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan:\u003c/strong> She pulls out a mildewed sheet of paper and starts to read.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Erin Blackwood:\u003c/strong> [Reading letter] “To the seeker. Love is like a UFO traveling faster than the speed of light. Don’t hide in the shadows.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan:\u003c/strong> …OK. There’s also buoys on the table and bones.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Erin Blackwood:\u003c/strong> This is a harbor seal skull. This one, however, is a California sea lion skull, male.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan:\u003c/strong> There’s the skull of a young deer — one of three that swam out to the island together a few years ago. Raccoons sometimes swim ashore, and there’s a resident population of voles — basically field mice — that escaped from a scientific study. And that’s about it for land mammals on the island.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But there are over a hundred different species of birds that come through. And while Blackwood talks, a swallowtail butterfly flutters down and lands on her.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Erin Blackwood:\u003c/strong> Oh, look at that iridescence on the back.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan:\u003c/strong> …And then takes off.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Erin Blackwood:\u003c/strong> There she goes! Alright, we’ll follow her.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan:\u003c/strong> We set off on the hike — a 2-mile loop to the top of the island and then down the other side and back around. It’s a narrow, rocky trail, and Blackwood points out the native plants around us.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Erin Blackwood:\u003c/strong> Oh, here’s a soap root. And there’s another buckeye.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan:\u003c/strong> The indigenous Ohlone people used these plants while living here, at least seasonally, for thousands of years. Fishing, gathering shellfish, and hunting birds. The top, when we reach it, is about 160 feet above sea level.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Erin Blackwood:\u003c/strong> Oh man, another great view! Look at this.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan:\u003c/strong> There are no trees up here, so you can see 360 degrees.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Erin Blackwood:\u003c/strong> Golden Gate Bridge, Angel Island, Marin Headlands…\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan:\u003c/strong> This island has had different names over the years. When the Spanish arrived in the 1700s, they called it Isla de Carmen. By 1850, it was called Brooks Island on the maps, but…\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Erin Blackwood:\u003c/strong> I still haven’t found any information about why it was called Brooks Island. Who’s Brooks?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan:\u003c/strong> And as we look out at Yerba Buena Island, Blackwell tells us about another old name — kind of a weird historical inside joke.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Erin Blackwood:\u003c/strong> In the 1800s, there were sheep on Yerba Buena Island and it was called Goat Island.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan:\u003c/strong> Around then a Croatian man called Luccas Gargurevich settled here and raised 10 children with his wife.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Erin Blackwood:\u003c/strong> And he had goats on this island. What do you think he called this island? \u003cem>[“Sheep Island?”]\u003c/em> Sheep Island. See?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>[Music]\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Erin Blackwood:\u003c/strong> OK, it’s a little steep right here, watch your step.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan:\u003c/strong> We head down the other side, to where the trail levels out and runs along the south shore. And as we walk, we see, right next to us in the grass … an entire whale skeleton.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Erin Blackwood:\u003c/strong> This was from 2020. This is recent. Yeah. So it’s been, it’s been, it’s decayed, decayed quite well. Oh, there’s a little bit. You can see there’s a little bit of stuff on that rib right there.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan:\u003c/strong> It’s over 30 feet long with a full chain of vertebrae.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>[Sounds of people examining the skeleton, “These fissures are so beautiful.”]\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan:\u003c/strong> We find a piece of baleen — the whale’s equivalent of teeth — it looks kind of like a comb, but as big as your arm.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Erin Blackwood:\u003c/strong> Oh, there’s a little bit of baleen! Oh! Wow! [People ooh and ahh]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan:\u003c/strong> Recreation coordinator Stuart Reed remembers when the whale first washed ashore.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Stuart Reed:\u003c/strong> The smell was just horrible. But when you paddled to the other side, you could, like, get a great view of it and not smell any of it because the wind was coming from your back. So every week I was like seeing it decay and it was just, like, really cool.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan:\u003c/strong> Nowadays, that’s about as big as the action gets here on Brooks Island.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>[Sound of waves crashing on the shore] \u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan:\u003c/strong> That and the weird garbage that washes up. We head out on the rocky beach to take a look.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan:\u003c/strong> What you got? \u003cem>[“Something gooey.”] \u003c/em>Gooey? Yeah.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Tony Mistretta:\u003c/strong> Anything that floats will show up here. Yeah. Because there’s nobody here to pick it up. It just collects\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan:\u003c/strong> Recreation leader Tony Mistretta points at one of those playmate coolers — the ones with the rotating top. And as we amble down the beach we find a plastic triceratops … a needle … plenty of trash.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Tony Mistretta:\u003c/strong> Like normally, there would be people on the other shores, and they pick up, you know, like all the cool shells and all the cool stuff, or they’re doing a cleanup. But because there’s no one on the island, it just collects unless Matt’s picking it up.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan:\u003c/strong> But Brooks Island wasn’t always this deserted and quiet. As we continue our loop, naturalist Erin Blackwell points out a massive crescent-shaped scar in the south face of the island. It’s an old rock quarry — mostly grown over now with coyote brush and fennel, but greywacke boulders are still scattered around.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Erin Blackwell:\u003c/strong> Looks like a lot of the quarried rocks were just like, left behind.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan:\u003c/strong> In the late 1800s this was a major industrial operation. Workers blasted out stone and hauled it off to build San Francisco’s great seawall around the Embarcadero, and later the Carquinez Bridge and the Bay Bridge toll plaza and the Berkeley Marina.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Erin Blackwell:\u003c/strong> Also a part of San Quentin was used, uh, from this rock.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan:\u003c/strong> There was also an oyster farm out here.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Erin Blackwell:\u003c/strong> They imported oysters from Washington State. So it was not the native oysters, it was the larger oysters that most people are familiar with eating.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan:\u003c/strong> That lasted until the early 1900s when the bay got too dirty. And then the world wars began.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Erin Blackwell:\u003c/strong> There were plans to make this into a naval base. And so they were basically going to level the island.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The idea was to connect it to Point Isabel to make a battleship harbor. But the Navy chose Hunter’s Point instead. And then things took a recreational turn in the 1960s, when some famous people turned this island into a private bird hunting reserve.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>[Bing Crosby’s “Mr. Meadowlark” plays: “I’m out in the country but I don’t know why. Cause I’m strictly a city-lovin’ guy. Just sittin’ there when a little bird flies my way…]\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan:\u003c/strong> Singer Bing Crosby was one of the members of the exclusive Sheep Island Gun Club. and so was Trader Vic — the self-proclaimed inventor of the mai tai. They kept a houseboat on the island, and they’d boat over from Richmond, release pheasants and other exotic birds, and shoot them.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Erin Blackwell:\u003c/strong> I don’t know, you might see some shotgun shells around, so keep your eye out.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan:\u003c/strong> Blackwell shows us what looks kind of like a Boy Scouts fire ring, with an old barbecue grill, tucked behind one of Brooks Island’s freshwater ponds.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Erin Blackwell:\u003c/strong> They probably, you know, cooked them right up right there.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan:\u003c/strong> And then Bing Crosby usually wanted to go get a drink at the Hotel Mac in Point Richmond around 2 p.m. Apparently, they tried to stock the island with deer as well, but the deer kept swimming back to shore.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>[Bing Crosby’s “Mr. Meadowlark” plays:\u003c/em> \u003cem>“(whistling) That’s where you come in. Mr. Meadowlark, now you should cop a gander when I’m kissing my chick”]\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan:\u003c/strong> The island’s current incarnation kicked off in 1968 when the East Bay Regional Parks District bought it, promising residents a new public park with swimming and boating and camping facilities. But the district kept leasing the island to the gun club for another 20 years. Finally, it bowed to public pressure and told the rich and famous hunters it was time to go.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Erin Blackwell:\u003c/strong> They were finally evicted in 1988.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan:\u003c/strong> And in 1990, Brooks Island became a public park. By then, the parks district had changed the vision from recreation to conservation: The island would be a bird sanctuary and a place for native plants to thrive.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Which brings us to our final stop on the tour — a long sand spit that extends out from the northwest tip of the island. It’s a nesting site for the Caspian tern — a mostly white bird with a bright orange beak.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Erin Blackwell:\u003c/strong> These are birds that were eating a lot of salmon up in Oregon and Washington.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan:\u003c/strong> So to protect the salmon, wildlife officials slowly chased off the terns.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Erin Blackwell:\u003c/strong> And then they eventually made their way here.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan:\u003c/strong> Where they started eating the local salmon. But they still enjoy some protection. Matthew Steven Allen, the caretaker, says the tip of the spit is the one part of the island where people are allowed to come ashore on their own. But only in the winter, when the Caspian terns aren’t nesting there. And even then, he says, it’s really not a good idea.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Matthew Steven Allen:\u003c/strong> The silt has no bottom. So if you get out of your boat and say the water line’s like a hundred feet away, that hundred foot of silt is quicksand and it’ll just take you, until your waist.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan:\u003c/strong> As we reach the end of our tour and paddle back toward the mainland, we pass a flock of pelicans and a seal. And it feels right that Brooks Island stays pretty untouched by humans.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Matthew Steven Allen:\u003c/strong> Everything is a little different, and it’s just a little special, and so I like, I like protecting it. So I’ll be there for a while.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>[Sounds of water flowing, gentle music] \u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price:\u003c/strong> That story was reported by KQED’s Katherine Monahan.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>If you want to take a boat or kayak tour out to Brooks Island, head to the Brooks Island page on the East Bay Parks website for details. We’ll put a link in our show notes too.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Our colleagues at The Bay are working on a podcast episode about dating in the Bay Area — the good, the bad, and everything in between — and we’d love to hear from you. What’s your experience been like? What’s dating like in your city? Do you have a wild story? Leave a voicemail at 415-710-9223, or send a voice memo to thebay@kqed.org. Tell them your name, your city, and your story.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>David Stein:\u003c/strong> Bay Curious is made in San Francisco at member-supported KQED.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price:\u003c/strong> Our show is produced by Amanda Font, Katrina Schwartz, Christopher Beale and me, Olivia Allen-Price.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Extra Support From Jen Chien, Katie Sprenger, Maha Senad, Holly Kernan, Alana Walker and everyone at Team KQED.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I’m Olivia Allen-Price. Have a great week.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad floatright]\u003c/p>\n",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>\u003cem>\u003ca href=\"#A\">View the full episode transcript.\u003c/a>\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>As we cross the Bay Area’s bridges and stroll along its shoreline, we pass many islands. In fact there are more than 15 of them within 20 miles of San Francisco. Some are big or famous, like Alcatraz or Alameda, but others are uninhabited and bare, and as we go about our lives they fade into the backdrop.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003caside class=\"alignleft utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__bayCuriousPodcastShortcode__bayCurious\">\u003cimg src=https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/2023/02/bayCuriousLogo.png alt=\"Bay Curious Podcast\" loading=\"lazy\" />\n \u003ca href=\"/news/series/baycurious\">Bay Curious\u003c/a> is a podcast that answers your questions about the Bay Area.\n Subscribe on \u003ca href=\"https://itunes.apple.com/us/podcast/bay-curious/id1172473406\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">Apple Podcasts\u003c/a>,\n \u003ca href=\"http://www.npr.org/podcasts/500557090/bay-curious\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">NPR One\u003c/a> or your favorite podcast platform.\u003c/aside>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>For Bay Curious listener David Stein, one lesser-known island kept grabbing his attention. During his daily walk along the Bay Trail in Richmond he kept noticing a smallish island that rose to a low peak, about half a mile offshore — Brooks Island.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“How do you get out there?” Stein wondered. “Could I paddle out there in a kayak maybe? Would I get turned away?”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>He’s also noticed a small house on the island and is curious if anybody lives there — like a caretaker.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“It’s got to be one of the loneliest jobs in the city,” he said.\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>A journey to the island\u003c/h2>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12024363\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12024363\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/250127-BrooksIsland-42-BL.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/250127-BrooksIsland-42-BL.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/250127-BrooksIsland-42-BL-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/250127-BrooksIsland-42-BL-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/250127-BrooksIsland-42-BL-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/250127-BrooksIsland-42-BL-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/250127-BrooksIsland-42-BL-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A boat sails near Brooks Island Regional Preserve, a 373-acre bird sanctuary and habitat for native plants and wildlife in San Francisco Bay near Richmond, on Jan. 27, 2025, with the San Francisco skyline in the background. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>It turns out you \u003cem>can\u003c/em> visit, but only on a guided tour with the East Bay Regional Parks District. The boat and kayak tours are infrequent, and get canceled often due to bad weather, so it can take a couple of tries to get out there. But it’s worth it. The seemingly quiet little scrap of land has an active series of past lives and is home to hundreds of species of native plants and birds.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The kayak tour starts at the Richmond Marina and after about half an hour of paddling, nears the island’s shore. Rotting pilings and bits of rebar jut up from the bay floor.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“There’s a lot of debris in the water that’ll slice a boat open,” said Brooks Island caretaker Matthew Steven Allen.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12024632\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1575px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12024632\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/IMG_1915-e1738182588726.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1575\" height=\"976\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/IMG_1915-e1738182588726.jpg 1575w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/IMG_1915-e1738182588726-800x496.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/IMG_1915-e1738182588726-1020x632.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/IMG_1915-e1738182588726-160x99.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/IMG_1915-e1738182588726-1536x952.jpg 1536w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 1575px) 100vw, 1575px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A kayak tour to Brooks Island is about to set off from Richmond Marina. \u003ccite>(Courtesy of Toby Fray)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Allen is the island’s sole resident. A Navy veteran and former motorcycle mechanic, he lives with his pitbull Honey in the tan, rectangular house just above the landing area. It has solar power, a compost toilet and well water.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Allen regularly turns away kayakers and boaters who try to come to the island on their own. He said the tides and the debris make it dangerous to land.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“My job is to make sure people are protected and safe,” said Allen, “and keep the island as rural as possible so that it stays the way it was 4,000 years ago.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Indigenous Ohlone people lived here first, at least seasonally. They fished, gathered shellfish and hunted birds. Along a 2-mile loop that wraps around Brooks Island, you can spot many of the native plants the Ohlone used, like buckeye and soap root.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Reaching the island’s 160-foot rocky peak, you’ll find a 360-degree view of the bay.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12024361\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12024361\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/250127-BrooksIsland-33-BL.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/250127-BrooksIsland-33-BL.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/250127-BrooksIsland-33-BL-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/250127-BrooksIsland-33-BL-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/250127-BrooksIsland-33-BL-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/250127-BrooksIsland-33-BL-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/250127-BrooksIsland-33-BL-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">An aerial view of Brooks Island Regional Preserve, a 373-acre bird sanctuary and habitat for native plants and wildlife in San Francisco Bay near Richmond, on Jan. 27, 2025. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003c!-- iframe plugin v.4.3 wordpress.org/plugins/iframe/ -->\u003cbr>\n\u003ciframe loading=\"lazy\" frameborder=\"0\" height=\"200\" scrolling=\"no\" src=\"https://playlist.megaphone.fm?e=KQINC4382592108\" width=\"100%\" class=\"iframe-class\">\u003c/iframe>\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>\u003cstrong>The former lives of Brooks Island\u003c/strong>\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>When the Spanish mapped the region in the 1700s, they called the island “Isla de Carmen.” By 1850 (by which time California was American territory), it was called Brooks Island on maps, but no record of who Brooks was remains.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In the late 1800s, a Croatian man called Luccas Gargurevich settled on the island with his wife and raised 10 children. They grew grapes and raised goats. In something of an inside joke, Gargurevich called the place Sheep Island because somebody was raising sheep on Treasure Island at the time and calling it Goat Island.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>On the back side of the island there’s a rocky beach where strange objects wash ashore from all over the Pacific. There’s an entire gray whale skeleton — baleen and all — and all manner of garbage, from plastic dinosaurs to coolers.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Anything that floats will show up here,” said East Bay Regional Parks District recreation leader Tony Mistretta. “It just collects.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12024627\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2560px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12024627\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/IMG_7244-scaled.jpeg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2560\" height=\"1920\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/IMG_7244-scaled.jpeg 2560w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/IMG_7244-800x600.jpeg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/IMG_7244-1020x765.jpeg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/IMG_7244-160x120.jpeg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/IMG_7244-1536x1152.jpeg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/IMG_7244-2048x1536.jpeg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/IMG_7244-1920x1440.jpeg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2560px) 100vw, 2560px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">The skeleton of a gray whale that has washed ashore on Brooks Island. \u003ccite>(Courtesy of John Sappington)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12024650\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2500px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12024650\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-4.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2500\" height=\"833\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-4.jpg 2500w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-4-800x267.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-4-1020x340.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-4-160x53.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-4-1536x512.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-4-2048x682.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-4-1920x640.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2500px) 100vw, 2500px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A tour group led by East Bay Recreation and Parks Department naturalist Erin Blackwell (left) explores Brooks Island. \u003ccite>(Courtesy of Toby Fray)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>But Brooks Island wasn’t always this deserted and quiet. Continuing along the hiking loop, you’ll see a massive crescent-shaped scar on the south face of the island. It’s an old rock quarry where workers blasted out stone and hauled it off to build San Francisco’s great seawall around the Embarcadero, and later the Carquinez Bridge, Bay Bridge toll plaza, and the Berkeley Marina.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>During World War I there were plans to connect the island to Point Isabel, to make a battleship harbor, but the Navy chose Hunter’s Point instead.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>And in the 1960s some famous people turned this island into a private bird hunting reserve.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Singer Bing Crosby was one of the members of the exclusive Sheep Island Gun Club, and so was Trader Vic — the self-proclaimed inventor of the mai tai. They kept a houseboat docked here. They’d boat over from Richmond, release pheasants and other exotic birds, and shoot them.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12024358\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12024358\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/250127-BrooksIsland-13-BL.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/250127-BrooksIsland-13-BL.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/250127-BrooksIsland-13-BL-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/250127-BrooksIsland-13-BL-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/250127-BrooksIsland-13-BL-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/250127-BrooksIsland-13-BL-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/250127-BrooksIsland-13-BL-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">An aerial view of Brooks Island Regional Preserve, a 373-acre bird sanctuary and habitat for native plants and wildlife in San Francisco Bay near Richmond, on Jan. 27, 2025. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“They probably cooked them right up right there,” said EBRPD naturalist Erin Blackwell, pointing at an old barbecue grill tucked behind one of Brooks Island’s freshwater ponds.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The island’s current incarnation kicked off in 1968 when the East Bay Regional Parks District bought it, promising residents a new public park with swimming and boating and camping facilities. But the district kept leasing the island to the gun club for another 20 years. Finally, in 1988, it bowed to public pressure and told the rich and famous hunters it was time to go.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Two years later this became Brooks Island Regional Preserve: a sanctuary for birds and native plants. Nowhere is that more visible than at the last stop on the tour, a sandspit that extends from the island’s northern tip. It’s a nesting site for the Caspian tern, a mostly white bird with a bright orange beak.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“These are birds that were eating a lot of salmon up in Oregon and Washington,” said Blackwell.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12024357\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12024357\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/250127-BrooksIsland-08-BL.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/250127-BrooksIsland-08-BL.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/250127-BrooksIsland-08-BL-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/250127-BrooksIsland-08-BL-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/250127-BrooksIsland-08-BL-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/250127-BrooksIsland-08-BL-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/250127-BrooksIsland-08-BL-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">An aerial view of Brooks Island Regional Preserve, a 373-acre bird sanctuary and habitat for native plants and wildlife in San Francisco Bay near Richmond, on Jan. 27, 2025. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>To protect the salmon, wildlife officials up there slowly chased off the terns. The birds eventually made their way here, where they started eating local salmon but still enjoyed some protections. They’re one of the many species that find a home on Brooks Island.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>For Allen, the sole human inhabitant, the island’s natural beauty and timeless feeling make living there well worth the isolation.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Everything is a little different and it’s just a little special,” he said. “And so I like protecting it. So I’ll be there for a while.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>\u003ca id=\"A\">\u003c/a>Episode Transcript\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>\u003ci>This is a computer-generated transcript. While our team has reviewed it, there may be errors.\u003c/i>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price:\u003c/strong> Let’s start today’s episode in the East Bay with our question-asker…\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>David Stein:\u003c/strong> My name is David Stein and I live in Richmond, California.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price:\u003c/strong> David loves spending time along the Richmond shoreline, overlooking the San Francisco Bay.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>David Stein:\u003c/strong> I do a daily walk along the Bay Trail, and every day, sometimes twice a day, I always see this island that’s right offshore.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price:\u003c/strong> The island is wide — more than a mile from end to end at low tide. But it’s low, reaching a little more than 100 feet tall.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>David Stein:\u003c/strong> And there’s one house on it. I never see any people out there. Maybe there’s a caretaker. It’s got to be like one of the loneliest jobs in the city.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price:\u003c/strong> This island, the little house — It’s all got David wondering…\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>David Stein:\u003c/strong> How do you get out there? Are people allowed to go out there? Could I paddle out there in a kayak maybe? [Laughs] Would I get turned away?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price:\u003c/strong> This is Bay Curious, the podcast that answers listener questions about the San Francisco Bay Area. I’m Olivia Allen-Price. Today we’ll find out about how this seemingly quiet little scrap of land has an active series of past lives. And we’ll meet the guy with one of the loneliest jobs in the Bay Area. Stick with us…\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[Sponsor message]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price:\u003c/strong> So, spoiler alert — you can paddle to Brooks Island. But it has to be on a guided tour with the East Bay Regional Parks District. The tours get canceled a lot due to bad weather, so it took a couple of tries for us to get out there. But finally, a calm, sunny day came along, and Bay Curious reporter Katherine Monahan put her microphone in a dry bag and climbed into a kayak.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>[Sounds of paddling kayaks on the water “Yeah, it’s a little tippy right now. There you go.”] \u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan:\u003c/strong> About 20 of us are launching out from the Richmond Marina towards this long, low island. It’s beautiful. Just a strip of grey and green against a fresh blue sky. After paddling about half a mile, we’re close to the shore where some wicked rotting pilings and bits of rebar are jutting out of the bay bottom.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>[Paddling continues, “I see how it is. Oh!”]\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan:\u003c/strong> We steer carefully through them, into the narrow landing area, and climb onto Brooks Island.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>[People walking on shore, birds chirping]\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan:\u003c/strong> Above us is a rectangular, tan-colored house — the one our question-asker David has spotted from shore. It’s the only home on the island, which has a population of one: caretaker Matthew Steven Allen. He says those pilings we just passed are dangerous.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Matthew Steven Allen:\u003c/strong> There’s a lot of debris in the water that’ll slice a boat open, slice your leg open, that you can run your boat into and then crash your boat.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan:\u003c/strong> So, part of his job is to turn away kayakers who try to come on their own.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Matthew Steven Allen:\u003c/strong> COVID was bad. Every single group of people I talked to: “I just got this three days ago. I didn’t know.” Well, that’s why I’m here. My job is to make sure people are protected and safe and keep the island as rural as possible so that it stays the way it was 4,000 years ago.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan:\u003c/strong> Allen likes it like that. He says he applied for this job with the East Bay Regional Parks District in 2011 after a motorcycle accident left him too injured to continue working as a mechanic.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Matthew Steven Allen:\u003c/strong> They came out and showed me the island and the house. And the only question they asked me was, uh, ‘Have we scared you off yet?’ And I said, nope.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan:\u003c/strong> [Laughing] That sounds like a great job interview.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Matthew Steven Allen:\u003c/strong> Yeah\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan:\u003c/strong> He was told that the previous caretakers had had mental health issues — presumably made worse by the isolation.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Matthew Steven Allen:\u003c/strong> When I got the job, like everybody all the way up to the board members, “You’re doing great. Don’t go crazy,” Verbatim. “Don’t go crazy.” I’m like, OK.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan:\u003c/strong> And so far so good. He lives out here with his pit bull Honey. He’s got well water and solar power and a compost toilet. He boats over to Richmond when it’s time for groceries, and he finds all kinds of strange objects on the shores.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>To kick off our tour, naturalist Erin Blackwood with the East Bay Regional Parks District leads us to where Allen has laid out some of those curiosities — on a picnic table next to a big buckeye tree.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Erin Blackwood:\u003c/strong> Including this message in the bottle, which, who knows where this came from.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan:\u003c/strong> She pulls out a mildewed sheet of paper and starts to read.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Erin Blackwood:\u003c/strong> [Reading letter] “To the seeker. Love is like a UFO traveling faster than the speed of light. Don’t hide in the shadows.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan:\u003c/strong> …OK. There’s also buoys on the table and bones.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Erin Blackwood:\u003c/strong> This is a harbor seal skull. This one, however, is a California sea lion skull, male.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan:\u003c/strong> There’s the skull of a young deer — one of three that swam out to the island together a few years ago. Raccoons sometimes swim ashore, and there’s a resident population of voles — basically field mice — that escaped from a scientific study. And that’s about it for land mammals on the island.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But there are over a hundred different species of birds that come through. And while Blackwood talks, a swallowtail butterfly flutters down and lands on her.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Erin Blackwood:\u003c/strong> Oh, look at that iridescence on the back.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan:\u003c/strong> …And then takes off.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Erin Blackwood:\u003c/strong> There she goes! Alright, we’ll follow her.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan:\u003c/strong> We set off on the hike — a 2-mile loop to the top of the island and then down the other side and back around. It’s a narrow, rocky trail, and Blackwood points out the native plants around us.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Erin Blackwood:\u003c/strong> Oh, here’s a soap root. And there’s another buckeye.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan:\u003c/strong> The indigenous Ohlone people used these plants while living here, at least seasonally, for thousands of years. Fishing, gathering shellfish, and hunting birds. The top, when we reach it, is about 160 feet above sea level.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Erin Blackwood:\u003c/strong> Oh man, another great view! Look at this.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan:\u003c/strong> There are no trees up here, so you can see 360 degrees.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Erin Blackwood:\u003c/strong> Golden Gate Bridge, Angel Island, Marin Headlands…\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan:\u003c/strong> This island has had different names over the years. When the Spanish arrived in the 1700s, they called it Isla de Carmen. By 1850, it was called Brooks Island on the maps, but…\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Erin Blackwood:\u003c/strong> I still haven’t found any information about why it was called Brooks Island. Who’s Brooks?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan:\u003c/strong> And as we look out at Yerba Buena Island, Blackwell tells us about another old name — kind of a weird historical inside joke.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Erin Blackwood:\u003c/strong> In the 1800s, there were sheep on Yerba Buena Island and it was called Goat Island.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan:\u003c/strong> Around then a Croatian man called Luccas Gargurevich settled here and raised 10 children with his wife.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Erin Blackwood:\u003c/strong> And he had goats on this island. What do you think he called this island? \u003cem>[“Sheep Island?”]\u003c/em> Sheep Island. See?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>[Music]\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Erin Blackwood:\u003c/strong> OK, it’s a little steep right here, watch your step.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan:\u003c/strong> We head down the other side, to where the trail levels out and runs along the south shore. And as we walk, we see, right next to us in the grass … an entire whale skeleton.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Erin Blackwood:\u003c/strong> This was from 2020. This is recent. Yeah. So it’s been, it’s been, it’s decayed, decayed quite well. Oh, there’s a little bit. You can see there’s a little bit of stuff on that rib right there.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan:\u003c/strong> It’s over 30 feet long with a full chain of vertebrae.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>[Sounds of people examining the skeleton, “These fissures are so beautiful.”]\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan:\u003c/strong> We find a piece of baleen — the whale’s equivalent of teeth — it looks kind of like a comb, but as big as your arm.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Erin Blackwood:\u003c/strong> Oh, there’s a little bit of baleen! Oh! Wow! [People ooh and ahh]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan:\u003c/strong> Recreation coordinator Stuart Reed remembers when the whale first washed ashore.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Stuart Reed:\u003c/strong> The smell was just horrible. But when you paddled to the other side, you could, like, get a great view of it and not smell any of it because the wind was coming from your back. So every week I was like seeing it decay and it was just, like, really cool.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan:\u003c/strong> Nowadays, that’s about as big as the action gets here on Brooks Island.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>[Sound of waves crashing on the shore] \u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan:\u003c/strong> That and the weird garbage that washes up. We head out on the rocky beach to take a look.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan:\u003c/strong> What you got? \u003cem>[“Something gooey.”] \u003c/em>Gooey? Yeah.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Tony Mistretta:\u003c/strong> Anything that floats will show up here. Yeah. Because there’s nobody here to pick it up. It just collects\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan:\u003c/strong> Recreation leader Tony Mistretta points at one of those playmate coolers — the ones with the rotating top. And as we amble down the beach we find a plastic triceratops … a needle … plenty of trash.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Tony Mistretta:\u003c/strong> Like normally, there would be people on the other shores, and they pick up, you know, like all the cool shells and all the cool stuff, or they’re doing a cleanup. But because there’s no one on the island, it just collects unless Matt’s picking it up.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan:\u003c/strong> But Brooks Island wasn’t always this deserted and quiet. As we continue our loop, naturalist Erin Blackwell points out a massive crescent-shaped scar in the south face of the island. It’s an old rock quarry — mostly grown over now with coyote brush and fennel, but greywacke boulders are still scattered around.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Erin Blackwell:\u003c/strong> Looks like a lot of the quarried rocks were just like, left behind.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan:\u003c/strong> In the late 1800s this was a major industrial operation. Workers blasted out stone and hauled it off to build San Francisco’s great seawall around the Embarcadero, and later the Carquinez Bridge and the Bay Bridge toll plaza and the Berkeley Marina.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Erin Blackwell:\u003c/strong> Also a part of San Quentin was used, uh, from this rock.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan:\u003c/strong> There was also an oyster farm out here.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Erin Blackwell:\u003c/strong> They imported oysters from Washington State. So it was not the native oysters, it was the larger oysters that most people are familiar with eating.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan:\u003c/strong> That lasted until the early 1900s when the bay got too dirty. And then the world wars began.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Erin Blackwell:\u003c/strong> There were plans to make this into a naval base. And so they were basically going to level the island.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The idea was to connect it to Point Isabel to make a battleship harbor. But the Navy chose Hunter’s Point instead. And then things took a recreational turn in the 1960s, when some famous people turned this island into a private bird hunting reserve.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>[Bing Crosby’s “Mr. Meadowlark” plays: “I’m out in the country but I don’t know why. Cause I’m strictly a city-lovin’ guy. Just sittin’ there when a little bird flies my way…]\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan:\u003c/strong> Singer Bing Crosby was one of the members of the exclusive Sheep Island Gun Club. and so was Trader Vic — the self-proclaimed inventor of the mai tai. They kept a houseboat on the island, and they’d boat over from Richmond, release pheasants and other exotic birds, and shoot them.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Erin Blackwell:\u003c/strong> I don’t know, you might see some shotgun shells around, so keep your eye out.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan:\u003c/strong> Blackwell shows us what looks kind of like a Boy Scouts fire ring, with an old barbecue grill, tucked behind one of Brooks Island’s freshwater ponds.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Erin Blackwell:\u003c/strong> They probably, you know, cooked them right up right there.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan:\u003c/strong> And then Bing Crosby usually wanted to go get a drink at the Hotel Mac in Point Richmond around 2 p.m. Apparently, they tried to stock the island with deer as well, but the deer kept swimming back to shore.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>[Bing Crosby’s “Mr. Meadowlark” plays:\u003c/em> \u003cem>“(whistling) That’s where you come in. Mr. Meadowlark, now you should cop a gander when I’m kissing my chick”]\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan:\u003c/strong> The island’s current incarnation kicked off in 1968 when the East Bay Regional Parks District bought it, promising residents a new public park with swimming and boating and camping facilities. But the district kept leasing the island to the gun club for another 20 years. Finally, it bowed to public pressure and told the rich and famous hunters it was time to go.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Erin Blackwell:\u003c/strong> They were finally evicted in 1988.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan:\u003c/strong> And in 1990, Brooks Island became a public park. By then, the parks district had changed the vision from recreation to conservation: The island would be a bird sanctuary and a place for native plants to thrive.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Which brings us to our final stop on the tour — a long sand spit that extends out from the northwest tip of the island. It’s a nesting site for the Caspian tern — a mostly white bird with a bright orange beak.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Erin Blackwell:\u003c/strong> These are birds that were eating a lot of salmon up in Oregon and Washington.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan:\u003c/strong> So to protect the salmon, wildlife officials slowly chased off the terns.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Erin Blackwell:\u003c/strong> And then they eventually made their way here.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan:\u003c/strong> Where they started eating the local salmon. But they still enjoy some protection. Matthew Steven Allen, the caretaker, says the tip of the spit is the one part of the island where people are allowed to come ashore on their own. But only in the winter, when the Caspian terns aren’t nesting there. And even then, he says, it’s really not a good idea.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Matthew Steven Allen:\u003c/strong> The silt has no bottom. So if you get out of your boat and say the water line’s like a hundred feet away, that hundred foot of silt is quicksand and it’ll just take you, until your waist.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan:\u003c/strong> As we reach the end of our tour and paddle back toward the mainland, we pass a flock of pelicans and a seal. And it feels right that Brooks Island stays pretty untouched by humans.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Matthew Steven Allen:\u003c/strong> Everything is a little different, and it’s just a little special, and so I like, I like protecting it. So I’ll be there for a while.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>[Sounds of water flowing, gentle music] \u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price:\u003c/strong> That story was reported by KQED’s Katherine Monahan.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>If you want to take a boat or kayak tour out to Brooks Island, head to the Brooks Island page on the East Bay Parks website for details. We’ll put a link in our show notes too.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Our colleagues at The Bay are working on a podcast episode about dating in the Bay Area — the good, the bad, and everything in between — and we’d love to hear from you. What’s your experience been like? What’s dating like in your city? Do you have a wild story? Leave a voicemail at 415-710-9223, or send a voice memo to thebay@kqed.org. Tell them your name, your city, and your story.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>David Stein:\u003c/strong> Bay Curious is made in San Francisco at member-supported KQED.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price:\u003c/strong> Our show is produced by Amanda Font, Katrina Schwartz, Christopher Beale and me, Olivia Allen-Price.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Extra Support From Jen Chien, Katie Sprenger, Maha Senad, Holly Kernan, Alana Walker and everyone at Team KQED.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I’m Olivia Allen-Price. Have a great week.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"slug": "surprising-ways-former-bay-area-military-bases-are-transforming-and-why-it-takes-so-long",
"title": "Surprising Ways Former Bay Area Military Bases Are Transforming (and Why It Takes So Long)",
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"headTitle": "Surprising Ways Former Bay Area Military Bases Are Transforming (and Why It Takes So Long) | KQED",
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"content": "\u003cp>\u003ci>\u003ca href=\"#A\">View the full episode transcript.\u003c/a>\u003c/i>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>If you live in the Bay Area — or even just visited — chances are you’ve set foot on a former military base.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Most people know the Presidio, which dates back to the Spanish, and Fort Mason, which launched over a million troops into the Pacific during World War II. The sites are now a mix of commerce, open space, and homes.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Then there are other popular places — that you may not have known used to be old military stomping grounds — like the Bay Area Discovery Museum in Sausalito.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[baycuriouspodcastinfo]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Other military sites have been collecting dust for decades, like Point Molate in Richmond, which is vacant and closed off to the public.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Bay Curious listener Cameron Tobey wanted to know why there are so many abandoned military bases in the Bay Area, and what is being done with them now (check out our other story about \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/news/12022479/why-are-there-so-many-abandoned-military-bases-in-the-bay-area\">the rise and fall of the military in the Bay Area\u003c/a>).\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Decades after the military shuttered operations, many of these sites are mired in the drawn out process of being repurposed, redeveloped, razed and re-envisioned.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c!-- iframe plugin v.4.3 wordpress.org/plugins/iframe/ -->\u003cbr>\n\u003ciframe loading=\"lazy\" frameborder=\"0\" height=\"200\" scrolling=\"no\" src=\"https://playlist.megaphone.fm?e=KQINC8389321979\" width=\"100%\" class=\"iframe-class\">\u003c/iframe>\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>The case of Mare Island\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>There are dozens of former military sites around the Bay Area — according to author and historian \u003ca href=\"http://drelouise.com\">Elouise Epstein\u003c/a> — and they all have their own redevelopment story.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The former Mare Island Naval Shipyard in Vallejo is one of several former military sites that’s still in some stage of transition. \u003ca href=\"https://www.history.navy.mil/browse-by-topic/organization-and-administration/historic-bases/mare-island.html\">Opened back in 1854\u003c/a>, it was one of the most active navy yards in the world during World War II. But in 1996, the base was closed, along with many other Bay Area sites, \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/news/12022479/why-are-there-so-many-abandoned-military-bases-in-the-bay-area\">during the Base Realignment and Closure (BRAC) process\u003c/a>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12023596\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1148px\">\u003ca href=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/Pie-Wagon.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12023596\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/Pie-Wagon.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1148\" height=\"717\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/Pie-Wagon.jpg 1148w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/Pie-Wagon-800x500.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/Pie-Wagon-1020x637.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/Pie-Wagon-160x100.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 1148px) 100vw, 1148px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A US Navy vehicle tows ‘pie wagons’ that carried food from the cafeterias to the individual shops to feed the workers during WW2 on Mare Island. This photograph is dated April 3, 1944. \u003ccite>(Courtesy of Mare Island Historic Park Foundation)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Now, Mare Island (which is actually a peninsula) is open to the public, and spans 5,000 acres. It’s a combination of vast open space, a few hundred homes tucked away in clusters, and a handful of retail businesses. The most active area is in the warehouse district, which hosts manufacturers like high-end furniture makers and modular home builders.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Visitors to the island will see a post-industrial landscape with some intriguing charm. There are beautifully restored historic buildings right next to abandoned lots and randomly placed palm trees.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12023741\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2500px\">\u003ca href=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-2.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12023741\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-2.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2500\" height=\"833\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-2.jpg 2500w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-2-800x267.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-2-1020x340.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-2-160x53.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-2-1536x512.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-2-2048x682.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-2-1920x640.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2500px) 100vw, 2500px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Left: The main door on Building 85 on Mare Island was expanded to remove a piece of machinery built inside in this undated archival image. Right: Inside Building 85, an old warehouse where submarines and other machines were made, sits empty on Mare Island, Vallejo, Tuesday, Jan. 14, 2025. \u003ccite>(Left: Courtesy of Mare Island Historic Park Foundation Right: David M. Barreda/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“It’s been this sort of hidden thing for a long, long time,” \u003cem>s\u003c/em>ays Kent Fortner, a resident, founder of the Mare Island Brewing Company, and board president of the \u003ca href=\"https://www.mihpf.org/\">Mare Island Historic Park Foundation\u003c/a>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“If you have any desire to know Naval history from particularly World War I and World War II, this place makes your hair stand on end,” he said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>On a tour of the island, Fortner pointed out the signs of Navy life all over the place — cannons\u003cem>, \u003c/em>a giant metal anchor hidden in the bushes, an ammunition bunker and a firing range. The most impressive remnants are the huge rusty metal cranes on the main historic wharf that were used to repair and build large warships.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“It’s mind-boggling how large these ships were,” Fortner said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12023733\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 558px\">\u003ca href=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/Launch-of-Ship-e1737657619989.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12023733\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/Launch-of-Ship-e1737657619989.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"558\" height=\"630\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/Launch-of-Ship-e1737657619989.jpg 558w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/Launch-of-Ship-e1737657619989-160x181.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 558px) 100vw, 558px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">The USS Chicago being prepared for launching at Mare Island, Vallejo, April 8, 1930. \u003ccite>(Courtesy of Mare Island Historic Park Foundation)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Even though Navy contamination has mostly been cleaned up, and Hollywood regularly drops in (see TV shows \u003ca href=\"https://www.imdb.com/title/tt0383126/\">\u003cem>Mythbusters\u003c/em>\u003c/a>, \u003ca href=\"https://www.imdb.com/title/tt1837492/\">\u003cem>13 Reasons Why\u003c/em>\u003c/a>, and the movie \u003ca href=\"https://www.imdb.com/title/tt4701182/\">\u003cem>Bumblebee\u003c/em>\u003c/a>), the former Navy base still doesn’t have enough amenities to make it a big residential draw.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I can’t say that it’s thriving right now,” said Fortner about the lack of retail businesses, modern parks and walkable neighborhoods. “I mean, converting these naval bases is so complex.”\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>Why does it take so long to redevelop military sites?\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>Navy shipyards like the ones on Mare Island, Hunters Point and in Concord closed decades ago. So why is it taking so long to reinvent them?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Regional planners and developers agree the environmental clean up from the military can take decades.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“The military have never been famous for their environmental stewardship,” said Matt Regan, senior vice president for public policy at the Bay Area Council. “So there’s definitely cleanup challenges, which is expensive.\u003cem>”\u003cbr>\n\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>After the Navy left, Mare Island grappled with mercury and PCB contamination, petroleum in the soil, and underground fuel tanks.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The Hunters Point Naval Shipyard in San Francisco’s Bayview was declared one of the nation’s most contaminated sites in 1989. The city wants to put 10,000 homes there, but it’s been mired in a host of cleanup controversies. The Navy has spent decades cleaning there, but the work isn’t done (\u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/news/12005257/the-hunters-point-cranes-legacy-is-both-majestic-and-troubling\">check out the Bay Curious episode on this\u003c/a>).\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Soliciting public input on plans for redevelopment is another process that takes a long time. In the former Concord Naval Weapons Station’s case, that took seven years.[aside postID=news_12022479 hero='https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/20250114_Mare-Island_DMB_00333-1020x680.jpg']“We had a whole series of options and there were eight alternatives,” said Guy Bjerke, who is directing the base reuse project for the city of Concord. “So the process of developing community consensus is a challenge.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>A third major factor complicating the reinvention of these spaces is keeping private developers onboard.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Private developers assume a lot of financial risk when they take on massive naval base reuse projects, according to Mark Shorett, a principal regional planner with the Association of Bay Area Governments and Metropolitan Transportation Commission (ABAG/MTC).\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Developers often pay for and install basic infrastructure like sewer, water and electricity for these sites, before they even start building “vertical” infrastructure like buildings. Because the environmental cleanup, community input process and regulatory processes take many years, developers may decide it doesn’t “pencil out” — and then walk away.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“They’re trying to create a profitable project and in some cases it’s very challenging for them to do that in the context of a long-range plan,” Shorett said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>And he points out that in other countries private developers don’t typically get involved in the creation of infrastructure.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12023761\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003ca href=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/038_KQED_BaykeeperBayviewHuntersPoint_03082022_qed.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12023761\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/038_KQED_BaykeeperBayviewHuntersPoint_03082022_qed.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1331\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/038_KQED_BaykeeperBayviewHuntersPoint_03082022_qed.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/038_KQED_BaykeeperBayviewHuntersPoint_03082022_qed-800x532.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/038_KQED_BaykeeperBayviewHuntersPoint_03082022_qed-1020x679.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/038_KQED_BaykeeperBayviewHuntersPoint_03082022_qed-160x106.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/038_KQED_BaykeeperBayviewHuntersPoint_03082022_qed-1536x1022.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/038_KQED_BaykeeperBayviewHuntersPoint_03082022_qed-1920x1278.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Abandoned buildings at the Hunters Point Naval Shipyard in San Francisco on March 8, 2022. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12023764\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2500px\">\u003ca href=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-3.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12023764\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-3.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2500\" height=\"833\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-3.jpg 2500w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-3-800x267.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-3-1020x340.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-3-160x53.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-3-1536x512.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-3-2048x682.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-3-1920x640.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2500px) 100vw, 2500px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Left: An abandoned building at the Hunters Point Naval Shipyard in San Francisco on March 8, 2022. Right: Apartment buildings in the Bayview sit behind the Hunters Point Naval Shipyard in San Francisco on March 8, 2022. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>The Concord base reuse project is, again, an example of incurring delays because of trouble with developers.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Their base closed in 2005, and the site is now working with its third developer. The first company left after labor disputes. The second one was essentially dismissed by the city council. The current reuse plan includes 12,000 housing units, a sports complex and a college campus.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Finding a master developer who is willing to meet community expectations around how the project should develop [has] been a complicated process,” said Bjerke, adding that it will probably be another four to six years before anything is built above ground in Concord.\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>Is there a larger vision connecting different military sites?\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>There’s a strong desire to create new housing on the Bay Area’s former military sites, especially the Navy bases, according to Shorett with ABAG/MTC, the planning agency for the Bay Area’s 101 cities. Not only are these sites valuable because of their sheer size, but because they’re transit friendly. They can help meet the area’s affordable housing and climate goals by keeping people where they work.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Housing has already successfully been built on former bases. Treasure Island was once Navy stomping grounds and now has a lot of apartments, with more on the way.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The \u003ca href=\"https://www.novato.org/our-town/hamilton-field#:~:text=Constructed%20in%20the%20early%201930's,open%20space%2C%20and%20civic%20uses.\">new residential community on the former Hamilton Air Force Base in Novato\u003c/a> is another example.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Shorett said the redevelopment success at the Presidio and Fort Mason have no doubt been related to the fact that they’re on national park land.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“The federal government is able to continue to be involved over the long term with less constraints around needing to make a profit,” said Shorett.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>He said one way to speed up development on some of these naval sites is to divide up big parcels of land so all the financial risk doesn’t fall on one developer. That way, multiple agencies can move forward with different projects at the same time.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c!-- iframe plugin v.4.3 wordpress.org/plugins/iframe/ -->\u003cbr>\n\u003ciframe loading=\"lazy\" frameborder=\"0\" height=\"200\" scrolling=\"no\" src=\"https://playlist.megaphone.fm?e=KQINC1512985227\" width=\"100%\" class=\"iframe-class\">\u003c/iframe>\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>Artists are using the abandoned spaces\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>While regional planners are eyeing the former military sites for housing, other people like them just how they are. History buffs, artists and makers like them raw, industrial, with lots of open space to create.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“We find ourselves pretty at home here,” said Kevin Corcoran, one of the founders of \u003ca href=\"https://www.re-sound.net/new-events-1\">Re: Sound\u003cem>, \u003c/em>a group of experimental sound artists\u003c/a> that have been holding performances at Mare Island for 10 years.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Recently, a cellist from Seattle, Lori Goldston, played in an empty metal storage shed right on the historic dock, surrounded by giant rusty cranes.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>She is just one of many people here who have found a new purpose for the historic navy architecture.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“It’s nice to see all this infrastructure being put to good use,” she said. “I’ve seen a lot of empty space and wonder why there aren’t more things happening here\u003cem>.\u003c/em>”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>While it might seem like the sprawling military bases found throughout the Bay Area are just sitting, in reality many of them are making their way through some kind of redevelopment process. But cleaning up after the military takes time. We’ll likely see more built on these sites — probably housing — but it’s going to take a while.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[baycuriousquestion]\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>\u003ca id=\"A\">\u003c/a>Episode Transcript:\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>\u003ci>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">This is a computer-generated transcript. While our team has reviewed it, there may be errors.\u003c/span>\u003c/i>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price:\u003c/strong> Hey everyone. This is Olivia Allen-Price. And last week on Bay Curious, we heard all about how the Bay Area went from military powerhouse to being left with dozens of vacant facilities. All to answer this question from listener Cameron Tobey…\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Cameron Tobey: \u003c/strong>Why are there so many abandoned military bases around the Bay Area? And what’s the future plans for these bases?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price:\u003c/strong> If you didn’t hear the episode, go give it a listen. It gets into the rise and fall of the military presence here. Today, we’re focusing on the future — what’s next for these spaces? Cameron is especially interested in if they can be used for housing.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Cameron Toby: \u003c/strong>You have a lot of abandoned homes in these. Do they plan on redeveloping those homes? Cuz we’re in desperate need of housing here in the Bay Area.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price:\u003c/strong> Today we’ll see how some old military sites are being repurposed, redeveloped, razed and re-envisioned. Sometimes in really creative ways.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone speaking on site during a musical performance at Mare Island: \u003c/strong>Here we go, we’re going to walk inside this warehouse where the performance is going to be…\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Sound of cello music reverberating in an old military building made of metal\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>We’re also going to delve into why decades after the armed forces left, many of these spaces are still stuck in the long process of reinventing themselves.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Kent Fortner: \u003c/strong>I don’t think anybody has a playbook for this. I mean, converting these naval bases is so complex…\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>That’s all ahead on Bay Curious. Just after the break.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Sponsor Message Break\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>Here to help us look at what is happening at the decommissioned military sites around the Bay Area is Pauline Bartolone. Welcome, Pauline!\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone:\u003c/strong> Hey Olivia. Great to be here!\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>So, before we dive in, let’s acknowledge that there are dozens of former military sites around the Bay Area, and they all have their own story in terms of being redeveloped. So we’re going to talk about a few of them specifically, and then also broader trends.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/strong>Right! Some of these military sites are relatively small, like a swath of World War II barracks, and others are huge Navy bases covering several square miles. Chances are you’ve probably set foot on one without even realizing it.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Many people know the Presidio, and Fort Mason in San Francisco, which is now a mix of commercial, open space, and homes. There are other popular places like the Bay Area Discovery Museum in Sausalito, which is on a former army site. But then places mostly closed off to the public, like Point Molate in Richmond, which looks like it’s been collecting dust for decades.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>So some of these sites have been successfully redeveloped?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/strong>Yeah. Another would be Treasure Island. It was once Navy stomping grounds and now has a lot of apartments, with more on the way. Way more. But a lot of the spots I learned about were very much in some stage of transition. Especially the former big Navy bases, like Mare Island in Vallejo.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>You heard a lot about the Mare Island Naval Shipyard on the last episode. It opened more than 150 years ago, just after the Gold Rush, and was one of the most active Navy yards in the world during World War II. But 30 years ago, the Navy stopped maintaining ships and submarines there.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The contamination from the Navy has mostly been cleaned up, but it hasn’t really taken shape as a new viable, residential community. The whole swath of land, which by the way is actually a peninsula … long story … is about 5000 acres.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Ambiance from the base fades up\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Right now, there are just a few hundred homes there, a handful of retail businesses and a pretty active industrial sector. Anyone who takes a tour of it — which I did, it’s open to the public — will see it’s an eclectic mix of revitalization, and decay. But it has an intriguing charm. It’s a vast post-industrial landscape with beautifully restored historic buildings, right next to abandoned lots and warehouses.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Kent Fortner: \u003c/strong>It’s been this sort of hidden thing for a long, long time.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/strong>Kent Fortner is a perfect person to show me around. He’s a resident, and a business owner here. He converted an old Navy coal shed and turned it into the Mare Island Brewing Company. When he’s not brewing beer, he’s researching the area’s history through the local historic association.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Kent Fortner: \u003c/strong>if you have any desire to know naval history from particularly World War I and World War II, this place makes your hair stand on end…\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Sound of car door slamming\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Kent Fortner: \u003c/strong>So we’ll drive through the old officers road down here…\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/strong>The residential neighborhoods are mostly tucked away in a couple of clusters. So you can drive for a block or two and see nothing but pavement on each side, then, a randomly placed palm tree. Actually, the trees here are a sight to see. Apparently the Navy collected saplings from all over the world.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Kent Fortner: \u003c/strong>Arborists from all over come to look at all of this.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/strong>There are more signs of Navy life all over the place. Kent pointed a lot of them out during our drive. Like cannons…\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Kent Fortner: \u003c/strong>The cannons you see over here…\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/strong>And giant metal anchors taller than most of us.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Kent Fortner: \u003c/strong>…Hidden in the bushes over here.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/strong>An ammunition bunker and a firing range…\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Kent Fortner: \u003c/strong>There’s still bullet casings and potentially unexploded bullets in the soil. So that needs to be cleaned up.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/strong>Then, an old Navy hospital that specialized in lost limbs.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Kent Fortner: \u003c/strong>This is where you came to get your prosthetic fixed.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/strong>But the most glaring remnants of the Navy are the huge rusty metal cranes on the main historic wharf. There’s a row of them — towering several stories high, with massive empty concrete dry dock for the ships below.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Kent Fortner: \u003c/strong>Those are cranes that can lift incredible amounts of weight and that’s how they would assemble the ships back in the day … it’s mind boggling how large these ships were.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/strong>A number of Hollywood producers have been drawn in by the patchwork of landscapes here, using Mare Island as a backdrop for movies and TV shows.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Movie sound effect of robot transforming\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/strong>Like \u003cem>Bumblebee\u003c/em>, the transformer movie.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Clip from \u003c/em>13 Reasons Why\u003cem>: “Omg … What are you?”\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>And the more quiet teenage thriller, \u003cem>13 Reasons Why\u003c/em> on Netflix.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Clip from \u003c/em>13 Reasons Why\u003cem>: Voice 1 “I’m not going, not now, not ever.” Voice 2: “Why didn’t you say this to me when I was alive?”\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/strong>But it’s not all military ruins. There are signs of rebirth too. Touro University bought the Navy hospital and holds classes there. Dozens of manufacturing-type businesses have set up here — high end furniture makers, modular home builders, and alcohol entrepreneurs, like Kent. But in terms of amenities for everyday living, like stores, modern parks and walkable neighborhoods … the former military base is not there.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Kent Fortner: \u003c/strong>I can’t say that it’s thriving right now. But we’re in this weird seam between when all the cleanup had to get done and when the new stuff is all going to start getting developed.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Music\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>So Pauline … the Mare Island Navy Shipyard closed back in the mid 1990s. Other bases also closed decades ago. Why does it take so long to reinvent them?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/strong>Well I talked to regional planners, developers and city officials and heard some common things.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Number one is there is just a lot of environmental clean up to do on military sites. In Mare Island’s case, things like mercury, petroleum, underground fuel tanks, PCBs (those are chemicals in electrical equipment that were banned in the ’70s.) And this clean up takes a really long time. Like decades. Mare island’s not fully done with it.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Another process that takes a long time is public input to come up with a new plan for the site. In one case I heard, that took 7 years.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>And a third factor is, it’s hard to keep private developers in the game. The developers are for-profit, and they assume a lot of risk and front-end costs in these massive projects. They take on basic infrastructure like sewer, water and electricity for these sites. They have to prove to their shareholders that the project will “pencil out” over a long period. One regional planner I talked to says the amount of investment private developers take on in these projects is pretty unique to the U.S. — he says in other countries the private sector wouldn’t be as involved at the infrastructure stage.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>That’s interesting. Can you tell me more about this problem keeping private developers engaged?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/strong>Yeah, the former Concord Naval Weapons Station is a perfect example of this. Their base closed in 2005, and they’re on their third private developer. The first developer left after labor disputes. The second developer was essentially booted by the city council. Now they have an ambitious plan for 12,000 housing units, a sports complex, even a college campus on the former site.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I talked to Guy Bjerke with the City of Concord about their drawn out process, and he says there are many regulatory steps they have to wait out.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Guy Bjerke: \u003c/strong>The need to get all of the resource permitting for wetlands and endangered species, and cultural sites right and the burial grounds. and those sorts of things. The need to work with the Navy to both monitor and facilitate how they’re cleaning up the sites so it can be turned into housing. So these are all complicated issues.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/strong>Bjerke says it’s probably going to be another 4–6 years before people see anything built above ground on the former Concord base. And again it closed 20 years ago.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>As for some of the other military sites … what are some of the plans for development there?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/strong>Well in general there’s a strong desire to create new housing on these sites, especially on the five major Navy bases like Mare Island, Alameda and Concord. Not only do these sites have a lot of acreage, but they’re also transit friendly, so they can help meet the area’s affordable housing and climate goals by keeping people where they work as opposed to commuting from Tracy.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>There are examples of housing built on military sites. The former Hamilton Air Force Base in Novato, in Marin County, is just one example, and of course, Treasure Island.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>One note here — We’ve done some reporting on the redevelopment of the Hunters Point Naval Shipyard in San Francisco’s Bayview, another massive project in the works. The base was declared one of the nation’s most contaminated sites in 1989. The city wants to put 10,000 homes on the land … but it’s been mired in a host of cleanup controversies. The Navy has spent decades cleaning there, but the work isn’t done. There are major concerns about contaminants they may have missed, and how sea-level rise could cause deeply buried toxins to resurface. Additional clean up is planned. There’s a lot to that story, more than we can get into right now, but we’ll link to some resources in our show notes.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Pauline, What can we learn from the sites that have been successfully redeveloped?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/strong>Well I’m told places like the Presidio and Fort Mason have really benefited from being on national park land. They’ve had one consistent owner with steady revenue — the federal government — which can see through a long term vision for the place. For the other spaces, one proposal I heard for speeding up the development is to essentially divide the projects up so a collection of groups can move things along at the same time.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>Sounds like reinventing these sites is very complicated and involves a lot of different players, but perhaps that’s not surprising.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/strong>Right … I do want to say that some people like the bases just how they are: raw, industrial, with lots of open space. History buffs for sure, and artists and makers. There’s plenty of space to create. In fact, a group of sound artists have been holding performances regularly at Mare Island for 10 years.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Sound of a crowd gathering in a big room. A voice says “Hello everybody”\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/strong>They call the series Re:Sound … And it’s pretty experimental.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Music played with a cello\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/strong>The day I went, a cellist named Lori Goldston from Seattle was playing … improvising of course.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Music played with a cello\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/strong>She performed in an empty metal storage shed right on the historic dock. The giant rusty cranes were all around us. The Navy architecture was part of the show … the metal walls creaked with the breeze. The audience sat on the concrete floor, which was once covered with military supplies.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Distant birds with cello music\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/strong>Many listened with their eyes closed, almost in a trance, taking in the string music and the birds in the distance.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Artists like Lori Goldston are among many people here who are working with the island’s rich history just as it is, while finding a new purpose for it at the same time.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Lori Goldston: \u003c/strong>It’s nice to see all this infrastructure being put to good use. I’ve seen a lot of empty space and wonder why there aren’t more things happening here.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/strong>We’ll see more built on these military bases. Probably housing. But it’s going to take a while.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>Pauline Bartolone, thank you!\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/strong>My pleasure.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>Thanks to listener Cameron Tobey for asking the question that sparked this two-part story. And a special thanks to Matt Regan of the Bay Area Council and Mark Shorett of the Association of Bay Area Governments for their expertise.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Bay Curious is made in SF at member-supported KQED. Find out more about becoming a member, and supported the work of Bay Curious, at \u003ca href=\"http://kqed.org/donate\">KQED.org/donate\u003c/a>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Bay Curious is made by Amanda Font, Katrina Schwartz, Christopher Beale, and me, Olivia Allen-Price.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Additional Support from Jen Chien, Katie Sprenger, Maha Sanad, Holly Kernan and everyone on Team KQED. Thanks for listening!\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad floatright]\u003c/p>\n",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>\u003ci>\u003ca href=\"#A\">View the full episode transcript.\u003c/a>\u003c/i>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>If you live in the Bay Area — or even just visited — chances are you’ve set foot on a former military base.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Most people know the Presidio, which dates back to the Spanish, and Fort Mason, which launched over a million troops into the Pacific during World War II. The sites are now a mix of commerce, open space, and homes.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Then there are other popular places — that you may not have known used to be old military stomping grounds — like the Bay Area Discovery Museum in Sausalito.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003caside class=\"alignleft utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__bayCuriousPodcastShortcode__bayCurious\">\u003cimg src=https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/2023/02/bayCuriousLogo.png alt=\"Bay Curious Podcast\" loading=\"lazy\" />\n \u003ca href=\"/news/series/baycurious\">Bay Curious\u003c/a> is a podcast that answers your questions about the Bay Area.\n Subscribe on \u003ca href=\"https://itunes.apple.com/us/podcast/bay-curious/id1172473406\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">Apple Podcasts\u003c/a>,\n \u003ca href=\"http://www.npr.org/podcasts/500557090/bay-curious\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">NPR One\u003c/a> or your favorite podcast platform.\u003c/aside>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Other military sites have been collecting dust for decades, like Point Molate in Richmond, which is vacant and closed off to the public.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Bay Curious listener Cameron Tobey wanted to know why there are so many abandoned military bases in the Bay Area, and what is being done with them now (check out our other story about \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/news/12022479/why-are-there-so-many-abandoned-military-bases-in-the-bay-area\">the rise and fall of the military in the Bay Area\u003c/a>).\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Decades after the military shuttered operations, many of these sites are mired in the drawn out process of being repurposed, redeveloped, razed and re-envisioned.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c!-- iframe plugin v.4.3 wordpress.org/plugins/iframe/ -->\u003cbr>\n\u003ciframe loading=\"lazy\" frameborder=\"0\" height=\"200\" scrolling=\"no\" src=\"https://playlist.megaphone.fm?e=KQINC8389321979\" width=\"100%\" class=\"iframe-class\">\u003c/iframe>\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>The case of Mare Island\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>There are dozens of former military sites around the Bay Area — according to author and historian \u003ca href=\"http://drelouise.com\">Elouise Epstein\u003c/a> — and they all have their own redevelopment story.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The former Mare Island Naval Shipyard in Vallejo is one of several former military sites that’s still in some stage of transition. \u003ca href=\"https://www.history.navy.mil/browse-by-topic/organization-and-administration/historic-bases/mare-island.html\">Opened back in 1854\u003c/a>, it was one of the most active navy yards in the world during World War II. But in 1996, the base was closed, along with many other Bay Area sites, \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/news/12022479/why-are-there-so-many-abandoned-military-bases-in-the-bay-area\">during the Base Realignment and Closure (BRAC) process\u003c/a>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12023596\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1148px\">\u003ca href=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/Pie-Wagon.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12023596\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/Pie-Wagon.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1148\" height=\"717\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/Pie-Wagon.jpg 1148w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/Pie-Wagon-800x500.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/Pie-Wagon-1020x637.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/Pie-Wagon-160x100.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 1148px) 100vw, 1148px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A US Navy vehicle tows ‘pie wagons’ that carried food from the cafeterias to the individual shops to feed the workers during WW2 on Mare Island. This photograph is dated April 3, 1944. \u003ccite>(Courtesy of Mare Island Historic Park Foundation)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Now, Mare Island (which is actually a peninsula) is open to the public, and spans 5,000 acres. It’s a combination of vast open space, a few hundred homes tucked away in clusters, and a handful of retail businesses. The most active area is in the warehouse district, which hosts manufacturers like high-end furniture makers and modular home builders.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Visitors to the island will see a post-industrial landscape with some intriguing charm. There are beautifully restored historic buildings right next to abandoned lots and randomly placed palm trees.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12023741\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2500px\">\u003ca href=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-2.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12023741\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-2.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2500\" height=\"833\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-2.jpg 2500w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-2-800x267.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-2-1020x340.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-2-160x53.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-2-1536x512.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-2-2048x682.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-2-1920x640.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2500px) 100vw, 2500px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Left: The main door on Building 85 on Mare Island was expanded to remove a piece of machinery built inside in this undated archival image. Right: Inside Building 85, an old warehouse where submarines and other machines were made, sits empty on Mare Island, Vallejo, Tuesday, Jan. 14, 2025. \u003ccite>(Left: Courtesy of Mare Island Historic Park Foundation Right: David M. Barreda/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“It’s been this sort of hidden thing for a long, long time,” \u003cem>s\u003c/em>ays Kent Fortner, a resident, founder of the Mare Island Brewing Company, and board president of the \u003ca href=\"https://www.mihpf.org/\">Mare Island Historic Park Foundation\u003c/a>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“If you have any desire to know Naval history from particularly World War I and World War II, this place makes your hair stand on end,” he said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>On a tour of the island, Fortner pointed out the signs of Navy life all over the place — cannons\u003cem>, \u003c/em>a giant metal anchor hidden in the bushes, an ammunition bunker and a firing range. The most impressive remnants are the huge rusty metal cranes on the main historic wharf that were used to repair and build large warships.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“It’s mind-boggling how large these ships were,” Fortner said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12023733\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 558px\">\u003ca href=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/Launch-of-Ship-e1737657619989.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12023733\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/Launch-of-Ship-e1737657619989.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"558\" height=\"630\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/Launch-of-Ship-e1737657619989.jpg 558w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/Launch-of-Ship-e1737657619989-160x181.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 558px) 100vw, 558px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">The USS Chicago being prepared for launching at Mare Island, Vallejo, April 8, 1930. \u003ccite>(Courtesy of Mare Island Historic Park Foundation)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Even though Navy contamination has mostly been cleaned up, and Hollywood regularly drops in (see TV shows \u003ca href=\"https://www.imdb.com/title/tt0383126/\">\u003cem>Mythbusters\u003c/em>\u003c/a>, \u003ca href=\"https://www.imdb.com/title/tt1837492/\">\u003cem>13 Reasons Why\u003c/em>\u003c/a>, and the movie \u003ca href=\"https://www.imdb.com/title/tt4701182/\">\u003cem>Bumblebee\u003c/em>\u003c/a>), the former Navy base still doesn’t have enough amenities to make it a big residential draw.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I can’t say that it’s thriving right now,” said Fortner about the lack of retail businesses, modern parks and walkable neighborhoods. “I mean, converting these naval bases is so complex.”\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>Why does it take so long to redevelop military sites?\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>Navy shipyards like the ones on Mare Island, Hunters Point and in Concord closed decades ago. So why is it taking so long to reinvent them?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Regional planners and developers agree the environmental clean up from the military can take decades.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“The military have never been famous for their environmental stewardship,” said Matt Regan, senior vice president for public policy at the Bay Area Council. “So there’s definitely cleanup challenges, which is expensive.\u003cem>”\u003cbr>\n\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>After the Navy left, Mare Island grappled with mercury and PCB contamination, petroleum in the soil, and underground fuel tanks.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The Hunters Point Naval Shipyard in San Francisco’s Bayview was declared one of the nation’s most contaminated sites in 1989. The city wants to put 10,000 homes there, but it’s been mired in a host of cleanup controversies. The Navy has spent decades cleaning there, but the work isn’t done (\u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/news/12005257/the-hunters-point-cranes-legacy-is-both-majestic-and-troubling\">check out the Bay Curious episode on this\u003c/a>).\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Soliciting public input on plans for redevelopment is another process that takes a long time. In the former Concord Naval Weapons Station’s case, that took seven years.\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>“We had a whole series of options and there were eight alternatives,” said Guy Bjerke, who is directing the base reuse project for the city of Concord. “So the process of developing community consensus is a challenge.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>A third major factor complicating the reinvention of these spaces is keeping private developers onboard.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Private developers assume a lot of financial risk when they take on massive naval base reuse projects, according to Mark Shorett, a principal regional planner with the Association of Bay Area Governments and Metropolitan Transportation Commission (ABAG/MTC).\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Developers often pay for and install basic infrastructure like sewer, water and electricity for these sites, before they even start building “vertical” infrastructure like buildings. Because the environmental cleanup, community input process and regulatory processes take many years, developers may decide it doesn’t “pencil out” — and then walk away.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“They’re trying to create a profitable project and in some cases it’s very challenging for them to do that in the context of a long-range plan,” Shorett said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>And he points out that in other countries private developers don’t typically get involved in the creation of infrastructure.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12023761\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003ca href=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/038_KQED_BaykeeperBayviewHuntersPoint_03082022_qed.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12023761\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/038_KQED_BaykeeperBayviewHuntersPoint_03082022_qed.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1331\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/038_KQED_BaykeeperBayviewHuntersPoint_03082022_qed.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/038_KQED_BaykeeperBayviewHuntersPoint_03082022_qed-800x532.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/038_KQED_BaykeeperBayviewHuntersPoint_03082022_qed-1020x679.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/038_KQED_BaykeeperBayviewHuntersPoint_03082022_qed-160x106.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/038_KQED_BaykeeperBayviewHuntersPoint_03082022_qed-1536x1022.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/038_KQED_BaykeeperBayviewHuntersPoint_03082022_qed-1920x1278.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Abandoned buildings at the Hunters Point Naval Shipyard in San Francisco on March 8, 2022. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12023764\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2500px\">\u003ca href=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-3.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12023764\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-3.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2500\" height=\"833\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-3.jpg 2500w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-3-800x267.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-3-1020x340.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-3-160x53.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-3-1536x512.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-3-2048x682.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-3-1920x640.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2500px) 100vw, 2500px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Left: An abandoned building at the Hunters Point Naval Shipyard in San Francisco on March 8, 2022. Right: Apartment buildings in the Bayview sit behind the Hunters Point Naval Shipyard in San Francisco on March 8, 2022. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>The Concord base reuse project is, again, an example of incurring delays because of trouble with developers.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Their base closed in 2005, and the site is now working with its third developer. The first company left after labor disputes. The second one was essentially dismissed by the city council. The current reuse plan includes 12,000 housing units, a sports complex and a college campus.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Finding a master developer who is willing to meet community expectations around how the project should develop [has] been a complicated process,” said Bjerke, adding that it will probably be another four to six years before anything is built above ground in Concord.\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>Is there a larger vision connecting different military sites?\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>There’s a strong desire to create new housing on the Bay Area’s former military sites, especially the Navy bases, according to Shorett with ABAG/MTC, the planning agency for the Bay Area’s 101 cities. Not only are these sites valuable because of their sheer size, but because they’re transit friendly. They can help meet the area’s affordable housing and climate goals by keeping people where they work.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Housing has already successfully been built on former bases. Treasure Island was once Navy stomping grounds and now has a lot of apartments, with more on the way.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The \u003ca href=\"https://www.novato.org/our-town/hamilton-field#:~:text=Constructed%20in%20the%20early%201930's,open%20space%2C%20and%20civic%20uses.\">new residential community on the former Hamilton Air Force Base in Novato\u003c/a> is another example.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Shorett said the redevelopment success at the Presidio and Fort Mason have no doubt been related to the fact that they’re on national park land.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“The federal government is able to continue to be involved over the long term with less constraints around needing to make a profit,” said Shorett.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>He said one way to speed up development on some of these naval sites is to divide up big parcels of land so all the financial risk doesn’t fall on one developer. That way, multiple agencies can move forward with different projects at the same time.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c!-- iframe plugin v.4.3 wordpress.org/plugins/iframe/ -->\u003cbr>\n\u003ciframe loading=\"lazy\" frameborder=\"0\" height=\"200\" scrolling=\"no\" src=\"https://playlist.megaphone.fm?e=KQINC1512985227\" width=\"100%\" class=\"iframe-class\">\u003c/iframe>\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>Artists are using the abandoned spaces\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>While regional planners are eyeing the former military sites for housing, other people like them just how they are. History buffs, artists and makers like them raw, industrial, with lots of open space to create.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“We find ourselves pretty at home here,” said Kevin Corcoran, one of the founders of \u003ca href=\"https://www.re-sound.net/new-events-1\">Re: Sound\u003cem>, \u003c/em>a group of experimental sound artists\u003c/a> that have been holding performances at Mare Island for 10 years.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Recently, a cellist from Seattle, Lori Goldston, played in an empty metal storage shed right on the historic dock, surrounded by giant rusty cranes.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>She is just one of many people here who have found a new purpose for the historic navy architecture.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“It’s nice to see all this infrastructure being put to good use,” she said. “I’ve seen a lot of empty space and wonder why there aren’t more things happening here\u003cem>.\u003c/em>”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>While it might seem like the sprawling military bases found throughout the Bay Area are just sitting, in reality many of them are making their way through some kind of redevelopment process. But cleaning up after the military takes time. We’ll likely see more built on these sites — probably housing — but it’s going to take a while.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>\u003ca id=\"A\">\u003c/a>Episode Transcript:\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>\u003ci>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">This is a computer-generated transcript. While our team has reviewed it, there may be errors.\u003c/span>\u003c/i>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price:\u003c/strong> Hey everyone. This is Olivia Allen-Price. And last week on Bay Curious, we heard all about how the Bay Area went from military powerhouse to being left with dozens of vacant facilities. All to answer this question from listener Cameron Tobey…\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Cameron Tobey: \u003c/strong>Why are there so many abandoned military bases around the Bay Area? And what’s the future plans for these bases?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price:\u003c/strong> If you didn’t hear the episode, go give it a listen. It gets into the rise and fall of the military presence here. Today, we’re focusing on the future — what’s next for these spaces? Cameron is especially interested in if they can be used for housing.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Cameron Toby: \u003c/strong>You have a lot of abandoned homes in these. Do they plan on redeveloping those homes? Cuz we’re in desperate need of housing here in the Bay Area.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price:\u003c/strong> Today we’ll see how some old military sites are being repurposed, redeveloped, razed and re-envisioned. Sometimes in really creative ways.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone speaking on site during a musical performance at Mare Island: \u003c/strong>Here we go, we’re going to walk inside this warehouse where the performance is going to be…\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Sound of cello music reverberating in an old military building made of metal\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>We’re also going to delve into why decades after the armed forces left, many of these spaces are still stuck in the long process of reinventing themselves.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Kent Fortner: \u003c/strong>I don’t think anybody has a playbook for this. I mean, converting these naval bases is so complex…\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>That’s all ahead on Bay Curious. Just after the break.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Sponsor Message Break\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>Here to help us look at what is happening at the decommissioned military sites around the Bay Area is Pauline Bartolone. Welcome, Pauline!\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone:\u003c/strong> Hey Olivia. Great to be here!\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>So, before we dive in, let’s acknowledge that there are dozens of former military sites around the Bay Area, and they all have their own story in terms of being redeveloped. So we’re going to talk about a few of them specifically, and then also broader trends.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/strong>Right! Some of these military sites are relatively small, like a swath of World War II barracks, and others are huge Navy bases covering several square miles. Chances are you’ve probably set foot on one without even realizing it.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Many people know the Presidio, and Fort Mason in San Francisco, which is now a mix of commercial, open space, and homes. There are other popular places like the Bay Area Discovery Museum in Sausalito, which is on a former army site. But then places mostly closed off to the public, like Point Molate in Richmond, which looks like it’s been collecting dust for decades.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>So some of these sites have been successfully redeveloped?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/strong>Yeah. Another would be Treasure Island. It was once Navy stomping grounds and now has a lot of apartments, with more on the way. Way more. But a lot of the spots I learned about were very much in some stage of transition. Especially the former big Navy bases, like Mare Island in Vallejo.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>You heard a lot about the Mare Island Naval Shipyard on the last episode. It opened more than 150 years ago, just after the Gold Rush, and was one of the most active Navy yards in the world during World War II. But 30 years ago, the Navy stopped maintaining ships and submarines there.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The contamination from the Navy has mostly been cleaned up, but it hasn’t really taken shape as a new viable, residential community. The whole swath of land, which by the way is actually a peninsula … long story … is about 5000 acres.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Ambiance from the base fades up\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Right now, there are just a few hundred homes there, a handful of retail businesses and a pretty active industrial sector. Anyone who takes a tour of it — which I did, it’s open to the public — will see it’s an eclectic mix of revitalization, and decay. But it has an intriguing charm. It’s a vast post-industrial landscape with beautifully restored historic buildings, right next to abandoned lots and warehouses.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Kent Fortner: \u003c/strong>It’s been this sort of hidden thing for a long, long time.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/strong>Kent Fortner is a perfect person to show me around. He’s a resident, and a business owner here. He converted an old Navy coal shed and turned it into the Mare Island Brewing Company. When he’s not brewing beer, he’s researching the area’s history through the local historic association.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Kent Fortner: \u003c/strong>if you have any desire to know naval history from particularly World War I and World War II, this place makes your hair stand on end…\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Sound of car door slamming\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Kent Fortner: \u003c/strong>So we’ll drive through the old officers road down here…\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/strong>The residential neighborhoods are mostly tucked away in a couple of clusters. So you can drive for a block or two and see nothing but pavement on each side, then, a randomly placed palm tree. Actually, the trees here are a sight to see. Apparently the Navy collected saplings from all over the world.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Kent Fortner: \u003c/strong>Arborists from all over come to look at all of this.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/strong>There are more signs of Navy life all over the place. Kent pointed a lot of them out during our drive. Like cannons…\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Kent Fortner: \u003c/strong>The cannons you see over here…\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/strong>And giant metal anchors taller than most of us.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Kent Fortner: \u003c/strong>…Hidden in the bushes over here.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/strong>An ammunition bunker and a firing range…\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Kent Fortner: \u003c/strong>There’s still bullet casings and potentially unexploded bullets in the soil. So that needs to be cleaned up.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/strong>Then, an old Navy hospital that specialized in lost limbs.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Kent Fortner: \u003c/strong>This is where you came to get your prosthetic fixed.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/strong>But the most glaring remnants of the Navy are the huge rusty metal cranes on the main historic wharf. There’s a row of them — towering several stories high, with massive empty concrete dry dock for the ships below.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Kent Fortner: \u003c/strong>Those are cranes that can lift incredible amounts of weight and that’s how they would assemble the ships back in the day … it’s mind boggling how large these ships were.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/strong>A number of Hollywood producers have been drawn in by the patchwork of landscapes here, using Mare Island as a backdrop for movies and TV shows.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Movie sound effect of robot transforming\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/strong>Like \u003cem>Bumblebee\u003c/em>, the transformer movie.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Clip from \u003c/em>13 Reasons Why\u003cem>: “Omg … What are you?”\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>And the more quiet teenage thriller, \u003cem>13 Reasons Why\u003c/em> on Netflix.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Clip from \u003c/em>13 Reasons Why\u003cem>: Voice 1 “I’m not going, not now, not ever.” Voice 2: “Why didn’t you say this to me when I was alive?”\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/strong>But it’s not all military ruins. There are signs of rebirth too. Touro University bought the Navy hospital and holds classes there. Dozens of manufacturing-type businesses have set up here — high end furniture makers, modular home builders, and alcohol entrepreneurs, like Kent. But in terms of amenities for everyday living, like stores, modern parks and walkable neighborhoods … the former military base is not there.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Kent Fortner: \u003c/strong>I can’t say that it’s thriving right now. But we’re in this weird seam between when all the cleanup had to get done and when the new stuff is all going to start getting developed.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Music\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>So Pauline … the Mare Island Navy Shipyard closed back in the mid 1990s. Other bases also closed decades ago. Why does it take so long to reinvent them?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/strong>Well I talked to regional planners, developers and city officials and heard some common things.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Number one is there is just a lot of environmental clean up to do on military sites. In Mare Island’s case, things like mercury, petroleum, underground fuel tanks, PCBs (those are chemicals in electrical equipment that were banned in the ’70s.) And this clean up takes a really long time. Like decades. Mare island’s not fully done with it.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Another process that takes a long time is public input to come up with a new plan for the site. In one case I heard, that took 7 years.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>And a third factor is, it’s hard to keep private developers in the game. The developers are for-profit, and they assume a lot of risk and front-end costs in these massive projects. They take on basic infrastructure like sewer, water and electricity for these sites. They have to prove to their shareholders that the project will “pencil out” over a long period. One regional planner I talked to says the amount of investment private developers take on in these projects is pretty unique to the U.S. — he says in other countries the private sector wouldn’t be as involved at the infrastructure stage.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>That’s interesting. Can you tell me more about this problem keeping private developers engaged?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/strong>Yeah, the former Concord Naval Weapons Station is a perfect example of this. Their base closed in 2005, and they’re on their third private developer. The first developer left after labor disputes. The second developer was essentially booted by the city council. Now they have an ambitious plan for 12,000 housing units, a sports complex, even a college campus on the former site.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I talked to Guy Bjerke with the City of Concord about their drawn out process, and he says there are many regulatory steps they have to wait out.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Guy Bjerke: \u003c/strong>The need to get all of the resource permitting for wetlands and endangered species, and cultural sites right and the burial grounds. and those sorts of things. The need to work with the Navy to both monitor and facilitate how they’re cleaning up the sites so it can be turned into housing. So these are all complicated issues.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/strong>Bjerke says it’s probably going to be another 4–6 years before people see anything built above ground on the former Concord base. And again it closed 20 years ago.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>As for some of the other military sites … what are some of the plans for development there?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/strong>Well in general there’s a strong desire to create new housing on these sites, especially on the five major Navy bases like Mare Island, Alameda and Concord. Not only do these sites have a lot of acreage, but they’re also transit friendly, so they can help meet the area’s affordable housing and climate goals by keeping people where they work as opposed to commuting from Tracy.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>There are examples of housing built on military sites. The former Hamilton Air Force Base in Novato, in Marin County, is just one example, and of course, Treasure Island.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>One note here — We’ve done some reporting on the redevelopment of the Hunters Point Naval Shipyard in San Francisco’s Bayview, another massive project in the works. The base was declared one of the nation’s most contaminated sites in 1989. The city wants to put 10,000 homes on the land … but it’s been mired in a host of cleanup controversies. The Navy has spent decades cleaning there, but the work isn’t done. There are major concerns about contaminants they may have missed, and how sea-level rise could cause deeply buried toxins to resurface. Additional clean up is planned. There’s a lot to that story, more than we can get into right now, but we’ll link to some resources in our show notes.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Pauline, What can we learn from the sites that have been successfully redeveloped?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/strong>Well I’m told places like the Presidio and Fort Mason have really benefited from being on national park land. They’ve had one consistent owner with steady revenue — the federal government — which can see through a long term vision for the place. For the other spaces, one proposal I heard for speeding up the development is to essentially divide the projects up so a collection of groups can move things along at the same time.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>Sounds like reinventing these sites is very complicated and involves a lot of different players, but perhaps that’s not surprising.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/strong>Right … I do want to say that some people like the bases just how they are: raw, industrial, with lots of open space. History buffs for sure, and artists and makers. There’s plenty of space to create. In fact, a group of sound artists have been holding performances regularly at Mare Island for 10 years.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Sound of a crowd gathering in a big room. A voice says “Hello everybody”\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/strong>They call the series Re:Sound … And it’s pretty experimental.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Music played with a cello\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/strong>The day I went, a cellist named Lori Goldston from Seattle was playing … improvising of course.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Music played with a cello\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/strong>She performed in an empty metal storage shed right on the historic dock. The giant rusty cranes were all around us. The Navy architecture was part of the show … the metal walls creaked with the breeze. The audience sat on the concrete floor, which was once covered with military supplies.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Distant birds with cello music\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/strong>Many listened with their eyes closed, almost in a trance, taking in the string music and the birds in the distance.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Artists like Lori Goldston are among many people here who are working with the island’s rich history just as it is, while finding a new purpose for it at the same time.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Lori Goldston: \u003c/strong>It’s nice to see all this infrastructure being put to good use. I’ve seen a lot of empty space and wonder why there aren’t more things happening here.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/strong>We’ll see more built on these military bases. Probably housing. But it’s going to take a while.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>Pauline Bartolone, thank you!\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone: \u003c/strong>My pleasure.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>Thanks to listener Cameron Tobey for asking the question that sparked this two-part story. And a special thanks to Matt Regan of the Bay Area Council and Mark Shorett of the Association of Bay Area Governments for their expertise.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Bay Curious is made in SF at member-supported KQED. Find out more about becoming a member, and supported the work of Bay Curious, at \u003ca href=\"http://kqed.org/donate\">KQED.org/donate\u003c/a>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Bay Curious is made by Amanda Font, Katrina Schwartz, Christopher Beale, and me, Olivia Allen-Price.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Additional Support from Jen Chien, Katie Sprenger, Maha Sanad, Holly Kernan and everyone on Team KQED. Thanks for listening!\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cp>\u003ci>\u003ca href=\"#A\">View the full episode transcript.\u003c/a>\u003c/i>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Every October, navy planes rip through San Francisco skies, giant warships barrel through the Bay, and hundreds of uniformed officers fill Marina Green. Then, a week later, they’re all gone. It’s all part of \u003ca href=\"https://fleetweeksf.org/bay-area-military-history/\">Fleet Week, a 40-year-old military tradition in San Francisco.\u003c/a>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>These days, Fleet Week is likely the only time Bay Area residents see armed forces in uniform. Although the military’s presence in the Bay Area was once huge, the Department of Defense began a national effort to downsize in the late 1980s, leaving many former military sites vacant and in need of cleanup.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[baycuriouspodcastinfo]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Bay Curious listener Cameron Tobey wondered about this history while exploring the former Mare Island Naval Shipyard in Vallejo.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“It seems at one point that every branch of the military had a base here, and now they’re all sitting empty,” Tobey said. “So what happened to them, and what’s the future plans for these bases?”\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>\u003cstrong>The Bay Area was once a military powerhouse\u003c/strong>\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>Dating back all the way to Spanish colonizers who built the Presidio, San Francisco was a strategic place for military defense. When the United States took over, it grew into one of the biggest military centers in the world.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“San Francisco was the overwhelming center of U.S. settlement, economy and power in the western U.S. in the 19th century,” said Dick Walker, professor emeritus in geography at UC Berkeley and author of several books on California history.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>By the end of World War II, the U.S. military had established dozens of sites, everything from shipyards and air stations to barracks and weapons stations.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12023512\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003ca href=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/20250114_Mare-Island_DMB_00190.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12023512\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/20250114_Mare-Island_DMB_00190.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/20250114_Mare-Island_DMB_00190.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/20250114_Mare-Island_DMB_00190-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/20250114_Mare-Island_DMB_00190-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/20250114_Mare-Island_DMB_00190-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/20250114_Mare-Island_DMB_00190-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/20250114_Mare-Island_DMB_00190-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Sculptures and defunct cranes occupy the waterfront facing the Napa River on Mare Island in the city of Vallejo on Tuesday, Jan. 14, 2025. \u003ccite>(David M. Barreda/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Many former military sites have become iconic Bay Area landmarks. Alcatraz was once a \u003ca href=\"https://www.bop.gov/about/history/alcatraz.jsp\">military prison\u003c/a>; Treasure Island housed Navy bunkers and San Francisco’s Fort Mason was a launching point for over a million soldiers heading to the Pacific.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But the military presence reaches far beyond these well-known places. During World War II, the Hunters Point Naval Shipyard repaired warships. In the Marin headlands, soldiers lived at \u003ca href=\"https://www.nps.gov/goga/learn/historyculture/fort-baker.htm\">Fort Baker\u003c/a> and\u003ca href=\"https://www.nps.gov/goga/planyourvisit/focr.htm\"> Fort Cronkhite\u003c/a>, and the \u003ca href=\"https://www.nps.gov/goga/learn/historyculture/cold-war.htm\">Nike Missile Site\u003c/a> was ready to strike down Russian H-bombs during the Cold War.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In the East Bay, \u003ca href=\"https://www.lib.berkeley.edu/visit/bancroft/oral-history-center/projects/oakland-army-base\">Oakland’s Army Base\u003c/a> sent soldiers and supplies overseas. And Camp Parks in Dublin was a home base for the Seabees, the navy’s construction crew. At the \u003ca href=\"https://www.bracpmo.navy.mil/BRAC-Bases/California/Former-Naval-Weapons-Station-Seal-Beach-Detachment-Concord/\">Concord Naval Weapons Station\u003c/a> crews loaded and shipped massive quantities of explosives. And Alameda’s Naval Air Station was called the Navy’s “aviation gateway to the Pacific.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In the South Bay, the \u003ca href=\"https://historicproperties.arc.nasa.gov/h3historysite/six/\">Naval Air Station at Moffett Field\u003c/a> specialized in anti-submarine warfare. And in addition to all the military personnel stationed at these sites, far more Bay Area residents were involved with producing the materials and supplies they needed.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12023509\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003ca href=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/20250114_Mare-Island_DMB_00028.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12023509\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/20250114_Mare-Island_DMB_00028.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/20250114_Mare-Island_DMB_00028.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/20250114_Mare-Island_DMB_00028-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/20250114_Mare-Island_DMB_00028-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/20250114_Mare-Island_DMB_00028-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/20250114_Mare-Island_DMB_00028-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/20250114_Mare-Island_DMB_00028-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">The defunct Naval shipyard seen at dawn on Mare Island in the city of Vallejo on Tuesday, Jan. 14, 2025. \u003ccite>(David M. Barreda/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>\u003cstrong>World War II transformed the Bay Area \u003c/strong>\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>World War II was the heyday for the military in the Bay Area. Shipbuilding was a major industry and people migrated here from all over the country to take wartime jobs. The population ballooned and became more diverse. \u003ca href=\"https://www.nps.gov/safr/learn/historyculture/africanamericanhistory.htm?_hsenc=p2ANqtz-9wkqUSY91EVWSCV7eso2X2Z3N55ygMphCrdnyKNRxxXrcErKDI6ghZerUSnkX9mpCNK6Fs\">The Black population tripled in just a few years as African Americans from the South\u003c/a> moved to the area to work for the war effort.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The Henry J. Kaiser shipyards fueled the growth of Richmond, which went from a small industrial city to more than 100,000 people, Walker said. “It just grew like a mushroom.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>And Bay Area shipyards were some of the biggest employers of \u003ca href=\"https://www.nps.gov/articles/000/tending-the-homefront.htm#:~:text=The%20Bay%20Area's%20numerous%20shipyards,the%20Moore%20shipyard%20in%20Oakland.\">women defense workers\u003c/a> in the U.S. More than a quarter of Richmond’s shipyard workers were women.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ca href=\"https://www.history.navy.mil/browse-by-topic/organization-and-administration/historic-bases/mare-island.html\">Mare Island\u003c/a> in Vallejo was once one of the largest Navy sites in the world — more than 100,000 people built and repaired ships there in the 1940s.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12023592\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 740px\">\u003ca href=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/011419.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12023592\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/011419.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"740\" height=\"520\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/011419.jpg 740w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/011419-160x112.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 740px) 100vw, 740px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Six destroyers from the 36th Division docked in Dry Dock No. 2 at Mare Island Navy Yards, circa 1920s. \u003ccite>(Courtesy of Mare Island Historic Park Foundation)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12023630\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2500px\">\u003ca href=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/3000/01/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12023630\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/3000/01/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2500\" height=\"833\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/3000/01/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image.jpg 2500w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/3000/01/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-800x267.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/3000/01/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-1020x340.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/3000/01/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-160x53.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/3000/01/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-1536x512.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/3000/01/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-2048x682.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/3000/01/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-1920x640.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2500px) 100vw, 2500px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Left: The USS CHicaco being launched on April 10, 1930 at Mare Island. Right: The current Coal Shed parking lot with B85 in the background, was known as ‘Gun Park’ in maps of the time as seen in this post-Civil War photograph. \u003ccite>(Courtesy of Mare Island Historic Park Foundation)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>In the decades after World War II, Bay Area bases supported two more Pacific wars — the Korean War and the Vietnam War.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I still remember my first day [on Mare Island] because I came from a small town in Michigan,” said Dennis Kelly, who started working at the shipyard in 1974. “You walked down to the waterfront and there were just people going everywhere on bicycles, cars, trucks, cranes.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Kelly was a nuclear engineer on the base, helping to refuel nuclear-powered submarines.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I liked the complexity of the ships,” he said. “They were probably some of the most complex things ever built by man.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But in the 1980s, the nature of international conflict was changing. The Cold War with Russia was ending. The federal government wanted to shrink its defense budget and restructure the armed forces. That meant closing many bases nationwide — a thorny political issue. Closing any given base would mean laying off a sizable portion of a community and cutting off stable federal funding.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12023511\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003ca href=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/20250114_Mare-Island_DMB_00147.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12023511\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/20250114_Mare-Island_DMB_00147.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/20250114_Mare-Island_DMB_00147.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/20250114_Mare-Island_DMB_00147-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/20250114_Mare-Island_DMB_00147-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/20250114_Mare-Island_DMB_00147-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/20250114_Mare-Island_DMB_00147-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/20250114_Mare-Island_DMB_00147-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Newer homes built in the last two decades along Flagship Drive on Mare Island in the city of Vallejo on Tuesday, Jan. 14, 2025. \u003ccite>(David M. Barreda/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Federal officials created the \u003ca href=\"https://comptroller.defense.gov/Portals/45/Documents/defbudget/fy2023/budget_justification/pdfs/05_BRAC/FY2023_BRAC_Overview.pdf\">Base Realignment and Closure Commission\u003c/a> (BRAC), an \u003ca href=\"https://www.af.mil/News/Article-Display/Article/134487/brac-recommendations-follow-lengthy-process/\">independent body of experts\u003c/a> tasked with determining which bases should close.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>There were several waves of BRAC closure decisions between 1988 and 1995. As a result, \u003ca href=\"https://www.calinst.org/files/defense/base1a.pdf\">30 major California bases closed\u003c/a>, accounting for more than half of the laid-off military personnel nationwide. To many, it seemed \u003ca href=\"https://www.rand.org/pubs/research_briefs/RB7511.html\">California was dealt a heavier hand\u003c/a> than the rest of the states.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>By the mid-1990s, the Bay Area military base presence was \u003ca href=\"https://www.calinst.org/files/defense/base1a.pdf\">nearly wiped out entirely\u003c/a>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c!-- iframe plugin v.4.3 wordpress.org/plugins/iframe/ -->\u003cbr>\n\u003ciframe loading=\"lazy\" frameborder=\"0\" height=\"200\" scrolling=\"no\" src=\"https://playlist.megaphone.fm?e=KQINC1512985227\" width=\"100%\" class=\"iframe-class\">\u003c/iframe>\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>\u003cstrong>Punishment for left-wing politics? \u003c/strong>\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>Mare Island, which had been building and fixing warships for 150 years, was one of the Bay Area bases closed in 1996 as part of the BRAC process. Its closure had wide-reaching economic impacts on Vallejo that are still felt today. And more broadly, \u003ca href=\"https://www.calinst.org/files/defense/base1a.pdf\">the base closures meant about 45,000 people in the Bay Area lost their jobs\u003c/a>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Why did the Bay Area get targeted? It’s clearly political,” said Kelly, who said the BRAC process was just for show. “The analyses were cooked up to support the decision and that was the end of it.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Kelly and others said congresspeople at the time — Diane Feinstein, Barbara Boxer and Ron Dellums — didn’t fight to keep bases in the Bay Area.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12023520\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003ca href=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/20250114_Mare-Island2_DMB_01294.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12023520\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/20250114_Mare-Island2_DMB_01294.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/20250114_Mare-Island2_DMB_01294.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/20250114_Mare-Island2_DMB_01294-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/20250114_Mare-Island2_DMB_01294-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/20250114_Mare-Island2_DMB_01294-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/20250114_Mare-Island2_DMB_01294-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/20250114_Mare-Island2_DMB_01294-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">The Admiral’s Mansion on Mare Island in the city of Vallejo on Tuesday, Jan. 14, 2025. \u003ccite>(David M. Barreda/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>But people often cite another reason for the closures — that San Francisco was being punished for its left-wing, anti-military politics.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In the 1980s, there was a high-profile, ongoing political dispute after San Francisco officials voted not to homeport a massive battleship called the USS Missouri in the Bay.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“It was a very clear message back to Washington, ‘no, we don’t want your battleship; we don’t need the military,’” said \u003ca href=\"https://www.drelouise.com\">author and historian Elouise Epstein\u003c/a>, who did her doctoral research about the Bay Area base closures.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But Epstein said it’s too simplistic to pin all the military closures on politics.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“The bases were closed because they were out of date,” she said. “They had fundamental issues. There [were] economic problems, environmental problems and so forth.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12023519\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003ca href=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/20250114_Mare-Island2_DMB_00817.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12023519\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/20250114_Mare-Island2_DMB_00817.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/20250114_Mare-Island2_DMB_00817.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/20250114_Mare-Island2_DMB_00817-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/20250114_Mare-Island2_DMB_00817-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/20250114_Mare-Island2_DMB_00817-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/20250114_Mare-Island2_DMB_00817-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/20250114_Mare-Island2_DMB_00817-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">One of the defunct dry docks on Mare Island in the city of Vallejo on Tuesday, Jan. 14, 2025. Part of ‘Bumblebee’ from the Transformers series was filmed here. \u003ccite>(David M. Barreda/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>As the population of the Bay Area expanded, housing was scarce and expensive for soldiers. And military operations caused tensions with civilians. Alameda residents complained about the noise at the neighboring Naval Air Station. The Oakland airport was expanding and adding flights to serve the growing city. It became harder and harder for military planes coming in and out of the East Bay.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Also in the ’70s and ’80s, state and local governments started requiring the military to follow environmental protection laws, making it more costly and difficult to operate bases in the Bay Area.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“The Navy was by far the biggest polluter in the Bay Area,” Epstein said. “Civic activism really took on the military and pushed them to do the right thing, which then, of course, created more cost and more complexity, which made it harder to run these bases.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Also, military technology was evolving, transforming the very nature of war. Maybe at the turn of the 19th century, physical forts — with cannons pointed at the bay — were best practice, but after World War II, the military used radar, satellite and thermonuclear weapons to protect the coastline.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12023647\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003ca href=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/20250114_Mare-Island_DMB_00211.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12023647\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/3000/01/20250114_Mare-Island_DMB_00211.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/3000/01/20250114_Mare-Island_DMB_00211.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/3000/01/20250114_Mare-Island_DMB_00211-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/3000/01/20250114_Mare-Island_DMB_00211-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/3000/01/20250114_Mare-Island_DMB_00211-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/3000/01/20250114_Mare-Island_DMB_00211-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/3000/01/20250114_Mare-Island_DMB_00211-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A line of old factory buildings on Mare Island in the city of Vallejo on Tuesday, Jan. 14, 2025. \u003ccite>(David M. Barreda/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12023516\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003ca href=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/20250114_Mare-Island_DMB_00099.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12023516\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/20250114_Mare-Island2_DMB_00205.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/20250114_Mare-Island2_DMB_00205.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/20250114_Mare-Island2_DMB_00205-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/20250114_Mare-Island2_DMB_00205-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/20250114_Mare-Island2_DMB_00205-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/20250114_Mare-Island2_DMB_00205-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/20250114_Mare-Island2_DMB_00205-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">The Mare Island Naval Cemetery looks out over the former Naval grounds in the city of Vallejo on Tuesday, Jan. 14, 2025. \u003ccite>(David M. Barreda/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“[The military doesn’t] want to maintain old weapons,” Epstein said. “You don’t want to maintain a tank from 30 or 40 or 50 years ago.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Lastly, in the 1980s, the computer age began to take off and Silicon Valley was at the center. With new jobs and industry springing up, the Bay Area wasn’t as reliant on the federal government for jobs.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“In aggregate, there’s not a huge political or an economic need for the bases anymore,” Epstein said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>However, not all communities were able to bounce back after the closures. Black residents of Hunters Point protested in 1973 when their shipyard was slated for closure. \u003ca href=\"https://antievictionmap.com/bayview-hunters-point\">Most of the people who lost jobs\u003c/a> there were African American. Vallejo was also hit hard when Mare Island closed. “Vallejo basically grew up around the shipyard,” Dennis Kelly said. “Vallejo ultimately went bankrupt and it still struggles today.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Almost 30 years later, Mare Island is starting to develop a new identity with new homes and businesses opening. It has taken many decades, but the former military base may one day be a different kind of economic boon to the local community.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>For more on the opportunities and challenges of redeveloping former military sites, \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/news/12023708/surprising-ways-former-bay-area-military-bases-are-transforming-and-why-it-takes-so-long\">read part two of this series\u003c/a>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[baycuriousquestion]\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>\u003ca id=\"A\">\u003c/a>Episode Transcript:\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>This is a computer-generated transcript. While our team has reviewed it, there may be errors.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price:\u003c/strong> It’s hard to imagine now, but during World War II, the Bay Area was a major center of military activity in the United States … with dozens of military installations all over the region.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Archival tape:\u003c/strong> “The United States becomes at least a two-ocean naval power as this mighty fleet takes its station in the mightiest of oceans.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price:\u003c/strong> Hundreds of thousands of people here worked in the armed forces at the time — building ships, manufacturing supplies, training soldiers, and so much more.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But today that robust military presence is largely gone, and what’s left behind is mostly … real estate and wide open space.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Back when he was in college, Bay Curious listener Cameron Tobey liked to explore one of those spaces — Mare Island, the huge abandoned navy shipyard near Vallejo.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Cameron Tobey:\u003c/strong> My friends and I used to go out there, check out the abandoned buildings … there used to be these warehouses with, like, submarine silhouettes painted on the side. And there was this huge tower with a radar dish on it.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price:\u003c/strong> Tobey says all that time on Mare Island got him thinking…\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Cameron Tobey: Why are there so many abandoned military bases around the Bay Area? It seems at one point that every branch of the military had a base here and now they’re all sitting empty. So what happened to them, and what’s the future plans for these bases?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>[Theme song]\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Olivia Allen-Price: I’m Olivia Allen-Price and this is Bay Curious, the podcast that answers listener questions about the San Francisco Bay Area. This week: How did the military go from boom to bust in the Bay Area? Stay with us.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>[BREAK]\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price:\u003c/strong> Our listener Cameron Tobey wants to know how so many military bases came to be in the San Francisco Bay Area at one time. And why were they abandoned decades ago? KQED’s Pauline Bartolone found out.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone:\u003c/strong> If you’ve ever been in San Francisco during one of the first weekends of October, you may have covered your ears at the sound of this…\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>[Sound of blue angels flying]\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone:\u003c/strong> Navy planes, the Blue Angels, flying past so fast in the sky you may want to run the other way. Every year in San Francisco they show up during Fleet Week. That’s the way it’s been for over 40 years.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>[sounds of people milling around outdoors]\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone:\u003c/strong> On San Francisco’s Marina Green, dozens of uniformed officers have set up tents. The Navy, Coast Guard, Marines… They’re mingling with dog walkers and kids.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Pauline (outside): It’s a really beautiful day. Kind of feels like a cross between a county fair. And a recruitment event.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>[a band plays the Star Spangled Banner]\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone:\u003c/strong> Lt. Cmdr. Chloe Morgan.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Chloe Morgan:\u003c/strong> So the purpose of Fleet Week is really to let you know. … Americans meet their military, see us come on our ship, see the equipment, meet our people.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone:\u003c/strong> Meet our people. Fleet Week may literally be the only time people in the Bay Area actually see uniformed officers or hear those jets. But decades ago, it was another story. Dating back all the way to Spanish colonizers who built the Presidio, San Francisco was a strategic place for military defense. Then after the United States took over, it kept growing as a major center for armed forces.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dick Walker:\u003c/strong> This becomes one of the biggest military centers in the world.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone:\u003c/strong> Dick Walker would know. He’s the author of several books about California history.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dick Walker:\u003c/strong> San Francisco was the center, the overwhelming center of U.S. settlement, economy and power in the western U. S. in the 19th century. So from the gold rush on. So it made sense that very early that the American government put military installations in San Francisco and around the bay.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>[military drumming music]\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone:\u003c/strong> The U.S. built dozens of military sites from the mid-late 1800s through the Second World War. Shipyards, air stations, bunkers, barracks, weapons stations, there are too many to list. But there are a few notables.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Voice 1:\u003c/strong> Alcatraz, a military prison\u003cbr>\n\u003cstrong>Voice 2:\u003c/strong> Treasure Island — Navy bunkers…\u003cbr>\n\u003cstrong>Voice 3:\u003c/strong> San Francisco’s Fort Mason … where over a million soldiers embarked for the Pacific War.\u003cbr>\n\u003cstrong>Voice 1:\u003c/strong> Hunters Point Naval Shipyard … ship repair during WW2.\u003cbr>\n\u003cstrong>Voice 2:\u003c/strong> In the Marin headlands: Fort Baker, permanent housing for army soldiers…\u003cbr>\n\u003cstrong>Dick Walker:\u003c/strong> Hamilton Air Force Base … smallish base..interior coast of Marin.\u003cbr>\n\u003cstrong>Voice 1:\u003c/strong> Fort Cronkhite, military housing during the Pacific War…\u003cbr>\n\u003cstrong>Voice 3:\u003c/strong> … and Nike Missile Sites, to strike down Russian H-bombs during the Cold War.\u003cbr>\n\u003cstrong>Voice 1: \u003c/strong>Oakland Army Base … sent soldiers and supplies overseas.\u003cbr>\n\u003cstrong>Voice 2:\u003c/strong> In Dublin, Camp Parks … Home base for the ‘Seabees’, the navy’s construction crew.\u003cbr>\n\u003cstrong>Voice 3:\u003c/strong> Concord Naval Weapons station — maneuvered massive quantities of explosives.\u003cbr>\n\u003cstrong>Voice 1:\u003c/strong> Alameda’s Naval Air station, called the Navy’s “Aviation Gateway to the Pacific.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dick Walker:\u003c/strong> Then in the South Bay, there’s Moffett Field, which was very specialized around anti-submarine warfare.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>[military music out]\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone:\u003c/strong> You get the picture. The Bay Area became a depot not just for warships and marine training, but all the personnel and materials that support them.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dick Walker:\u003c/strong> Logistics. You have to supply those ships. You have to supply the men. You have to supply the ammunition. And that everything from, production of explosives and ammunition and projectiles to food, blankets, clothing, uniforms and so on.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>[Instrumental music]\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone:\u003c/strong> By World War II, when the U.S. was at war with Japan, the San Francisco Bay Area was the staging area for soldiers going off to war.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>[Mare Island Centennial film: “No Navy anytime anywhere, has ever been stronger than its supports. The kind of support given by Navy yards…(fades out)”\u003c/em> \u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone:\u003c/strong> Shipbuilding for the Navy during the war was a huge economic boon for the Bay Area. The region became a national hotspot for people looking for wartime jobs, like African Americans from the South. The Black population tripled in the Bay Area in just a few years, largely because of that shipbuilding work. Mare Island in Vallejo was one of the largest Navy sites in the world — more than 100,000 people built and repaired ships there in the 1940s. \u003cem>[Mare Island Centennial film: “Mare Island is well situated. Located in the North East of San Francisco Bay … One of the finest Naval anchorages in the world.”]\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone:\u003c/strong> Shipbuilding was also happening on private yards, like Kaiser in Richmond … This was the Rosie the Riveter era. The Bay Area shipyards were some of the biggest employers of women defense workers in the U.S. More than a quarter of Richmond’s shipyard workers were women.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[Rosie the Riveter Song: \u003cem>“All the day long, whether rain or shine,\u003c/em> \u003cem>She’s a part of the assembly line.\u003c/em> \u003cem>She’s making history, working for victory\u003c/em> \u003cem>Rosie the Riveter”\u003c/em>]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dick Walker:\u003c/strong> Richmond became quite a went from a pretty small industrial city to a bigger … to like 100,000 people during World War II. It just grew like a mushroom. It changed the racial makeup. A lot of Filipinos in the American Navy. You had a lot of African Americans come in to work, not just in the shipyards, although that was a major source because Henry Kaiser, who ran the shipyards, was a very open-minded capitalist who recognized good, cheap labor when he saw it.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>[Song of the Victory Fleet (1945)]\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone:\u003c/strong> By many accounts, World War II was the Heyday for the military in the Bay Area. But in the decades that followed, Bay Area bases supported two more Pacific Wars, the Korean War and Vietnam. In 1974, when Dennis Kelley first started working on Mare Island, he said it was still a bustling place.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dennis Kelley:\u003c/strong> I still remember my first day because I came from a small town in Michigan. And you walked down to the waterfront and there were just people going everywhere on bicycles, cars, trucks, cranes. You know there was 10,000 people working here.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone:\u003c/strong> Kelley was a nuclear engineer on the base, helping with the refueling of nuclear-powered submarines. He loved working on that massive base … Shipbuilding cranes as high as city office buildings, and berths as long as a stadium.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dennis Kelley:\u003c/strong> I like the complexity of the ships. You know, they were probably some of the most complex things, you know, things ever built by man. I mean, it was fun, you know. And at the end of the day, we were basically fielding these weapons of war at a time, you know, when the Cold War was going on.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone:\u003c/strong> But by the 1980s, the specter of war waned. The Cold War with Russia was ending. The federal government wanted to shrink its defense budget and restructure the armed forces. That meant closing many bases nationwide … a thorny political issue for politicians. Closing any given base would mean laying off a sizable portion of a community and cutting off stable federal funding.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>So federal officials created BRAC — the Base Realignment and Closure Commission — an independent body of experts, which met over several rounds in the late ’80s and ’90s.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[Video of 1995 BRAC hearings: \u003cem>“As most of you know, this commission is heading into its final three weeks of its difficult task of recommending to the president which domestic bases should be closed or realigned…”\u003c/em>]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone:\u003c/strong> Chairman Alan Dixon held countless hearings about the base closures, to deliberate cuts recommended by the Department of Defense.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[Video of 1995 BRAC hearings:\u003cem> “The commissioners have held 10 hearings here in Washington, 16 hearings across the country, and have made 200 visits…”\u003c/em>]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone:\u003c/strong> Because of the BRAC decisions between 1988 and 1995, 30 major California bases closed, accounting for more than half of the laid-off military personnel nationwide. By many accounts, California was dealt a heavier hand than the rest of the states. President Bill Clinton visited the Alameda Naval Air Station in 1993 just before it closed as if to soften the blow.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[Pres. Clinton speech:\u003cem> “Thank you for helping to win the Cold War.\u003c/em>”]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone:\u003c/strong> With a massive ship as his backdrop, Clinton spoke to dozens of uniformed navy seamen wearing white hats.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[Pres. Clinton speech:\u003cem> “You have done the right thing by your country as a result of that it has become possible indeed it has become necessary to downsize the defense establishment of the United States to more importantly reorganize it so it can maintain its dominance in a world …\u003c/em>(fades under)”]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone:\u003c/strong> By the mid-1990s, the Bay Area military base presence was nearly wiped out entirely. Many other areas of California lost their military might, too, like L.A. But as the armed forces were forced to downsize and consolidate, San Diego emerged as California’s new navy city on the coast.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>[Music break]\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone\u003c/strong>: The Bay Area’s Mare Island, which had been building and fixing warships for 150 years, closed. Dennis Kelley said even though the BRAC process was meant to take politics out of the decision-making, it was basically for show.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dennis Kelley:\u003c/strong> Now, why did the Bay Area get targeted? It’s clearly political.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone:\u003c/strong> To this day, the popular story about the Bay Area base closures — what led to a loss of at least 45,000 jobs locally — was that San Francisco was being punished for its left-wing, anti-military politics.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dennis Kelley:\u003c/strong> I think the decision was made. The analyses were cooked up to support the decision, and that was the end of it. It’s crying over spilt milk now.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Eloise Epstein:\u003c/strong> There is this narrative that the military have had it in for the quote-unquote, liberal Bay area and punish them. But I found no evidence of that, even though that’s a very great story.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone\u003c/strong>: Eloise Epstein did her doctoral research on the Bay Area base closures. She said the reasons for the closures here were actually more practical and complicated.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Eloise Epstein:\u003c/strong> Predominantly the bases were closed because they were out of date. They had fundamental issues. There were economic problems, environmental problems and so forth.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone:\u003c/strong> The Bay Area was getting bigger. So the military was grappling with more and more urban problems. Even back then, housing was scarce and expensive for soldiers. Alameda residents complained about the noise at the neighboring Naval Air station. Oakland had big urban development plans, and commercial flight traffic was picking up. So it got harder and harder for military planes coming in and out of the East Bay.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Eloise Epstein:\u003c/strong> SFO goes through a massive number of passenger increases during that time, and Oakland airport same thing, and you have San Jose that’s getting popular too at the time. And so you have these air constraints. So you can’t just like fly in.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone:\u003c/strong> Also, in the ’70s and ’80s, state and local governments started to assert environmental protections on federal lands. Making it more costly and difficult to operate bases in the Bay Area.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Eloise Epstein:\u003c/strong> Here in the Bay Area, we very much value our clean air and clean water. It’s part of our identity here. And so the Navy was by far the biggest polluter in the Bay Area and for decades. And so that’s where civic activism really took on the military and pushed them to do the right thing, which then, of course, created more cost and more complexity, which made it harder to run these bases.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone:\u003c/strong> Then, you have changing military technology transforming the very nature of war. Epstein says, maybe at the turn of the 19th century, you needed physical forts, with cannons pointed at the Bay, perhaps to protect the shore from invading ships. But not now.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Eloise Epstein:\u003c/strong> After World War II, you get the emergence of radar. Shortly thereafter, in the ’50s, you get satellites, and of course, you have the emergence of thermonuclear weapons.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone:\u003c/strong> And Epstein says, military planners want these new cool weapons.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Eloise Epstein:\u003c/strong> They don’t want to maintain old weapons … You want the super radar and computers and hacking and all the stuff that we think about today. You don’t want to maintain a tank from 30 or 40 or 50 years ago.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone:\u003c/strong> Finally, the Bay Area just wasn’t as reliant on steady federal revenue and government jobs as it was before.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Eloise Epstein:\u003c/strong> The Bay Area was booming. It was booming in the ’80s … you have this first generation of Silicon Valley just bringing massive prosperity … And so what you end up with is … There’s not a huge political or an economic need for the bases anymore.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone:\u003c/strong> So when the Oakland Army Base closed, Oakland city planners were at the ready to find a new use for it. Treasure Island’s navy bunkers eventually became luxury housing.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>[Recording of Hunters Point closure protests]\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone:\u003c/strong> But not all communities were able to bounce back after the closures. Black residents of Hunters Point protested in 1973 when their shipyard was slated for closure. Most of the people who lost jobs there were African American. On Mare Island, Dennis Kelley says that closure was particularly challenging because of its massive size.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dennis Kelley:\u003c/strong> Vallejo basically grew up around the shipyard. And so it was a huge hit when the shipyard closed. And as you probably know, Vallejo ultimately went bankrupt. But 10 years after the shipyard closed, and it still struggles today.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone:\u003c/strong> So if you live here in the Bay Area, chances are good you’ve driven past or walked through a former military site — even if you didn’t realize it. Some have been redeveloped into public parks. Businesses have moved in, or housing has been built. But some areas are still sitting empty … waiting for cleanup, caught in red tape…\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price:\u003c/strong> On next week’s episode of Bay Curious — what has become of the spaces once occupied by the military in the Bay Area? Make sure you’re subscribed so you don’t miss it.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Today’s story was reported by Pauline Bartolone. Thanks to UC Davis Geographer Javier Arbona for his insights. Bay Curious is made in San Francisco at member-supported KQED.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Our show is produced by Katrina Schwartz, Amanda Font, Christopher Beale and Olivia Allen-Price. Extra support from Paul Lancour, Jen Chien, Katie Sprenger, Maha Senad, Holly Kernan and the whole KQED family.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I’m Olivia Allen-Price. Have a good week!\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad floatright]\u003c/p>\n",
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"excerpt": "Treasure Island, Fort Mason, Mare Island, the Presidio — all former military bases. This two-part series looks at the rise and fall of the Bay Area’s military bases and the challenges of redeveloping them.",
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"title": "Why Are There So Many Abandoned Military Bases in the Bay Area? | KQED",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>\u003ci>\u003ca href=\"#A\">View the full episode transcript.\u003c/a>\u003c/i>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Every October, navy planes rip through San Francisco skies, giant warships barrel through the Bay, and hundreds of uniformed officers fill Marina Green. Then, a week later, they’re all gone. It’s all part of \u003ca href=\"https://fleetweeksf.org/bay-area-military-history/\">Fleet Week, a 40-year-old military tradition in San Francisco.\u003c/a>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>These days, Fleet Week is likely the only time Bay Area residents see armed forces in uniform. Although the military’s presence in the Bay Area was once huge, the Department of Defense began a national effort to downsize in the late 1980s, leaving many former military sites vacant and in need of cleanup.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003caside class=\"alignleft utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__bayCuriousPodcastShortcode__bayCurious\">\u003cimg src=https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/2023/02/bayCuriousLogo.png alt=\"Bay Curious Podcast\" loading=\"lazy\" />\n \u003ca href=\"/news/series/baycurious\">Bay Curious\u003c/a> is a podcast that answers your questions about the Bay Area.\n Subscribe on \u003ca href=\"https://itunes.apple.com/us/podcast/bay-curious/id1172473406\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">Apple Podcasts\u003c/a>,\n \u003ca href=\"http://www.npr.org/podcasts/500557090/bay-curious\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">NPR One\u003c/a> or your favorite podcast platform.\u003c/aside>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Bay Curious listener Cameron Tobey wondered about this history while exploring the former Mare Island Naval Shipyard in Vallejo.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“It seems at one point that every branch of the military had a base here, and now they’re all sitting empty,” Tobey said. “So what happened to them, and what’s the future plans for these bases?”\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>\u003cstrong>The Bay Area was once a military powerhouse\u003c/strong>\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>Dating back all the way to Spanish colonizers who built the Presidio, San Francisco was a strategic place for military defense. When the United States took over, it grew into one of the biggest military centers in the world.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“San Francisco was the overwhelming center of U.S. settlement, economy and power in the western U.S. in the 19th century,” said Dick Walker, professor emeritus in geography at UC Berkeley and author of several books on California history.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>By the end of World War II, the U.S. military had established dozens of sites, everything from shipyards and air stations to barracks and weapons stations.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12023512\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003ca href=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/20250114_Mare-Island_DMB_00190.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12023512\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/20250114_Mare-Island_DMB_00190.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/20250114_Mare-Island_DMB_00190.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/20250114_Mare-Island_DMB_00190-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/20250114_Mare-Island_DMB_00190-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/20250114_Mare-Island_DMB_00190-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/20250114_Mare-Island_DMB_00190-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/20250114_Mare-Island_DMB_00190-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Sculptures and defunct cranes occupy the waterfront facing the Napa River on Mare Island in the city of Vallejo on Tuesday, Jan. 14, 2025. \u003ccite>(David M. Barreda/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Many former military sites have become iconic Bay Area landmarks. Alcatraz was once a \u003ca href=\"https://www.bop.gov/about/history/alcatraz.jsp\">military prison\u003c/a>; Treasure Island housed Navy bunkers and San Francisco’s Fort Mason was a launching point for over a million soldiers heading to the Pacific.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But the military presence reaches far beyond these well-known places. During World War II, the Hunters Point Naval Shipyard repaired warships. In the Marin headlands, soldiers lived at \u003ca href=\"https://www.nps.gov/goga/learn/historyculture/fort-baker.htm\">Fort Baker\u003c/a> and\u003ca href=\"https://www.nps.gov/goga/planyourvisit/focr.htm\"> Fort Cronkhite\u003c/a>, and the \u003ca href=\"https://www.nps.gov/goga/learn/historyculture/cold-war.htm\">Nike Missile Site\u003c/a> was ready to strike down Russian H-bombs during the Cold War.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In the East Bay, \u003ca href=\"https://www.lib.berkeley.edu/visit/bancroft/oral-history-center/projects/oakland-army-base\">Oakland’s Army Base\u003c/a> sent soldiers and supplies overseas. And Camp Parks in Dublin was a home base for the Seabees, the navy’s construction crew. At the \u003ca href=\"https://www.bracpmo.navy.mil/BRAC-Bases/California/Former-Naval-Weapons-Station-Seal-Beach-Detachment-Concord/\">Concord Naval Weapons Station\u003c/a> crews loaded and shipped massive quantities of explosives. And Alameda’s Naval Air Station was called the Navy’s “aviation gateway to the Pacific.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In the South Bay, the \u003ca href=\"https://historicproperties.arc.nasa.gov/h3historysite/six/\">Naval Air Station at Moffett Field\u003c/a> specialized in anti-submarine warfare. And in addition to all the military personnel stationed at these sites, far more Bay Area residents were involved with producing the materials and supplies they needed.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12023509\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003ca href=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/20250114_Mare-Island_DMB_00028.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12023509\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/20250114_Mare-Island_DMB_00028.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/20250114_Mare-Island_DMB_00028.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/20250114_Mare-Island_DMB_00028-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/20250114_Mare-Island_DMB_00028-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/20250114_Mare-Island_DMB_00028-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/20250114_Mare-Island_DMB_00028-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/20250114_Mare-Island_DMB_00028-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">The defunct Naval shipyard seen at dawn on Mare Island in the city of Vallejo on Tuesday, Jan. 14, 2025. \u003ccite>(David M. Barreda/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>\u003cstrong>World War II transformed the Bay Area \u003c/strong>\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>World War II was the heyday for the military in the Bay Area. Shipbuilding was a major industry and people migrated here from all over the country to take wartime jobs. The population ballooned and became more diverse. \u003ca href=\"https://www.nps.gov/safr/learn/historyculture/africanamericanhistory.htm?_hsenc=p2ANqtz-9wkqUSY91EVWSCV7eso2X2Z3N55ygMphCrdnyKNRxxXrcErKDI6ghZerUSnkX9mpCNK6Fs\">The Black population tripled in just a few years as African Americans from the South\u003c/a> moved to the area to work for the war effort.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The Henry J. Kaiser shipyards fueled the growth of Richmond, which went from a small industrial city to more than 100,000 people, Walker said. “It just grew like a mushroom.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>And Bay Area shipyards were some of the biggest employers of \u003ca href=\"https://www.nps.gov/articles/000/tending-the-homefront.htm#:~:text=The%20Bay%20Area's%20numerous%20shipyards,the%20Moore%20shipyard%20in%20Oakland.\">women defense workers\u003c/a> in the U.S. More than a quarter of Richmond’s shipyard workers were women.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ca href=\"https://www.history.navy.mil/browse-by-topic/organization-and-administration/historic-bases/mare-island.html\">Mare Island\u003c/a> in Vallejo was once one of the largest Navy sites in the world — more than 100,000 people built and repaired ships there in the 1940s.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12023592\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 740px\">\u003ca href=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/011419.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12023592\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/011419.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"740\" height=\"520\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/011419.jpg 740w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/011419-160x112.jpg 160w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 740px) 100vw, 740px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Six destroyers from the 36th Division docked in Dry Dock No. 2 at Mare Island Navy Yards, circa 1920s. \u003ccite>(Courtesy of Mare Island Historic Park Foundation)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12023630\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2500px\">\u003ca href=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/3000/01/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12023630\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/3000/01/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2500\" height=\"833\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/3000/01/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image.jpg 2500w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/3000/01/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-800x267.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/3000/01/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-1020x340.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/3000/01/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-160x53.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/3000/01/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-1536x512.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/3000/01/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-2048x682.jpg 2048w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/3000/01/Copy-of-KQED-side-by-side-downpage-image-1920x640.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2500px) 100vw, 2500px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Left: The USS CHicaco being launched on April 10, 1930 at Mare Island. Right: The current Coal Shed parking lot with B85 in the background, was known as ‘Gun Park’ in maps of the time as seen in this post-Civil War photograph. \u003ccite>(Courtesy of Mare Island Historic Park Foundation)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>In the decades after World War II, Bay Area bases supported two more Pacific wars — the Korean War and the Vietnam War.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I still remember my first day [on Mare Island] because I came from a small town in Michigan,” said Dennis Kelly, who started working at the shipyard in 1974. “You walked down to the waterfront and there were just people going everywhere on bicycles, cars, trucks, cranes.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Kelly was a nuclear engineer on the base, helping to refuel nuclear-powered submarines.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I liked the complexity of the ships,” he said. “They were probably some of the most complex things ever built by man.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But in the 1980s, the nature of international conflict was changing. The Cold War with Russia was ending. The federal government wanted to shrink its defense budget and restructure the armed forces. That meant closing many bases nationwide — a thorny political issue. Closing any given base would mean laying off a sizable portion of a community and cutting off stable federal funding.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12023511\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003ca href=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/20250114_Mare-Island_DMB_00147.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12023511\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/20250114_Mare-Island_DMB_00147.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/20250114_Mare-Island_DMB_00147.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/20250114_Mare-Island_DMB_00147-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/20250114_Mare-Island_DMB_00147-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/20250114_Mare-Island_DMB_00147-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/20250114_Mare-Island_DMB_00147-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/20250114_Mare-Island_DMB_00147-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Newer homes built in the last two decades along Flagship Drive on Mare Island in the city of Vallejo on Tuesday, Jan. 14, 2025. \u003ccite>(David M. Barreda/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Federal officials created the \u003ca href=\"https://comptroller.defense.gov/Portals/45/Documents/defbudget/fy2023/budget_justification/pdfs/05_BRAC/FY2023_BRAC_Overview.pdf\">Base Realignment and Closure Commission\u003c/a> (BRAC), an \u003ca href=\"https://www.af.mil/News/Article-Display/Article/134487/brac-recommendations-follow-lengthy-process/\">independent body of experts\u003c/a> tasked with determining which bases should close.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>There were several waves of BRAC closure decisions between 1988 and 1995. As a result, \u003ca href=\"https://www.calinst.org/files/defense/base1a.pdf\">30 major California bases closed\u003c/a>, accounting for more than half of the laid-off military personnel nationwide. To many, it seemed \u003ca href=\"https://www.rand.org/pubs/research_briefs/RB7511.html\">California was dealt a heavier hand\u003c/a> than the rest of the states.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>By the mid-1990s, the Bay Area military base presence was \u003ca href=\"https://www.calinst.org/files/defense/base1a.pdf\">nearly wiped out entirely\u003c/a>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c!-- iframe plugin v.4.3 wordpress.org/plugins/iframe/ -->\u003cbr>\n\u003ciframe loading=\"lazy\" frameborder=\"0\" height=\"200\" scrolling=\"no\" src=\"https://playlist.megaphone.fm?e=KQINC1512985227\" width=\"100%\" class=\"iframe-class\">\u003c/iframe>\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>\u003cstrong>Punishment for left-wing politics? \u003c/strong>\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>Mare Island, which had been building and fixing warships for 150 years, was one of the Bay Area bases closed in 1996 as part of the BRAC process. Its closure had wide-reaching economic impacts on Vallejo that are still felt today. And more broadly, \u003ca href=\"https://www.calinst.org/files/defense/base1a.pdf\">the base closures meant about 45,000 people in the Bay Area lost their jobs\u003c/a>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Why did the Bay Area get targeted? It’s clearly political,” said Kelly, who said the BRAC process was just for show. “The analyses were cooked up to support the decision and that was the end of it.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Kelly and others said congresspeople at the time — Diane Feinstein, Barbara Boxer and Ron Dellums — didn’t fight to keep bases in the Bay Area.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12023520\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003ca href=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/20250114_Mare-Island2_DMB_01294.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12023520\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/20250114_Mare-Island2_DMB_01294.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/20250114_Mare-Island2_DMB_01294.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/20250114_Mare-Island2_DMB_01294-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/20250114_Mare-Island2_DMB_01294-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/20250114_Mare-Island2_DMB_01294-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/20250114_Mare-Island2_DMB_01294-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/20250114_Mare-Island2_DMB_01294-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">The Admiral’s Mansion on Mare Island in the city of Vallejo on Tuesday, Jan. 14, 2025. \u003ccite>(David M. Barreda/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>But people often cite another reason for the closures — that San Francisco was being punished for its left-wing, anti-military politics.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In the 1980s, there was a high-profile, ongoing political dispute after San Francisco officials voted not to homeport a massive battleship called the USS Missouri in the Bay.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“It was a very clear message back to Washington, ‘no, we don’t want your battleship; we don’t need the military,’” said \u003ca href=\"https://www.drelouise.com\">author and historian Elouise Epstein\u003c/a>, who did her doctoral research about the Bay Area base closures.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But Epstein said it’s too simplistic to pin all the military closures on politics.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“The bases were closed because they were out of date,” she said. “They had fundamental issues. There [were] economic problems, environmental problems and so forth.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12023519\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003ca href=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/20250114_Mare-Island2_DMB_00817.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12023519\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/20250114_Mare-Island2_DMB_00817.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/20250114_Mare-Island2_DMB_00817.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/20250114_Mare-Island2_DMB_00817-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/20250114_Mare-Island2_DMB_00817-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/20250114_Mare-Island2_DMB_00817-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/20250114_Mare-Island2_DMB_00817-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/20250114_Mare-Island2_DMB_00817-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">One of the defunct dry docks on Mare Island in the city of Vallejo on Tuesday, Jan. 14, 2025. Part of ‘Bumblebee’ from the Transformers series was filmed here. \u003ccite>(David M. Barreda/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>As the population of the Bay Area expanded, housing was scarce and expensive for soldiers. And military operations caused tensions with civilians. Alameda residents complained about the noise at the neighboring Naval Air Station. The Oakland airport was expanding and adding flights to serve the growing city. It became harder and harder for military planes coming in and out of the East Bay.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Also in the ’70s and ’80s, state and local governments started requiring the military to follow environmental protection laws, making it more costly and difficult to operate bases in the Bay Area.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“The Navy was by far the biggest polluter in the Bay Area,” Epstein said. “Civic activism really took on the military and pushed them to do the right thing, which then, of course, created more cost and more complexity, which made it harder to run these bases.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Also, military technology was evolving, transforming the very nature of war. Maybe at the turn of the 19th century, physical forts — with cannons pointed at the bay — were best practice, but after World War II, the military used radar, satellite and thermonuclear weapons to protect the coastline.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12023647\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003ca href=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/20250114_Mare-Island_DMB_00211.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12023647\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/3000/01/20250114_Mare-Island_DMB_00211.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/3000/01/20250114_Mare-Island_DMB_00211.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/3000/01/20250114_Mare-Island_DMB_00211-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/3000/01/20250114_Mare-Island_DMB_00211-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/3000/01/20250114_Mare-Island_DMB_00211-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/3000/01/20250114_Mare-Island_DMB_00211-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/3000/01/20250114_Mare-Island_DMB_00211-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A line of old factory buildings on Mare Island in the city of Vallejo on Tuesday, Jan. 14, 2025. \u003ccite>(David M. Barreda/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12023516\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003ca href=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/20250114_Mare-Island_DMB_00099.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12023516\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/20250114_Mare-Island2_DMB_00205.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/20250114_Mare-Island2_DMB_00205.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/20250114_Mare-Island2_DMB_00205-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/20250114_Mare-Island2_DMB_00205-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/20250114_Mare-Island2_DMB_00205-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/20250114_Mare-Island2_DMB_00205-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2025/01/20250114_Mare-Island2_DMB_00205-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">The Mare Island Naval Cemetery looks out over the former Naval grounds in the city of Vallejo on Tuesday, Jan. 14, 2025. \u003ccite>(David M. Barreda/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“[The military doesn’t] want to maintain old weapons,” Epstein said. “You don’t want to maintain a tank from 30 or 40 or 50 years ago.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Lastly, in the 1980s, the computer age began to take off and Silicon Valley was at the center. With new jobs and industry springing up, the Bay Area wasn’t as reliant on the federal government for jobs.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“In aggregate, there’s not a huge political or an economic need for the bases anymore,” Epstein said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>However, not all communities were able to bounce back after the closures. Black residents of Hunters Point protested in 1973 when their shipyard was slated for closure. \u003ca href=\"https://antievictionmap.com/bayview-hunters-point\">Most of the people who lost jobs\u003c/a> there were African American. Vallejo was also hit hard when Mare Island closed. “Vallejo basically grew up around the shipyard,” Dennis Kelly said. “Vallejo ultimately went bankrupt and it still struggles today.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Almost 30 years later, Mare Island is starting to develop a new identity with new homes and businesses opening. It has taken many decades, but the former military base may one day be a different kind of economic boon to the local community.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>For more on the opportunities and challenges of redeveloping former military sites, \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/news/12023708/surprising-ways-former-bay-area-military-bases-are-transforming-and-why-it-takes-so-long\">read part two of this series\u003c/a>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>\u003ca id=\"A\">\u003c/a>Episode Transcript:\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>This is a computer-generated transcript. While our team has reviewed it, there may be errors.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price:\u003c/strong> It’s hard to imagine now, but during World War II, the Bay Area was a major center of military activity in the United States … with dozens of military installations all over the region.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Archival tape:\u003c/strong> “The United States becomes at least a two-ocean naval power as this mighty fleet takes its station in the mightiest of oceans.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price:\u003c/strong> Hundreds of thousands of people here worked in the armed forces at the time — building ships, manufacturing supplies, training soldiers, and so much more.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But today that robust military presence is largely gone, and what’s left behind is mostly … real estate and wide open space.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Back when he was in college, Bay Curious listener Cameron Tobey liked to explore one of those spaces — Mare Island, the huge abandoned navy shipyard near Vallejo.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Cameron Tobey:\u003c/strong> My friends and I used to go out there, check out the abandoned buildings … there used to be these warehouses with, like, submarine silhouettes painted on the side. And there was this huge tower with a radar dish on it.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price:\u003c/strong> Tobey says all that time on Mare Island got him thinking…\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Cameron Tobey: Why are there so many abandoned military bases around the Bay Area? It seems at one point that every branch of the military had a base here and now they’re all sitting empty. So what happened to them, and what’s the future plans for these bases?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>[Theme song]\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Olivia Allen-Price: I’m Olivia Allen-Price and this is Bay Curious, the podcast that answers listener questions about the San Francisco Bay Area. This week: How did the military go from boom to bust in the Bay Area? Stay with us.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>[BREAK]\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price:\u003c/strong> Our listener Cameron Tobey wants to know how so many military bases came to be in the San Francisco Bay Area at one time. And why were they abandoned decades ago? KQED’s Pauline Bartolone found out.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone:\u003c/strong> If you’ve ever been in San Francisco during one of the first weekends of October, you may have covered your ears at the sound of this…\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>[Sound of blue angels flying]\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone:\u003c/strong> Navy planes, the Blue Angels, flying past so fast in the sky you may want to run the other way. Every year in San Francisco they show up during Fleet Week. That’s the way it’s been for over 40 years.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>[sounds of people milling around outdoors]\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone:\u003c/strong> On San Francisco’s Marina Green, dozens of uniformed officers have set up tents. The Navy, Coast Guard, Marines… They’re mingling with dog walkers and kids.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Pauline (outside): It’s a really beautiful day. Kind of feels like a cross between a county fair. And a recruitment event.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>[a band plays the Star Spangled Banner]\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone:\u003c/strong> Lt. Cmdr. Chloe Morgan.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Chloe Morgan:\u003c/strong> So the purpose of Fleet Week is really to let you know. … Americans meet their military, see us come on our ship, see the equipment, meet our people.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone:\u003c/strong> Meet our people. Fleet Week may literally be the only time people in the Bay Area actually see uniformed officers or hear those jets. But decades ago, it was another story. Dating back all the way to Spanish colonizers who built the Presidio, San Francisco was a strategic place for military defense. Then after the United States took over, it kept growing as a major center for armed forces.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dick Walker:\u003c/strong> This becomes one of the biggest military centers in the world.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone:\u003c/strong> Dick Walker would know. He’s the author of several books about California history.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dick Walker:\u003c/strong> San Francisco was the center, the overwhelming center of U.S. settlement, economy and power in the western U. S. in the 19th century. So from the gold rush on. So it made sense that very early that the American government put military installations in San Francisco and around the bay.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>[military drumming music]\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone:\u003c/strong> The U.S. built dozens of military sites from the mid-late 1800s through the Second World War. Shipyards, air stations, bunkers, barracks, weapons stations, there are too many to list. But there are a few notables.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Voice 1:\u003c/strong> Alcatraz, a military prison\u003cbr>\n\u003cstrong>Voice 2:\u003c/strong> Treasure Island — Navy bunkers…\u003cbr>\n\u003cstrong>Voice 3:\u003c/strong> San Francisco’s Fort Mason … where over a million soldiers embarked for the Pacific War.\u003cbr>\n\u003cstrong>Voice 1:\u003c/strong> Hunters Point Naval Shipyard … ship repair during WW2.\u003cbr>\n\u003cstrong>Voice 2:\u003c/strong> In the Marin headlands: Fort Baker, permanent housing for army soldiers…\u003cbr>\n\u003cstrong>Dick Walker:\u003c/strong> Hamilton Air Force Base … smallish base..interior coast of Marin.\u003cbr>\n\u003cstrong>Voice 1:\u003c/strong> Fort Cronkhite, military housing during the Pacific War…\u003cbr>\n\u003cstrong>Voice 3:\u003c/strong> … and Nike Missile Sites, to strike down Russian H-bombs during the Cold War.\u003cbr>\n\u003cstrong>Voice 1: \u003c/strong>Oakland Army Base … sent soldiers and supplies overseas.\u003cbr>\n\u003cstrong>Voice 2:\u003c/strong> In Dublin, Camp Parks … Home base for the ‘Seabees’, the navy’s construction crew.\u003cbr>\n\u003cstrong>Voice 3:\u003c/strong> Concord Naval Weapons station — maneuvered massive quantities of explosives.\u003cbr>\n\u003cstrong>Voice 1:\u003c/strong> Alameda’s Naval Air station, called the Navy’s “Aviation Gateway to the Pacific.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dick Walker:\u003c/strong> Then in the South Bay, there’s Moffett Field, which was very specialized around anti-submarine warfare.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>[military music out]\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone:\u003c/strong> You get the picture. The Bay Area became a depot not just for warships and marine training, but all the personnel and materials that support them.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dick Walker:\u003c/strong> Logistics. You have to supply those ships. You have to supply the men. You have to supply the ammunition. And that everything from, production of explosives and ammunition and projectiles to food, blankets, clothing, uniforms and so on.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>[Instrumental music]\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone:\u003c/strong> By World War II, when the U.S. was at war with Japan, the San Francisco Bay Area was the staging area for soldiers going off to war.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>[Mare Island Centennial film: “No Navy anytime anywhere, has ever been stronger than its supports. The kind of support given by Navy yards…(fades out)”\u003c/em> \u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone:\u003c/strong> Shipbuilding for the Navy during the war was a huge economic boon for the Bay Area. The region became a national hotspot for people looking for wartime jobs, like African Americans from the South. The Black population tripled in the Bay Area in just a few years, largely because of that shipbuilding work. Mare Island in Vallejo was one of the largest Navy sites in the world — more than 100,000 people built and repaired ships there in the 1940s. \u003cem>[Mare Island Centennial film: “Mare Island is well situated. Located in the North East of San Francisco Bay … One of the finest Naval anchorages in the world.”]\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone:\u003c/strong> Shipbuilding was also happening on private yards, like Kaiser in Richmond … This was the Rosie the Riveter era. The Bay Area shipyards were some of the biggest employers of women defense workers in the U.S. More than a quarter of Richmond’s shipyard workers were women.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[Rosie the Riveter Song: \u003cem>“All the day long, whether rain or shine,\u003c/em> \u003cem>She’s a part of the assembly line.\u003c/em> \u003cem>She’s making history, working for victory\u003c/em> \u003cem>Rosie the Riveter”\u003c/em>]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dick Walker:\u003c/strong> Richmond became quite a went from a pretty small industrial city to a bigger … to like 100,000 people during World War II. It just grew like a mushroom. It changed the racial makeup. A lot of Filipinos in the American Navy. You had a lot of African Americans come in to work, not just in the shipyards, although that was a major source because Henry Kaiser, who ran the shipyards, was a very open-minded capitalist who recognized good, cheap labor when he saw it.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>[Song of the Victory Fleet (1945)]\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone:\u003c/strong> By many accounts, World War II was the Heyday for the military in the Bay Area. But in the decades that followed, Bay Area bases supported two more Pacific Wars, the Korean War and Vietnam. In 1974, when Dennis Kelley first started working on Mare Island, he said it was still a bustling place.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dennis Kelley:\u003c/strong> I still remember my first day because I came from a small town in Michigan. And you walked down to the waterfront and there were just people going everywhere on bicycles, cars, trucks, cranes. You know there was 10,000 people working here.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone:\u003c/strong> Kelley was a nuclear engineer on the base, helping with the refueling of nuclear-powered submarines. He loved working on that massive base … Shipbuilding cranes as high as city office buildings, and berths as long as a stadium.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dennis Kelley:\u003c/strong> I like the complexity of the ships. You know, they were probably some of the most complex things, you know, things ever built by man. I mean, it was fun, you know. And at the end of the day, we were basically fielding these weapons of war at a time, you know, when the Cold War was going on.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone:\u003c/strong> But by the 1980s, the specter of war waned. The Cold War with Russia was ending. The federal government wanted to shrink its defense budget and restructure the armed forces. That meant closing many bases nationwide … a thorny political issue for politicians. Closing any given base would mean laying off a sizable portion of a community and cutting off stable federal funding.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>So federal officials created BRAC — the Base Realignment and Closure Commission — an independent body of experts, which met over several rounds in the late ’80s and ’90s.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[Video of 1995 BRAC hearings: \u003cem>“As most of you know, this commission is heading into its final three weeks of its difficult task of recommending to the president which domestic bases should be closed or realigned…”\u003c/em>]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone:\u003c/strong> Chairman Alan Dixon held countless hearings about the base closures, to deliberate cuts recommended by the Department of Defense.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[Video of 1995 BRAC hearings:\u003cem> “The commissioners have held 10 hearings here in Washington, 16 hearings across the country, and have made 200 visits…”\u003c/em>]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone:\u003c/strong> Because of the BRAC decisions between 1988 and 1995, 30 major California bases closed, accounting for more than half of the laid-off military personnel nationwide. By many accounts, California was dealt a heavier hand than the rest of the states. President Bill Clinton visited the Alameda Naval Air Station in 1993 just before it closed as if to soften the blow.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[Pres. Clinton speech:\u003cem> “Thank you for helping to win the Cold War.\u003c/em>”]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone:\u003c/strong> With a massive ship as his backdrop, Clinton spoke to dozens of uniformed navy seamen wearing white hats.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[Pres. Clinton speech:\u003cem> “You have done the right thing by your country as a result of that it has become possible indeed it has become necessary to downsize the defense establishment of the United States to more importantly reorganize it so it can maintain its dominance in a world …\u003c/em>(fades under)”]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone:\u003c/strong> By the mid-1990s, the Bay Area military base presence was nearly wiped out entirely. Many other areas of California lost their military might, too, like L.A. But as the armed forces were forced to downsize and consolidate, San Diego emerged as California’s new navy city on the coast.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>[Music break]\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone\u003c/strong>: The Bay Area’s Mare Island, which had been building and fixing warships for 150 years, closed. Dennis Kelley said even though the BRAC process was meant to take politics out of the decision-making, it was basically for show.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dennis Kelley:\u003c/strong> Now, why did the Bay Area get targeted? It’s clearly political.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone:\u003c/strong> To this day, the popular story about the Bay Area base closures — what led to a loss of at least 45,000 jobs locally — was that San Francisco was being punished for its left-wing, anti-military politics.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dennis Kelley:\u003c/strong> I think the decision was made. The analyses were cooked up to support the decision, and that was the end of it. It’s crying over spilt milk now.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Eloise Epstein:\u003c/strong> There is this narrative that the military have had it in for the quote-unquote, liberal Bay area and punish them. But I found no evidence of that, even though that’s a very great story.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone\u003c/strong>: Eloise Epstein did her doctoral research on the Bay Area base closures. She said the reasons for the closures here were actually more practical and complicated.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Eloise Epstein:\u003c/strong> Predominantly the bases were closed because they were out of date. They had fundamental issues. There were economic problems, environmental problems and so forth.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone:\u003c/strong> The Bay Area was getting bigger. So the military was grappling with more and more urban problems. Even back then, housing was scarce and expensive for soldiers. Alameda residents complained about the noise at the neighboring Naval Air station. Oakland had big urban development plans, and commercial flight traffic was picking up. So it got harder and harder for military planes coming in and out of the East Bay.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Eloise Epstein:\u003c/strong> SFO goes through a massive number of passenger increases during that time, and Oakland airport same thing, and you have San Jose that’s getting popular too at the time. And so you have these air constraints. So you can’t just like fly in.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone:\u003c/strong> Also, in the ’70s and ’80s, state and local governments started to assert environmental protections on federal lands. Making it more costly and difficult to operate bases in the Bay Area.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Eloise Epstein:\u003c/strong> Here in the Bay Area, we very much value our clean air and clean water. It’s part of our identity here. And so the Navy was by far the biggest polluter in the Bay Area and for decades. And so that’s where civic activism really took on the military and pushed them to do the right thing, which then, of course, created more cost and more complexity, which made it harder to run these bases.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone:\u003c/strong> Then, you have changing military technology transforming the very nature of war. Epstein says, maybe at the turn of the 19th century, you needed physical forts, with cannons pointed at the Bay, perhaps to protect the shore from invading ships. But not now.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Eloise Epstein:\u003c/strong> After World War II, you get the emergence of radar. Shortly thereafter, in the ’50s, you get satellites, and of course, you have the emergence of thermonuclear weapons.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone:\u003c/strong> And Epstein says, military planners want these new cool weapons.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Eloise Epstein:\u003c/strong> They don’t want to maintain old weapons … You want the super radar and computers and hacking and all the stuff that we think about today. You don’t want to maintain a tank from 30 or 40 or 50 years ago.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone:\u003c/strong> Finally, the Bay Area just wasn’t as reliant on steady federal revenue and government jobs as it was before.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Eloise Epstein:\u003c/strong> The Bay Area was booming. It was booming in the ’80s … you have this first generation of Silicon Valley just bringing massive prosperity … And so what you end up with is … There’s not a huge political or an economic need for the bases anymore.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone:\u003c/strong> So when the Oakland Army Base closed, Oakland city planners were at the ready to find a new use for it. Treasure Island’s navy bunkers eventually became luxury housing.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>[Recording of Hunters Point closure protests]\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone:\u003c/strong> But not all communities were able to bounce back after the closures. Black residents of Hunters Point protested in 1973 when their shipyard was slated for closure. Most of the people who lost jobs there were African American. On Mare Island, Dennis Kelley says that closure was particularly challenging because of its massive size.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Dennis Kelley:\u003c/strong> Vallejo basically grew up around the shipyard. And so it was a huge hit when the shipyard closed. And as you probably know, Vallejo ultimately went bankrupt. But 10 years after the shipyard closed, and it still struggles today.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Pauline Bartolone:\u003c/strong> So if you live here in the Bay Area, chances are good you’ve driven past or walked through a former military site — even if you didn’t realize it. Some have been redeveloped into public parks. Businesses have moved in, or housing has been built. But some areas are still sitting empty … waiting for cleanup, caught in red tape…\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price:\u003c/strong> On next week’s episode of Bay Curious — what has become of the spaces once occupied by the military in the Bay Area? Make sure you’re subscribed so you don’t miss it.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Today’s story was reported by Pauline Bartolone. Thanks to UC Davis Geographer Javier Arbona for his insights. Bay Curious is made in San Francisco at member-supported KQED.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Our show is produced by Katrina Schwartz, Amanda Font, Christopher Beale and Olivia Allen-Price. Extra support from Paul Lancour, Jen Chien, Katie Sprenger, Maha Senad, Holly Kernan and the whole KQED family.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I’m Olivia Allen-Price. Have a good week!\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cp>\u003ca href=\"#episode-transcript\">View the full episode transcript\u003c/a>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Ever wondered what the San Francisco Bay sounds like beneath the water’s surface? The Wave Organ, a sound sculpture maintained by San Francisco’s Exploratorium, has 25 pipes that shoot down into the bay, creating a unique sonic experience for visitors above. You can find the sculpture, made of recycled granite, at the end of the man-made jetty across the street from the Palace of Fine Arts. There, you can put your ear to a pipe made of PVC and concrete to hear the “music” of the bay.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[baycuriouspodcastinfo]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The Wave Organ is nothing like the trumpeting organs in a church. The art installation stretches about 60 feet across and is made of rock slabs with different seating levels that visitors can climb on. The artists behind the sculpture chose to use recycled debris from the 1906 earthquake, and remnants of headstones leftover from century-old cemetery relocations.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>As far as the sound the organ makes — you probably wouldn’t call it musical. This art piece features an orchestra of gurgles, splashes, and booms.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12014153\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-12014153\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/11/20241112_WAVEORGAN_GC-9-KQED-800x533.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"533\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/11/20241112_WAVEORGAN_GC-9-KQED-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/11/20241112_WAVEORGAN_GC-9-KQED-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/11/20241112_WAVEORGAN_GC-9-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/11/20241112_WAVEORGAN_GC-9-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/11/20241112_WAVEORGAN_GC-9-KQED-1920x1280.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/11/20241112_WAVEORGAN_GC-9-KQED.jpg 2000w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A plaque for the Wave Organ in San Francisco on Nov. 12, 2024. \u003ccite>(Gina Castro/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch3>The Wave Organ’s origins\u003c/h3>\n\u003cp>Understanding the Wave Organ’s origins requires a little lesson in San Francisco art history.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>This environmental sculpture was created in 1986 by artist Peter Richards in collaboration with master stonemason George Gonzalez.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Richards was inspired to create the Wave Organ after moving to San Francisco in 1970. He was fascinated by how the tides in the bay showed an intimate connection between the sea and the moon.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12014150\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-12014150\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/11/20241112_WAVEORGAN_GC-2-KQED-800x522.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"522\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/11/20241112_WAVEORGAN_GC-2-KQED-800x522.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/11/20241112_WAVEORGAN_GC-2-KQED-1020x666.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/11/20241112_WAVEORGAN_GC-2-KQED-160x104.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/11/20241112_WAVEORGAN_GC-2-KQED-1536x1002.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/11/20241112_WAVEORGAN_GC-2-KQED-1920x1253.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/11/20241112_WAVEORGAN_GC-2-KQED.jpg 2000w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Water flows out of a pipe at the Wave Organ in San Francisco on Nov. 12, 2024. \u003ccite>(Gina Castro/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“It was the first time I was near a place that had tides,” said Richards, a senior artist emeritus at the Exploratorium in San Francisco, about moving to the West Coast. “I was inherently curious about [tides] and how they worked.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Richards was also inspired by artist Bill Fontana, who had recorded the sounds of pipes in a concrete dock in Sydney, Australia, in 1976. Fontana’s sonic art piece amplified and distorted bubbling and splashing sounds from the water. Richards was intrigued by the connection between physics and art to create the acoustic rhythm.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Richards wanted to see if he could do the same using San Francisco’s waters. So he took PVC pipes to the jetty in the city’s Marina district and began testing the sounds of different pipe configurations.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12015192\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"wp-image-12015192 size-medium\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/11/conceptual-1-1-resize-800x547.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"547\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/11/conceptual-1-1-resize-800x547.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/11/conceptual-1-1-resize-1020x697.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/11/conceptual-1-1-resize-160x109.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/11/conceptual-1-1-resize-1536x1050.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/11/conceptual-1-1-resize.jpg 2000w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A conceptual design of the Wave Organ originally shared at the New Music ’81 Festival. (Courtesy of the Exploratorium)\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>What he found was that the sound from the organ pipes changed depending on the water level within the pipe.\u003c/p>\n\u003ch3>How does it work?\u003c/h3>\n\u003cp>In the Wave Organ, each pipe creates a vibrating column of air that amplifies sounds produced by moving water. Certain sound frequencies created by the waves are amplified, depending on the length of the pipe and water level within it.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“At high tides, the air columns are shorter, so the sounds are higher,” Richards explains. “The low tides produce lower frequencies.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12014154\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-12014154\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/11/20241112_WAVEORGAN_GC-12-KQED-800x533.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"533\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/11/20241112_WAVEORGAN_GC-12-KQED-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/11/20241112_WAVEORGAN_GC-12-KQED-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/11/20241112_WAVEORGAN_GC-12-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/11/20241112_WAVEORGAN_GC-12-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/11/20241112_WAVEORGAN_GC-12-KQED-1920x1280.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/11/20241112_WAVEORGAN_GC-12-KQED.jpg 2000w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Pipes made of PVC and concrete at the Wave Organ in San Francisco on Nov. 12, 2024. The installation has 25 organ pipes, which sound best during high tide. \u003ccite>(Gina Castro/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Richards prototyped his design for the Wave Organ and presented a rudimentary version of the sculpture for the New Music ’81 Festival in San Francisco, a festival for experimental music and instruments.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>After securing funding to create a permanent installation, Richards met fellow Bay Area-based stonemason George Gonzalez and invited him to be a collaborator on the project. Richard says that before he met Gonzalez, he had made models and drawings of what he imagined the final installation to look like, but Gonzalez brought an innovative vision and elevated the overall project.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“When we started working on it, the first thing we did was throw the drawings away and… just allow the stonework to determine what was needed. George [had an] amazing ability to look at this beautiful stonework and be able to put it together in a very clever and functional way,” said Richards.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In 1986, the Wave Organ opened to the public. Decades later, it is still a favorite spot for San Franciscans who stop by on their morning walks. It’s also a destination for tourists who want to get off the beaten path and a place for fishermen to cast their lines.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Craig Easley, a San Franciscan who visits the Wave Organ twice a week to fish, says, “Fish or no fish, this is heaven. It’s a little bit of paradise with a 360-degree view of the bay and the city that I love.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The Wave Organ is free to visit. It’s one of the few Exploratorium exhibits that is located outside the walls of the museum.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[baycuriousquestion]\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2 id=\"episode-transcript\">Episode Transcript\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price:\u003c/strong> During the early days of the COVID-19 pandemic, we all had our little escapes. Places away from the confines of our quarantined homes to get some fresh air … and remind us that despite the distance, the rest of the world still exists. After moving to San Francisco in 2020, Robbie Rock discovered his special spot: a public art installation called the Wave Organ. It’s at the very end of a jetty sitting out in the bay, across the way from The Palace of Fine Arts.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Robbie Rock:\u003c/strong> It’s just a really cool place to sit, watch the waves, and also to, like, hear the organ.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price:\u003c/strong> The Wave organ is not like the massive trumpeting organs that you’ll find in a church. Its appearance and sounds are a bit less opulent, but the organ still produces a pretty grand orchestra of gurgles, hisses, and booms.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>[distorted gurgling from the Wave Organ]\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price:\u003c/strong> But after all of his visits, Robbie still never really knew what, exactly, he was listening to.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Robbie Rock:\u003c/strong> I just had so many questions about it. Why is it there, and how does it even work?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price:\u003c/strong> And of course…\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Robbie Rock:\u003c/strong> When is the best time to hear it?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price:\u003c/strong> I’m Olivia Allen-Price. This is Bay Curious — the podcast that answers your questions about the San Francisco Bay Area. This week, we’re turning an ear to the waters of the bay.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Now, this episode is probably going to sound best with headphones, but if you’re listening on speakers, you might just want to crank it up. Stay with us.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>[SPONSOR MESSAGE]\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price:\u003c/strong> To learn more about this instrument that’s being played by the bay itself, we sent out Bay Curious intern, Ana De Almeida Amaral.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ana De Almeida Amaral:\u003c/strong> Out in the Marina district of San Francisco, just off Marina Boulevard, a jetty stretches out into the bay — It’s a man-made stretch of land protecting the docks of St Francis Yacht Club. I went there on a windy morning to visit the Wave Organ. The Wave Organ is an art installation that is partially underwater at the edge of the jetty. It’s an environmental sculpture that interacts with the natural sounds of the waves to create a unique auditory experience.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>[Ambient sound of the Wave Organ]\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ana De Almeida Amaral:\u003c/strong> I called up Ken Finn, an educator at the Exploratorium, which is the interactive science and arts museum in San Francisco. The organ is one of the few exploratorium exhibits that is outside the walls of the museum, and it’s free! I asked Ken to show me around the Wave Organ for the first time.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ken Finn:\u003c/strong> A personal favorite time to come out here…[laughs] when a storm is brewing.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ana De Almeida Amaral:\u003c/strong> The Wave Organ is a really unique installation. It looks kind of like a Roman ruin — with various slabs of granite creating different viewing levels and stone stairs leading down to the water’s edge. The organ itself is all around the installation. There are 25 organ pipes that peek out like periscopes. And visitors can place their ear next to each pipe in order to hear what is going on underwater. As I climbed around the installation with Ken, we approached an organ pipe.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ken Finn:\u003c/strong> Here’s one of the first pipes. And you can see now that the tide is low. You can almost trace it in its winding path down into the bay. I’m going to give it a listen here… Oh, nice.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ana De Almeida Amaral:\u003c/strong> Then, it was my turn to listen….\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>[Distorted swishing sounds from the Wave Organ]\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ana De Almeida Amaral:\u003c/strong> That’s beautiful!\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ana De Almeida Amaral:\u003c/strong> With the tide out, the lower water level exposes the length of the pipes. Some only reach out 3 or 4 feet into the bay, while others extend out deep into the water. Then, Ken points at a stone slab on the staircase.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ken Finn:\u003c/strong> I like to call out that on some of these, you can see the leftover red paint, so you can tell there’s a red zone. So, some of these were old curb stones from parts of San Francisco.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ana De Almeida Amaral:\u003c/strong> That’s because most of the stone slabs used to make the sculpture are recycled pieces of granite. The jetty was originally built using stone slabs from fallen buildings after the 1906 earthquake and headstone remnants from the cemetery relocations of the early 1900s. Many still had beautiful carvings and designs, and they were given a new life with the creation of the Wave Organ.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The Wave Organ was created by artist Peter Richards in collaboration with master stonemason, George Gonzalez. Peter Richards is now a senior artist emeritus at the Exploratorium, but back in 1970 he was a recent MFA graduate and new to San Francisco.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Peter Richards:\u003c/strong> It was the first time I was near a place that had tides. So, I was inherently curious about them and how they worked.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ana De Almeida Amaral:\u003c/strong> He was enamored by the changing tides and the way they revealed an intimate connection between us — and the sun and the moon. He was also inspired by a recording he had heard from artist Bill Fontana — who had recorded the sounds of cylindrical pipes he found in a concrete dock in Sydney, Australia. Peter was drawn in by the rhythmic, distorted, and almost mesmerizing qualities of this audio portrait.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Here’s a little excerpt of that.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>[Splashing sounds]\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ana De Almeida Amaral:\u003c/strong> Peter wanted to see if he could intentionally create this phenomenon. So he took PVC pipes out onto the jetty just across from the Exploratorium, which at the time was housed at the Palace of Fine Arts. And he began testing the sounds of different pipe lengths and configurations. What he found was that the sound from the pipes changed depending on the water level within the pipe…\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Peter Richards:\u003c/strong> So at High tides, the air columns are shorter, so the sounds are higher. And if you go to the low tide, it produces lower frequencies.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ana De Almeida Amaral:\u003c/strong> The pipes function like a pan flute. In the Wave Organ, each pipe is a vibrating column of air that amplifies the sounds produced by the moving water. Certain sound frequencies created by the waves are amplified depending on the length of the pipe. And this is what creates a distorted orchestra of underwater sounds.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Once he made this discovery, Peter built a prototype of the Wave Organ for an experimental music festival in 1981. He constructed a rudimentary version at the same spot on the jetty.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Peter Richards:\u003c/strong> At that point, it was done very crudely. But we did mic it and run a telephone wire back to the Exploratorium.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ana De Almeida Amaral:\u003c/strong> The telephone wire ran across Marina Boulevard and all the way to the Palace of Fine Arts.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Peter Richards:\u003c/strong> So we had the sounds from the Wave Organ sort of echoing through the museum.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>[Sounds from the Wave Organ]\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ana De Almeida Amaral:\u003c/strong> And visitors loved it!\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Peter Richards:\u003c/strong> At that point the Director Frank Oppenheimer said, “Well, we’ve got to do something with this.” So that’s when I started working seriously on it.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ana De Almeida Amaral:\u003c/strong> After working to secure funding, the Exploratorium was ready to break ground on a permanent installation. That is when Peter met George Gonzalez and invited him to be the stonemason on the project.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Peter Richards:\u003c/strong> During the conceptual development of the project, I had built some models, and I made a drawing of what I envisioned happening. And when we started working on it, the first thing we did is to throw the drawings away and put the model away and just allow the stonework to determine what was needed there. And there was George’s amazing ability to look at this beautiful stonework and be able to put it together in a very clever and functional way.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ana De Almeida Amaral:\u003c/strong> With an attention to the beautifully carved granite slabs and to the tides… the Wave Organ rose from the rocks on the jetty in 1986. The Wave Organ is a magical integration of the natural and constructed world. It’s an art piece that sits at the center of many intersections — between the sea and moon and between science and art. And here, you get to be an audience to all of it. But before I left the Wave Organ, I had to ask Ken, the educator from the Exploratorium, the question we are all waiting for: When is the best time to hear the Wave Organ?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ken Finn:\u003c/strong> Definitely check the tides. And I think that visiting the Wave Organ at high tide is the best time. And it’s definitely a lot more enjoyable to be there when the tide is high, and it’s making some tones that are much more easy for us to hear.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ana De Almeida Amaral:\u003c/strong> But, in case you are not able to make it out to the Wave Organ at high tide — we’ll bring it to you. Here’s 30 seconds of oceanic art.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>[Sounds from the Wave Organ]\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price:\u003c/strong> That was KQED’s Ana De Almeida Amaral.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Thanks to Robbie Rock for asking the question and to Bill Fontana for letting us share a piece of his sonic art.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The Bay Curious team is taking a little breather next week, so we won’t have a new episode.\u003cbr>\nBut, we did create a kid-friendly Spotify playlist with some of our greatest hits from over the years. If you’ve got travel plans and need to fill some time — check it out! We’ll drop a link in our show notes. We’ll be back in your feeds on Dec. 5.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Gift-buying season is on the way, and I know, at least for some of you, it’s been here since Halloween, so I’d love to humbly suggest you consider giving the Bay Curious book this year. It’s chock full of history, culture, fun facts and more all about the San Francisco Bay Area. You can find it at most local bookstores and all the big online retailers. If audiobooks are more your jam, we’ve got one of those too. Learn more at \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/podcasts/baycurious\">KQED.org/BayCuriousBook\u003c/a>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Bay Curious is made in San Francisco by Ana De Almeida Amaral, Amanda Font, Christopher Beale and me, Olivia Allen-Price.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>With additional support from Jen Chien, Katie Sprenger, Maha Sanad, Chris Hambrick, Holly Kernan, Chris Egusa and the whole KQED family.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad floatright]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I’m Olivia Allen-Price. Have a wonderful week!\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"description": "View the full episode transcript Ever wondered what the San Francisco Bay sounds like beneath the water’s surface? The Wave Organ, a sound sculpture maintained by San Francisco’s Exploratorium, has 25 pipes that shoot down into the bay, creating a unique sonic experience for visitors above. You can find the sculpture, made of recycled granite, at the end of the man-made jetty across the street from the Palace of Fine Arts. There, you can put your ear to a pipe made of PVC and concrete to hear the “music” of the bay. The Wave Organ is nothing like the trumpeting",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>\u003ca href=\"#episode-transcript\">View the full episode transcript\u003c/a>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Ever wondered what the San Francisco Bay sounds like beneath the water’s surface? The Wave Organ, a sound sculpture maintained by San Francisco’s Exploratorium, has 25 pipes that shoot down into the bay, creating a unique sonic experience for visitors above. You can find the sculpture, made of recycled granite, at the end of the man-made jetty across the street from the Palace of Fine Arts. There, you can put your ear to a pipe made of PVC and concrete to hear the “music” of the bay.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003caside class=\"alignleft utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__bayCuriousPodcastShortcode__bayCurious\">\u003cimg src=https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/2023/02/bayCuriousLogo.png alt=\"Bay Curious Podcast\" loading=\"lazy\" />\n \u003ca href=\"/news/series/baycurious\">Bay Curious\u003c/a> is a podcast that answers your questions about the Bay Area.\n Subscribe on \u003ca href=\"https://itunes.apple.com/us/podcast/bay-curious/id1172473406\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">Apple Podcasts\u003c/a>,\n \u003ca href=\"http://www.npr.org/podcasts/500557090/bay-curious\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">NPR One\u003c/a> or your favorite podcast platform.\u003c/aside>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The Wave Organ is nothing like the trumpeting organs in a church. The art installation stretches about 60 feet across and is made of rock slabs with different seating levels that visitors can climb on. The artists behind the sculpture chose to use recycled debris from the 1906 earthquake, and remnants of headstones leftover from century-old cemetery relocations.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>As far as the sound the organ makes — you probably wouldn’t call it musical. This art piece features an orchestra of gurgles, splashes, and booms.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12014153\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-12014153\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/11/20241112_WAVEORGAN_GC-9-KQED-800x533.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"533\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/11/20241112_WAVEORGAN_GC-9-KQED-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/11/20241112_WAVEORGAN_GC-9-KQED-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/11/20241112_WAVEORGAN_GC-9-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/11/20241112_WAVEORGAN_GC-9-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/11/20241112_WAVEORGAN_GC-9-KQED-1920x1280.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/11/20241112_WAVEORGAN_GC-9-KQED.jpg 2000w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A plaque for the Wave Organ in San Francisco on Nov. 12, 2024. \u003ccite>(Gina Castro/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch3>The Wave Organ’s origins\u003c/h3>\n\u003cp>Understanding the Wave Organ’s origins requires a little lesson in San Francisco art history.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>This environmental sculpture was created in 1986 by artist Peter Richards in collaboration with master stonemason George Gonzalez.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Richards was inspired to create the Wave Organ after moving to San Francisco in 1970. He was fascinated by how the tides in the bay showed an intimate connection between the sea and the moon.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12014150\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-12014150\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/11/20241112_WAVEORGAN_GC-2-KQED-800x522.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"522\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/11/20241112_WAVEORGAN_GC-2-KQED-800x522.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/11/20241112_WAVEORGAN_GC-2-KQED-1020x666.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/11/20241112_WAVEORGAN_GC-2-KQED-160x104.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/11/20241112_WAVEORGAN_GC-2-KQED-1536x1002.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/11/20241112_WAVEORGAN_GC-2-KQED-1920x1253.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/11/20241112_WAVEORGAN_GC-2-KQED.jpg 2000w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Water flows out of a pipe at the Wave Organ in San Francisco on Nov. 12, 2024. \u003ccite>(Gina Castro/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“It was the first time I was near a place that had tides,” said Richards, a senior artist emeritus at the Exploratorium in San Francisco, about moving to the West Coast. “I was inherently curious about [tides] and how they worked.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Richards was also inspired by artist Bill Fontana, who had recorded the sounds of pipes in a concrete dock in Sydney, Australia, in 1976. Fontana’s sonic art piece amplified and distorted bubbling and splashing sounds from the water. Richards was intrigued by the connection between physics and art to create the acoustic rhythm.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Richards wanted to see if he could do the same using San Francisco’s waters. So he took PVC pipes to the jetty in the city’s Marina district and began testing the sounds of different pipe configurations.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12015192\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"wp-image-12015192 size-medium\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/11/conceptual-1-1-resize-800x547.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"547\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/11/conceptual-1-1-resize-800x547.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/11/conceptual-1-1-resize-1020x697.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/11/conceptual-1-1-resize-160x109.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/11/conceptual-1-1-resize-1536x1050.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/11/conceptual-1-1-resize.jpg 2000w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A conceptual design of the Wave Organ originally shared at the New Music ’81 Festival. (Courtesy of the Exploratorium)\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>What he found was that the sound from the organ pipes changed depending on the water level within the pipe.\u003c/p>\n\u003ch3>How does it work?\u003c/h3>\n\u003cp>In the Wave Organ, each pipe creates a vibrating column of air that amplifies sounds produced by moving water. Certain sound frequencies created by the waves are amplified, depending on the length of the pipe and water level within it.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“At high tides, the air columns are shorter, so the sounds are higher,” Richards explains. “The low tides produce lower frequencies.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12014154\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 800px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-medium wp-image-12014154\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/11/20241112_WAVEORGAN_GC-12-KQED-800x533.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"800\" height=\"533\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/11/20241112_WAVEORGAN_GC-12-KQED-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/11/20241112_WAVEORGAN_GC-12-KQED-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/11/20241112_WAVEORGAN_GC-12-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/11/20241112_WAVEORGAN_GC-12-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/11/20241112_WAVEORGAN_GC-12-KQED-1920x1280.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/11/20241112_WAVEORGAN_GC-12-KQED.jpg 2000w\" sizes=\"auto, (max-width: 800px) 100vw, 800px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Pipes made of PVC and concrete at the Wave Organ in San Francisco on Nov. 12, 2024. The installation has 25 organ pipes, which sound best during high tide. \u003ccite>(Gina Castro/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Richards prototyped his design for the Wave Organ and presented a rudimentary version of the sculpture for the New Music ’81 Festival in San Francisco, a festival for experimental music and instruments.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>After securing funding to create a permanent installation, Richards met fellow Bay Area-based stonemason George Gonzalez and invited him to be a collaborator on the project. Richard says that before he met Gonzalez, he had made models and drawings of what he imagined the final installation to look like, but Gonzalez brought an innovative vision and elevated the overall project.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“When we started working on it, the first thing we did was throw the drawings away and… just allow the stonework to determine what was needed. George [had an] amazing ability to look at this beautiful stonework and be able to put it together in a very clever and functional way,” said Richards.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In 1986, the Wave Organ opened to the public. Decades later, it is still a favorite spot for San Franciscans who stop by on their morning walks. It’s also a destination for tourists who want to get off the beaten path and a place for fishermen to cast their lines.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Craig Easley, a San Franciscan who visits the Wave Organ twice a week to fish, says, “Fish or no fish, this is heaven. It’s a little bit of paradise with a 360-degree view of the bay and the city that I love.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The Wave Organ is free to visit. It’s one of the few Exploratorium exhibits that is located outside the walls of the museum.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-content post-body\">\u003ch2 id=\"episode-transcript\">Episode Transcript\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price:\u003c/strong> During the early days of the COVID-19 pandemic, we all had our little escapes. Places away from the confines of our quarantined homes to get some fresh air … and remind us that despite the distance, the rest of the world still exists. After moving to San Francisco in 2020, Robbie Rock discovered his special spot: a public art installation called the Wave Organ. It’s at the very end of a jetty sitting out in the bay, across the way from The Palace of Fine Arts.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Robbie Rock:\u003c/strong> It’s just a really cool place to sit, watch the waves, and also to, like, hear the organ.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price:\u003c/strong> The Wave organ is not like the massive trumpeting organs that you’ll find in a church. Its appearance and sounds are a bit less opulent, but the organ still produces a pretty grand orchestra of gurgles, hisses, and booms.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>[distorted gurgling from the Wave Organ]\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price:\u003c/strong> But after all of his visits, Robbie still never really knew what, exactly, he was listening to.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Robbie Rock:\u003c/strong> I just had so many questions about it. Why is it there, and how does it even work?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price:\u003c/strong> And of course…\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Robbie Rock:\u003c/strong> When is the best time to hear it?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price:\u003c/strong> I’m Olivia Allen-Price. This is Bay Curious — the podcast that answers your questions about the San Francisco Bay Area. This week, we’re turning an ear to the waters of the bay.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Now, this episode is probably going to sound best with headphones, but if you’re listening on speakers, you might just want to crank it up. Stay with us.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>[SPONSOR MESSAGE]\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price:\u003c/strong> To learn more about this instrument that’s being played by the bay itself, we sent out Bay Curious intern, Ana De Almeida Amaral.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ana De Almeida Amaral:\u003c/strong> Out in the Marina district of San Francisco, just off Marina Boulevard, a jetty stretches out into the bay — It’s a man-made stretch of land protecting the docks of St Francis Yacht Club. I went there on a windy morning to visit the Wave Organ. The Wave Organ is an art installation that is partially underwater at the edge of the jetty. It’s an environmental sculpture that interacts with the natural sounds of the waves to create a unique auditory experience.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>[Ambient sound of the Wave Organ]\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ana De Almeida Amaral:\u003c/strong> I called up Ken Finn, an educator at the Exploratorium, which is the interactive science and arts museum in San Francisco. The organ is one of the few exploratorium exhibits that is outside the walls of the museum, and it’s free! I asked Ken to show me around the Wave Organ for the first time.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ken Finn:\u003c/strong> A personal favorite time to come out here…[laughs] when a storm is brewing.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ana De Almeida Amaral:\u003c/strong> The Wave Organ is a really unique installation. It looks kind of like a Roman ruin — with various slabs of granite creating different viewing levels and stone stairs leading down to the water’s edge. The organ itself is all around the installation. There are 25 organ pipes that peek out like periscopes. And visitors can place their ear next to each pipe in order to hear what is going on underwater. As I climbed around the installation with Ken, we approached an organ pipe.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ken Finn:\u003c/strong> Here’s one of the first pipes. And you can see now that the tide is low. You can almost trace it in its winding path down into the bay. I’m going to give it a listen here… Oh, nice.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ana De Almeida Amaral:\u003c/strong> Then, it was my turn to listen….\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>[Distorted swishing sounds from the Wave Organ]\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ana De Almeida Amaral:\u003c/strong> That’s beautiful!\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ana De Almeida Amaral:\u003c/strong> With the tide out, the lower water level exposes the length of the pipes. Some only reach out 3 or 4 feet into the bay, while others extend out deep into the water. Then, Ken points at a stone slab on the staircase.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ken Finn:\u003c/strong> I like to call out that on some of these, you can see the leftover red paint, so you can tell there’s a red zone. So, some of these were old curb stones from parts of San Francisco.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ana De Almeida Amaral:\u003c/strong> That’s because most of the stone slabs used to make the sculpture are recycled pieces of granite. The jetty was originally built using stone slabs from fallen buildings after the 1906 earthquake and headstone remnants from the cemetery relocations of the early 1900s. Many still had beautiful carvings and designs, and they were given a new life with the creation of the Wave Organ.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The Wave Organ was created by artist Peter Richards in collaboration with master stonemason, George Gonzalez. Peter Richards is now a senior artist emeritus at the Exploratorium, but back in 1970 he was a recent MFA graduate and new to San Francisco.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Peter Richards:\u003c/strong> It was the first time I was near a place that had tides. So, I was inherently curious about them and how they worked.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ana De Almeida Amaral:\u003c/strong> He was enamored by the changing tides and the way they revealed an intimate connection between us — and the sun and the moon. He was also inspired by a recording he had heard from artist Bill Fontana — who had recorded the sounds of cylindrical pipes he found in a concrete dock in Sydney, Australia. Peter was drawn in by the rhythmic, distorted, and almost mesmerizing qualities of this audio portrait.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Here’s a little excerpt of that.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>[Splashing sounds]\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ana De Almeida Amaral:\u003c/strong> Peter wanted to see if he could intentionally create this phenomenon. So he took PVC pipes out onto the jetty just across from the Exploratorium, which at the time was housed at the Palace of Fine Arts. And he began testing the sounds of different pipe lengths and configurations. What he found was that the sound from the pipes changed depending on the water level within the pipe…\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Peter Richards:\u003c/strong> So at High tides, the air columns are shorter, so the sounds are higher. And if you go to the low tide, it produces lower frequencies.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ana De Almeida Amaral:\u003c/strong> The pipes function like a pan flute. In the Wave Organ, each pipe is a vibrating column of air that amplifies the sounds produced by the moving water. Certain sound frequencies created by the waves are amplified depending on the length of the pipe. And this is what creates a distorted orchestra of underwater sounds.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Once he made this discovery, Peter built a prototype of the Wave Organ for an experimental music festival in 1981. He constructed a rudimentary version at the same spot on the jetty.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Peter Richards:\u003c/strong> At that point, it was done very crudely. But we did mic it and run a telephone wire back to the Exploratorium.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ana De Almeida Amaral:\u003c/strong> The telephone wire ran across Marina Boulevard and all the way to the Palace of Fine Arts.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Peter Richards:\u003c/strong> So we had the sounds from the Wave Organ sort of echoing through the museum.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>[Sounds from the Wave Organ]\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ana De Almeida Amaral:\u003c/strong> And visitors loved it!\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Peter Richards:\u003c/strong> At that point the Director Frank Oppenheimer said, “Well, we’ve got to do something with this.” So that’s when I started working seriously on it.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ana De Almeida Amaral:\u003c/strong> After working to secure funding, the Exploratorium was ready to break ground on a permanent installation. That is when Peter met George Gonzalez and invited him to be the stonemason on the project.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Peter Richards:\u003c/strong> During the conceptual development of the project, I had built some models, and I made a drawing of what I envisioned happening. And when we started working on it, the first thing we did is to throw the drawings away and put the model away and just allow the stonework to determine what was needed there. And there was George’s amazing ability to look at this beautiful stonework and be able to put it together in a very clever and functional way.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ana De Almeida Amaral:\u003c/strong> With an attention to the beautifully carved granite slabs and to the tides… the Wave Organ rose from the rocks on the jetty in 1986. The Wave Organ is a magical integration of the natural and constructed world. It’s an art piece that sits at the center of many intersections — between the sea and moon and between science and art. And here, you get to be an audience to all of it. But before I left the Wave Organ, I had to ask Ken, the educator from the Exploratorium, the question we are all waiting for: When is the best time to hear the Wave Organ?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ken Finn:\u003c/strong> Definitely check the tides. And I think that visiting the Wave Organ at high tide is the best time. And it’s definitely a lot more enjoyable to be there when the tide is high, and it’s making some tones that are much more easy for us to hear.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ana De Almeida Amaral:\u003c/strong> But, in case you are not able to make it out to the Wave Organ at high tide — we’ll bring it to you. Here’s 30 seconds of oceanic art.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>[Sounds from the Wave Organ]\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price:\u003c/strong> That was KQED’s Ana De Almeida Amaral.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Thanks to Robbie Rock for asking the question and to Bill Fontana for letting us share a piece of his sonic art.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The Bay Curious team is taking a little breather next week, so we won’t have a new episode.\u003cbr>\nBut, we did create a kid-friendly Spotify playlist with some of our greatest hits from over the years. If you’ve got travel plans and need to fill some time — check it out! We’ll drop a link in our show notes. We’ll be back in your feeds on Dec. 5.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Gift-buying season is on the way, and I know, at least for some of you, it’s been here since Halloween, so I’d love to humbly suggest you consider giving the Bay Curious book this year. It’s chock full of history, culture, fun facts and more all about the San Francisco Bay Area. You can find it at most local bookstores and all the big online retailers. If audiobooks are more your jam, we’ve got one of those too. Learn more at \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/podcasts/baycurious\">KQED.org/BayCuriousBook\u003c/a>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Bay Curious is made in San Francisco by Ana De Almeida Amaral, Amanda Font, Christopher Beale and me, Olivia Allen-Price.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>With additional support from Jen Chien, Katie Sprenger, Maha Sanad, Chris Hambrick, Holly Kernan, Chris Egusa and the whole KQED family.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I’m Olivia Allen-Price. Have a wonderful week!\u003c/p>\n\n\u003c/div>"
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"title": "The USS Hornet in Alameda Is a Destination for Paranormal Enthusiasts — and You Can Spend the Night There",
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"headTitle": "The USS Hornet in Alameda Is a Destination for Paranormal Enthusiasts — and You Can Spend the Night There | KQED",
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"content": "\u003cp>\u003cem>\u003ca href=\"#episode-transcript\">View the full episode transcript.\u003c/a>\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>There are a number of spaces around the Bay Area that attract ghost hunters … people who don’t run away from things that go bump in the night — but rather seek them out. One of those hot spots is floating in Alameda: the USS Hornet, a massive retired aircraft carrier.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>During World War II, the Hornet carried thousands of crewmen and more than a hundred aircraft as it battled around the Pacific. And decades later, the Hornet picked up American astronauts after splashdown following two of the moon landings.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[baycuriouspodcastinfo]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But fascinating history aside, the USS Hornet is also said to be haunted and offers overnight tours. Paranormal enthusiasts from near and far come to spend the night in the original sailors’ bunks and set up ghost-detecting instruments in some of the ship’s deepest compartments. To find out more, Bay Curious tagged along on a recent tour with about ten other thrill seekers.\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>Unsettling Encounters\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>In the Hornet’s sick bay, rows of WWII-era hospital beds with white sheets and metal frames stretched back into shadowed corners. Faye Navarro, private events manager on the USS Hornet, placed a small, coffin-shaped box on one of the beds: a motion-detecting music box used to sense the presence of spirits.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12011402\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003ca href=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/10/29_20241025_USSHORNET_MIDDLETON_362-KQED.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12011402\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/10/29_20241025_USSHORNET_MIDDLETON_362-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"A group of people walk around on a ship.\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/10/29_20241025_USSHORNET_MIDDLETON_362-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/10/29_20241025_USSHORNET_MIDDLETON_362-KQED-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/10/29_20241025_USSHORNET_MIDDLETON_362-KQED-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/10/29_20241025_USSHORNET_MIDDLETON_362-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/10/29_20241025_USSHORNET_MIDDLETON_362-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/10/29_20241025_USSHORNET_MIDDLETON_362-KQED-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Tour guide, Faye Navarro, left, leads a group of participants on a History Mystery Tour on the USS Hornet in Alameda on Oct. 25, 2024. \u003ccite>(Florence Middleton for KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“When you’re looking down, and this thing is going off, and you don’t see anybody, it gets creepy,” Navarro said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“There’s something particular about this place,” her fellow tour guide Steve Jackson said. He’s been to other spaces rumored to be haunted, like the Winchester Mystery House, but he believes the USS Hornet is exceptionally full of ghosts.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“They’re not just the spirits that were here when the ship was active,” Jackson said. “They’re spirits from all over the place.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>To communicate with them, Jackson and Navarro used pendulums, dowsing rods, and even Maglite flashlights, which they unscrew just enough so that they were turned off and then lay on the floor.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“The theory is the spirits are able to bridge the gap between the battery and the light to be able to answer questions,” Jackson said. “But sadly, they can only answer yes or no questions.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Is there more than one spirit in here?” Jackson called out into the darkness of the sick bay. The flashlight stayed off, indicating a “no” answer.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12011397\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003ca href=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/10/21_20241025_USSHORNET_MIDDLETON_205-KQED.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12011397\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/10/21_20241025_USSHORNET_MIDDLETON_205-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"A man squats down with a measuring instrument in a red-lit room, as two other people watch.\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/10/21_20241025_USSHORNET_MIDDLETON_205-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/10/21_20241025_USSHORNET_MIDDLETON_205-KQED-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/10/21_20241025_USSHORNET_MIDDLETON_205-KQED-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/10/21_20241025_USSHORNET_MIDDLETON_205-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/10/21_20241025_USSHORNET_MIDDLETON_205-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/10/21_20241025_USSHORNET_MIDDLETON_205-KQED-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Tour guide, Steve Jackson, center, sets up a radiating electromagneticity (REM) pod used to detect paranormal activity during a History Mystery Tour on the USS Hornet in Alameda on Oct. 25, 2024. \u003ccite>(Florence Middleton for KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“Is it just you that’s in here?” he asked.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[aside label=\"more Bay Curious stories\" tag=\"bay-curious\"]And the flashlight winked on.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In the nearby surgery room, guest Ashley Juarez Bilow climbed onto the operating table, next to a tray of old surgical instruments … and felt something gripping her foot.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“It didn’t feel like a bad entity,” Juarez Bilow said. “Felt like someone caring for me, like when your mother looks at your knee when you have a boo-boo.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Deeper inside the ship, in a big metal room with pipes running across the ceiling, guest Zaniah Velazquez felt the presence of her late mother. She said she often feels spirits around her.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I’ve been like that all my life,” she said. “I’m very sensitive to stuff.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Velazquez said she had an especially creepy experience the first time she spent the night on the USS Hornet.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12011400\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003ca href=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/10/26_20241025_USSHORNET_MIDDLETON_318-KQED.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12011400\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/10/26_20241025_USSHORNET_MIDDLETON_318-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"Several people stand in a dark, tight enclosure.\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/10/26_20241025_USSHORNET_MIDDLETON_318-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/10/26_20241025_USSHORNET_MIDDLETON_318-KQED-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/10/26_20241025_USSHORNET_MIDDLETON_318-KQED-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/10/26_20241025_USSHORNET_MIDDLETON_318-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/10/26_20241025_USSHORNET_MIDDLETON_318-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/10/26_20241025_USSHORNET_MIDDLETON_318-KQED-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Participants of the History Mystery Tour look into jail cells on the USS Hornet in Alameda on Oct. 25, 2024. \u003ccite>(Florence Middleton for KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“I felt something get on top of me. It wouldn’t let me move. And I started praying,” she said. “I felt it get up off of me. When I turned around, that’s when I seen it pass by. I seen a black shadow pass by,” Velazquez said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>As midnight approached, the group walked carefully through the pitch black, even deeper into the heart of the ship. In Radio Central, a small room with walls covered in knobs and switches, the electromagnetic field (EMF) sensors lit up and the flashlights flickered.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12011392\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003ca href=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/10/09_20241025_USSHORNET_MIDDLETON_095-KQED.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12011392\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/10/09_20241025_USSHORNET_MIDDLETON_095-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"A woman lying down under a lamp.\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/10/09_20241025_USSHORNET_MIDDLETON_095-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/10/09_20241025_USSHORNET_MIDDLETON_095-KQED-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/10/09_20241025_USSHORNET_MIDDLETON_095-KQED-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/10/09_20241025_USSHORNET_MIDDLETON_095-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/10/09_20241025_USSHORNET_MIDDLETON_095-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/10/09_20241025_USSHORNET_MIDDLETON_095-KQED-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Liz Gibbons, left, monitors for spirits as Hira Zahir, right, lays on the operating table inside the USS Hornet in Alameda on Oct. 25, 2024. \u003ccite>(Florence Middleton for KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“Did you guys see that little orb?” Velazquez said. “I seen something pass by. Like a little ball of light.”Around midnight, the guides left, and the rest of the guests got ready to spend the night in the sailors’ sleeping compartments.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Juarez Bilow brought her Ouija board and tarot cards. She hoped to run into more spirits … but wasn’t afraid.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12011401\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003ca href=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/10/28_20241025_USSHORNET_MIDDLETON_331-KQED.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12011401\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/10/28_20241025_USSHORNET_MIDDLETON_331-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"A man in a red-lit room holds a small pendulum, while a woman sits next to him watching.\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/10/28_20241025_USSHORNET_MIDDLETON_331-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/10/28_20241025_USSHORNET_MIDDLETON_331-KQED-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/10/28_20241025_USSHORNET_MIDDLETON_331-KQED-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/10/28_20241025_USSHORNET_MIDDLETON_331-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/10/28_20241025_USSHORNET_MIDDLETON_331-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/10/28_20241025_USSHORNET_MIDDLETON_331-KQED-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">History Mystery Tour guide Faye Navarro, left, watches as her co-guide, Steve Jackson, uses a pendulum to communicate with spirits on the USS Hornet in Alameda on Oct. 25, 2024. \u003ccite>(Florence Middleton for KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12011393\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003ca href=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/10/11_20241025_USSHORNET_MIDDLETON_099-KQED.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12011393\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/10/11_20241025_USSHORNET_MIDDLETON_099-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"Old-fashioned operating tools on metal table.\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/10/11_20241025_USSHORNET_MIDDLETON_099-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/10/11_20241025_USSHORNET_MIDDLETON_099-KQED-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/10/11_20241025_USSHORNET_MIDDLETON_099-KQED-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/10/11_20241025_USSHORNET_MIDDLETON_099-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/10/11_20241025_USSHORNET_MIDDLETON_099-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/10/11_20241025_USSHORNET_MIDDLETON_099-KQED-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Operating tools on the USS Hornet in Alameda on Oct. 25, 2024. \u003ccite>(Florence Middleton for KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“Because entities, if you don’t interact with them, they generally leave you alone,” she said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The USS Hornet holds paranormal overnight adventure tours about once a month. To find out more, go to their website at uss-hornet.org. And if sleeping on a ship brimming with ghosts isn’t your thing, they also have daytime tours and overnights that focus on the ship’s history — and are presumably way less spooky.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12011388\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003ca href=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/10/06_20241025_USSHORNET_MIDDLETON_050-KQED.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12011388\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/10/06_20241025_USSHORNET_MIDDLETON_050-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"A ramp leading up to a ship.\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/10/06_20241025_USSHORNET_MIDDLETON_050-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/10/06_20241025_USSHORNET_MIDDLETON_050-KQED-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/10/06_20241025_USSHORNET_MIDDLETON_050-KQED-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/10/06_20241025_USSHORNET_MIDDLETON_050-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/10/06_20241025_USSHORNET_MIDDLETON_050-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/10/06_20241025_USSHORNET_MIDDLETON_050-KQED-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">The ramp to the USS Hornet in Alameda on Oct. 25, 2024. The ship is open after hours for the History Mystery Tours that run throughout the year. \u003ccite>(Florence Middleton for KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>[baycuriousquestion]\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2 id=\"episode-transcript\">Episode Transcript\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/b>There’s a number of spaces around the Bay Area that attract ghost hunters … people who don’t run away from things that go bump in the night — but rather, seek them out.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>And one of those hot spots is floating in Alameda….\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ci>(large ship rocks and creaks while the sound of water can be heard)\u003c/i>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/b>It’s the massive retired aircraft carrier — the USS Hornet.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>During WWII, the Hornet carried thousands of crewmen, and more than a hundred aircraft, as it battled around the Pacific. And decades later, the Hornet picked up American astronauts after splashdown following two of the moon landings!\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>There’s a lot of history to this place, but today, we’re putting that all aside. Because it’s Halloween, after all. So, instead of \u003ci>history, \u003c/i>we’re going into the \u003ci>mystery.\u003c/i>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The USS Hornet is said to be haunted. So today on the show, we’re tagging along on an after-hours tour to see what paranormal activity we can find.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I’m Olivia Allen-Price, and this is Bay Curious.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>SPONSOR MESSAGE\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/b>It’s a Friday night, around sunset and KQED reporter Katherine Monahan is climbing aboard the USS Hornet in Alameda with ten other curious guests. Many of these are experienced ghost hunters who have brought their own ghost-detecting instruments for tonight’s activities. Just as the sun dips below the horizon, the intrepid team heads into the dark, steely depths of the ship…\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[sounds of people moving around onboard the ship]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Faye Navarro: \u003c/b>We’re gonna go ahead and walk this way. Watch your step\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Katherine Monahan:\u003c/b> Docent and paranormal investigator Faye Navarro leads us by flashlight through echoing metal hallways, past pitch-black rooms filled with old naval equipment.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Faye Navarro: \u003c/b>Watch your head, too.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Katherine Monahan: \u003c/b>We step into the Hornet’s sick bay, where wounded crewmembers would have been treated … and where likely some of them died. Rows of WWII-era hospital beds with white sheets and metal frames stretch back into shadowed corners.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Navarro places a small, coffin-shaped box on one of the beds. A piece of equipment she’s calibrating so we can use it to sense the presence of spirits.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Faye Navarro: \u003c/b>This is our motion detective, uh, music box. We’ll calibrate the space … \u003ci>[a small music box plays a high-pitched tune]\u003c/i> … When you’re looking down, and this thing is going off, and you don’t see anybody, it gets creepy.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Katherine Monahan: \u003c/b>Navarro’s partner, Steve Jackson, takes out two little mag flashlights — the kind where you twist the top to turn them on and off.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>He unscrews them just enough so that they’re off and sets them on the ground.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Steve Jackson: \u003c/b>The theory is the spirits are able to bridge the gap between the battery and the light to be able to answer questions.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Katherine Monahan: \u003c/b>And they start talking to ghosts.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Steve Jackson: \u003c/b>Is there more than one spirit in here?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Katherine Monahan: \u003c/b>The flashlight stays off, indicating a no-answer\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Steve Jackson: \u003c/b>Is it just you that’s in here?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Katherine Monahan: \u003c/b>And it comes on\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Steve Jackson: \u003c/b>Thank you, can you turn the flashlight off please?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Katherine Monahan: \u003c/b> … and it goes back off.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Steve Jackson: \u003c/b>There’s something particular about this place.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Katherine Monahan: \u003c/b>Jackson has been to other spaces that are known as haunted — like the Winchester Mystery House. But he says the USS Hornet is exceptionally full of ghosts.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Steve Jackson: \u003c/b>They’re not just the spirits that were here when the ship was active. They’re spirits from all over the place. I mean, the spirit will come with somebody, and it’ll stay, or a spirit will leave with somebody.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Katherine Monahan: \u003c/b>Nearby is the surgery room, with an operating table for the patient and a tray of old instruments for the doctor. A single surgical lamp spotlights the bed — the only light in this otherwise dark room. One of the guests, Ashley Juarez Bilow, climbs on, lays down, and reaches out to the past.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Ashley Juarez Bilow:\u003c/b> Doctor, could you please check my leg? My right leg? (pause) Oh, it feels like my foot is being held right now.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Katherine Monahan: \u003c/b>She says it’s not a frightening feeling.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Ashley Juarez Bilow: \u003c/b>I felt like my foot was being gripped, like held on to. It didn’t feel like a bad entity. Felt like someone caring for me and checking something out, like when your mother looks at your knee when you have a boo-boo kind of thing.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Katherine Monahan: \u003c/b>She says she’s kind of used to this.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Ashley Juarez Bilow:\u003c/b> I’ve been into it since I was about 13. I used to go to my local cemetery with my Ouija board and go talk to the spirits over there. I was a little bit of a weird kid, so I liked the paranormal. I liked the supernatural. I believe in all of it. I believe your spirit can stay on this earth.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Katherine Monahan: \u003c/b>Our guides, Navarro and Jackson, lead us on through the dark, up a metal staircase so narrow it’s more of a ladder. We peer through doorways at dusty pieces of the past: sonar buoy casings and old radio equipment. We come to a big, open room with pipes running across the ceiling. And here, we’re introduced to a new means of communication with the spirit world.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Faye Navarro: \u003c/b>Has anybody heard of or seen a Human Pendulum?\u003cb> \u003c/b>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Guest: \u003c/b>Human what?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Faye Navarro:\u003c/b> Pendulum.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Guest:\u003c/b> Is that the wires that cross?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Faye Navarro: \u003c/b>No. This is with people.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Katherine Monahan: \u003c/b>They ask for a volunteer to stand in the middle of the room and just allow their body to go loose.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Faye Navarro: \u003c/b>So Spirits, we have a new friend here that is willing to be your, um, talking board, so to speak. So if you can touch her lightly and show us what your yes answer will be.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Katherine Monahan: \u003c/b>The volunteer leans slightly forward.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Faye Navarro:\u003c/b> Forward is a yes. Okay, can you show us what your no answer is going to be, please? (pause) Yep, backwards. Okay, Spirit, that we’re talking to right now, Are you a crew member? (pause) No. Okay. Is this your first time on the ship? (pause) Yes.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Katherine Monahan: \u003c/b>And this is when Zaniah Velazquez, another guest, starts to feel she knows who this is. She reaches out in Spanish.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Zaniah Velazquez: \u003c/b>Eres tu Mama?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Faye Navarro:\u003c/b> Yes\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Zaniah Velazquez: \u003c/b>I asked her, ‘Is it you, mom?’ Because my mom passed away, you know.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Faye Navarro: \u003c/b>We got a yes. It went forward.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Zaniah Velazquez: \u003c/b> Estas aqui ma?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Faye Navarro: \u003c/b>Yes.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Zaniah Velazquez: \u003c/b> I love you mama.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Katherine Monahan: \u003c/b>Velazquez lost her mother three years ago.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Zaniah Velazquez: \u003c/b>I’ve lost a lot of friends and family members. But I feel her presence, always. And my friends. They’re always around. But she’s there to protect me. You know?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Katherine Monahan: \u003c/b>She says she often feels spirits around her.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Zaniah Velazquez: \u003c/b>I’ve been like that all my life. I’m very sensitive to stuff. As soon as I came in the ship, I started feeling like, uh, like I went outside and, you know, started talking. Like, you know, I’m just like, I come in peace. Like, don’t follow me home.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Katherine Monahan: \u003c/b>It can be unsettling, she says. Sometimes, she even gets nauseous, overwhelmed. But all in all, she says, it’s fun, and she keeps coming back for more. This is actually her fifth time on the tour.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Zaniah Velazquez: The first, first day we spent the night here. It was creepy to me because I felt something get on top of me. \u003c/b>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[eerie music plays]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Zaniah Velazquez: \u003c/b>It wouldn’t let me move. And I started praying. Once I started praying, that’s when I felt it. I felt it leave. And then it came back again the second time. And then I was like, oh man, that’s when I really, like, started, like I was praying in Spanish. That’s when I, you know, I felt it get up off of me when I turned around. That’s when I see, I seen it pass by. I seen a black shadow pass by.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ci>[sounds of people walking around]\u003c/i>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Katherine Monahan: \u003c/b>It’s almost midnight now and getting cold. We walk — carefully, it’s pitch black — even deeper into the heart of the ship.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Steve Jackson: \u003c/b>This is Radio Central. This is one of the secretest places on the ship.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Katherine Monahan: \u003c/b>The walls of this small room are covered with knobs and switches. Jackson and Navarro set up their equipment — including a temperature sensor that beeps if the air gets abruptly colder. They lay the flashlights on the ground, and immediately they start winking on.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Faye Navarro: \u003c/b>Okay, can you turn that flashlight off for us, please? Thank you. Did you follow us from the other space? \u003ci>[device beeps] \u003c/i>A temperature change? Mm hmm. It got colder.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Steve Jackson: \u003c/b>That wasn’t my stomach either.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Katherin Monahan: \u003c/b>I did hear it. Uh-huh.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Katherine Monahan: \u003c/b>And then Velazquez sees something\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Zaniah Velazquez:\u003c/b> Did you guys see that little orb? Mm mm. I seen something pass by. Like a little ball of light.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Faye Navarro: \u003c/b>Outside?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Zaniah Velazquez: \u003c/b>Yeah, outside the door. I seen it go that way.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ci>BEAT / MUSIC / CREEPY SOUNDS\u003c/i>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Katherine Monahan: \u003c/b>Around midnight, the guides leave, and the rest of the guests get ready to spend the night in the original sailors’ sleeping compartments. Ashley Juarez Bilow — the one who felt the doctor touch her foot on the operating table — has her ouija board and tarot cards. She’s with her husband, and she’s hoping to communicate with his late mother — whom she sensed earlier in one of the rooms.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Ashley Juarez Bilow: \u003c/b>I have a feeling that it might be her. So I want to ask questions to see if she’s here.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Katherine Monahan: \u003c/b>Her husband, David Juarez Bilow, is more of a skeptic but happy to be here with his wife.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>David Juarez Bilow: \u003c/b>I find these cool places that say that they’re haunted, because I know that she likes it, I just bring her along. I mean, happy wife, happy life, right? (laughs)\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Katherine Monahan: \u003c/b>As he goes to get some snacks from the vending machine, Ashley says that she expects to run into more spirits tonight but … she’s not afraid.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Ashley Juarez Bilow:\u003c/b> Because entities, if you don’t interact with them, they generally leave you alone. I learned that in the cemeteries.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Katherine Monahan: \u003c/b>Solid advice … if you want to come spend the night on the USS Hornet.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Just crawl into a nice WWII-era metal cot, close your eyes, and see what happens.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ci>MUSIC BOX MUSIC\u003c/i>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/b>That was KQED reporter Katherine Monahan.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The USS Hornet holds paranormal overnight adventure tours about once a month. To find out more, go to their website at uss-hornet.org. And if sleeping on a ship brimming with ghosts isn’t your thing, they, of course, have daytime tours and also overnights that focus on the ship’s history — and are presumably way less spooky. Presumably.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Bay Curious is made in San Francisco at member-supported KQED. Our show is made by Ana De Almeida Amaral, Amanda Font, Christopher Beale, Olivia Allen-Price. Extra support from Jen, Chien, Katie Sprenger, Maha Sanad, Holly Kernan and the whole KQED family.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad floatright]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I’m Olivia Allen-Price. Nighty Night!\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"title": "The USS Hornet in Alameda Is a Destination for Paranormal Enthusiasts — and You Can Spend the Night There | KQED",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>\u003cem>\u003ca href=\"#episode-transcript\">View the full episode transcript.\u003c/a>\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>There are a number of spaces around the Bay Area that attract ghost hunters … people who don’t run away from things that go bump in the night — but rather seek them out. One of those hot spots is floating in Alameda: the USS Hornet, a massive retired aircraft carrier.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>During World War II, the Hornet carried thousands of crewmen and more than a hundred aircraft as it battled around the Pacific. And decades later, the Hornet picked up American astronauts after splashdown following two of the moon landings.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003caside class=\"alignleft utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__bayCuriousPodcastShortcode__bayCurious\">\u003cimg src=https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/2023/02/bayCuriousLogo.png alt=\"Bay Curious Podcast\" loading=\"lazy\" />\n \u003ca href=\"/news/series/baycurious\">Bay Curious\u003c/a> is a podcast that answers your questions about the Bay Area.\n Subscribe on \u003ca href=\"https://itunes.apple.com/us/podcast/bay-curious/id1172473406\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">Apple Podcasts\u003c/a>,\n \u003ca href=\"http://www.npr.org/podcasts/500557090/bay-curious\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">NPR One\u003c/a> or your favorite podcast platform.\u003c/aside>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But fascinating history aside, the USS Hornet is also said to be haunted and offers overnight tours. Paranormal enthusiasts from near and far come to spend the night in the original sailors’ bunks and set up ghost-detecting instruments in some of the ship’s deepest compartments. To find out more, Bay Curious tagged along on a recent tour with about ten other thrill seekers.\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>Unsettling Encounters\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>In the Hornet’s sick bay, rows of WWII-era hospital beds with white sheets and metal frames stretched back into shadowed corners. Faye Navarro, private events manager on the USS Hornet, placed a small, coffin-shaped box on one of the beds: a motion-detecting music box used to sense the presence of spirits.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12011402\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003ca href=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/10/29_20241025_USSHORNET_MIDDLETON_362-KQED.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12011402\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/10/29_20241025_USSHORNET_MIDDLETON_362-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"A group of people walk around on a ship.\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/10/29_20241025_USSHORNET_MIDDLETON_362-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/10/29_20241025_USSHORNET_MIDDLETON_362-KQED-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/10/29_20241025_USSHORNET_MIDDLETON_362-KQED-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/10/29_20241025_USSHORNET_MIDDLETON_362-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/10/29_20241025_USSHORNET_MIDDLETON_362-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/10/29_20241025_USSHORNET_MIDDLETON_362-KQED-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Tour guide, Faye Navarro, left, leads a group of participants on a History Mystery Tour on the USS Hornet in Alameda on Oct. 25, 2024. \u003ccite>(Florence Middleton for KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“When you’re looking down, and this thing is going off, and you don’t see anybody, it gets creepy,” Navarro said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“There’s something particular about this place,” her fellow tour guide Steve Jackson said. He’s been to other spaces rumored to be haunted, like the Winchester Mystery House, but he believes the USS Hornet is exceptionally full of ghosts.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“They’re not just the spirits that were here when the ship was active,” Jackson said. “They’re spirits from all over the place.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>To communicate with them, Jackson and Navarro used pendulums, dowsing rods, and even Maglite flashlights, which they unscrew just enough so that they were turned off and then lay on the floor.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“The theory is the spirits are able to bridge the gap between the battery and the light to be able to answer questions,” Jackson said. “But sadly, they can only answer yes or no questions.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Is there more than one spirit in here?” Jackson called out into the darkness of the sick bay. The flashlight stayed off, indicating a “no” answer.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12011397\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003ca href=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/10/21_20241025_USSHORNET_MIDDLETON_205-KQED.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12011397\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/10/21_20241025_USSHORNET_MIDDLETON_205-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"A man squats down with a measuring instrument in a red-lit room, as two other people watch.\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/10/21_20241025_USSHORNET_MIDDLETON_205-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/10/21_20241025_USSHORNET_MIDDLETON_205-KQED-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/10/21_20241025_USSHORNET_MIDDLETON_205-KQED-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/10/21_20241025_USSHORNET_MIDDLETON_205-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/10/21_20241025_USSHORNET_MIDDLETON_205-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/10/21_20241025_USSHORNET_MIDDLETON_205-KQED-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Tour guide, Steve Jackson, center, sets up a radiating electromagneticity (REM) pod used to detect paranormal activity during a History Mystery Tour on the USS Hornet in Alameda on Oct. 25, 2024. \u003ccite>(Florence Middleton for KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“Is it just you that’s in here?” he asked.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>And the flashlight winked on.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In the nearby surgery room, guest Ashley Juarez Bilow climbed onto the operating table, next to a tray of old surgical instruments … and felt something gripping her foot.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“It didn’t feel like a bad entity,” Juarez Bilow said. “Felt like someone caring for me, like when your mother looks at your knee when you have a boo-boo.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Deeper inside the ship, in a big metal room with pipes running across the ceiling, guest Zaniah Velazquez felt the presence of her late mother. She said she often feels spirits around her.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I’ve been like that all my life,” she said. “I’m very sensitive to stuff.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Velazquez said she had an especially creepy experience the first time she spent the night on the USS Hornet.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12011400\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003ca href=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/10/26_20241025_USSHORNET_MIDDLETON_318-KQED.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12011400\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/10/26_20241025_USSHORNET_MIDDLETON_318-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"Several people stand in a dark, tight enclosure.\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/10/26_20241025_USSHORNET_MIDDLETON_318-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/10/26_20241025_USSHORNET_MIDDLETON_318-KQED-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/10/26_20241025_USSHORNET_MIDDLETON_318-KQED-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/10/26_20241025_USSHORNET_MIDDLETON_318-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/10/26_20241025_USSHORNET_MIDDLETON_318-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/10/26_20241025_USSHORNET_MIDDLETON_318-KQED-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Participants of the History Mystery Tour look into jail cells on the USS Hornet in Alameda on Oct. 25, 2024. \u003ccite>(Florence Middleton for KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“I felt something get on top of me. It wouldn’t let me move. And I started praying,” she said. “I felt it get up off of me. When I turned around, that’s when I seen it pass by. I seen a black shadow pass by,” Velazquez said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>As midnight approached, the group walked carefully through the pitch black, even deeper into the heart of the ship. In Radio Central, a small room with walls covered in knobs and switches, the electromagnetic field (EMF) sensors lit up and the flashlights flickered.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12011392\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003ca href=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/10/09_20241025_USSHORNET_MIDDLETON_095-KQED.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12011392\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/10/09_20241025_USSHORNET_MIDDLETON_095-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"A woman lying down under a lamp.\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/10/09_20241025_USSHORNET_MIDDLETON_095-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/10/09_20241025_USSHORNET_MIDDLETON_095-KQED-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/10/09_20241025_USSHORNET_MIDDLETON_095-KQED-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/10/09_20241025_USSHORNET_MIDDLETON_095-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/10/09_20241025_USSHORNET_MIDDLETON_095-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/10/09_20241025_USSHORNET_MIDDLETON_095-KQED-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Liz Gibbons, left, monitors for spirits as Hira Zahir, right, lays on the operating table inside the USS Hornet in Alameda on Oct. 25, 2024. \u003ccite>(Florence Middleton for KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“Did you guys see that little orb?” Velazquez said. “I seen something pass by. Like a little ball of light.”Around midnight, the guides left, and the rest of the guests got ready to spend the night in the sailors’ sleeping compartments.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Juarez Bilow brought her Ouija board and tarot cards. She hoped to run into more spirits … but wasn’t afraid.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12011401\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003ca href=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/10/28_20241025_USSHORNET_MIDDLETON_331-KQED.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12011401\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/10/28_20241025_USSHORNET_MIDDLETON_331-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"A man in a red-lit room holds a small pendulum, while a woman sits next to him watching.\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/10/28_20241025_USSHORNET_MIDDLETON_331-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/10/28_20241025_USSHORNET_MIDDLETON_331-KQED-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/10/28_20241025_USSHORNET_MIDDLETON_331-KQED-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/10/28_20241025_USSHORNET_MIDDLETON_331-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/10/28_20241025_USSHORNET_MIDDLETON_331-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/10/28_20241025_USSHORNET_MIDDLETON_331-KQED-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">History Mystery Tour guide Faye Navarro, left, watches as her co-guide, Steve Jackson, uses a pendulum to communicate with spirits on the USS Hornet in Alameda on Oct. 25, 2024. \u003ccite>(Florence Middleton for KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12011393\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003ca href=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/10/11_20241025_USSHORNET_MIDDLETON_099-KQED.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12011393\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/10/11_20241025_USSHORNET_MIDDLETON_099-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"Old-fashioned operating tools on metal table.\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/10/11_20241025_USSHORNET_MIDDLETON_099-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/10/11_20241025_USSHORNET_MIDDLETON_099-KQED-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/10/11_20241025_USSHORNET_MIDDLETON_099-KQED-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/10/11_20241025_USSHORNET_MIDDLETON_099-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/10/11_20241025_USSHORNET_MIDDLETON_099-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/10/11_20241025_USSHORNET_MIDDLETON_099-KQED-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Operating tools on the USS Hornet in Alameda on Oct. 25, 2024. \u003ccite>(Florence Middleton for KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“Because entities, if you don’t interact with them, they generally leave you alone,” she said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The USS Hornet holds paranormal overnight adventure tours about once a month. To find out more, go to their website at uss-hornet.org. And if sleeping on a ship brimming with ghosts isn’t your thing, they also have daytime tours and overnights that focus on the ship’s history — and are presumably way less spooky.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12011388\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003ca href=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/10/06_20241025_USSHORNET_MIDDLETON_050-KQED.jpg\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12011388\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/10/06_20241025_USSHORNET_MIDDLETON_050-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"A ramp leading up to a ship.\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/10/06_20241025_USSHORNET_MIDDLETON_050-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/10/06_20241025_USSHORNET_MIDDLETON_050-KQED-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/10/06_20241025_USSHORNET_MIDDLETON_050-KQED-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/10/06_20241025_USSHORNET_MIDDLETON_050-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/10/06_20241025_USSHORNET_MIDDLETON_050-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/10/06_20241025_USSHORNET_MIDDLETON_050-KQED-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003c/a>\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">The ramp to the USS Hornet in Alameda on Oct. 25, 2024. The ship is open after hours for the History Mystery Tours that run throughout the year. \u003ccite>(Florence Middleton for KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-content post-body\">\u003ch2 id=\"episode-transcript\">Episode Transcript\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/b>There’s a number of spaces around the Bay Area that attract ghost hunters … people who don’t run away from things that go bump in the night — but rather, seek them out.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>And one of those hot spots is floating in Alameda….\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ci>(large ship rocks and creaks while the sound of water can be heard)\u003c/i>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/b>It’s the massive retired aircraft carrier — the USS Hornet.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>During WWII, the Hornet carried thousands of crewmen, and more than a hundred aircraft, as it battled around the Pacific. And decades later, the Hornet picked up American astronauts after splashdown following two of the moon landings!\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>There’s a lot of history to this place, but today, we’re putting that all aside. Because it’s Halloween, after all. So, instead of \u003ci>history, \u003c/i>we’re going into the \u003ci>mystery.\u003c/i>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The USS Hornet is said to be haunted. So today on the show, we’re tagging along on an after-hours tour to see what paranormal activity we can find.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I’m Olivia Allen-Price, and this is Bay Curious.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>SPONSOR MESSAGE\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/b>It’s a Friday night, around sunset and KQED reporter Katherine Monahan is climbing aboard the USS Hornet in Alameda with ten other curious guests. Many of these are experienced ghost hunters who have brought their own ghost-detecting instruments for tonight’s activities. Just as the sun dips below the horizon, the intrepid team heads into the dark, steely depths of the ship…\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[sounds of people moving around onboard the ship]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Faye Navarro: \u003c/b>We’re gonna go ahead and walk this way. Watch your step\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Katherine Monahan:\u003c/b> Docent and paranormal investigator Faye Navarro leads us by flashlight through echoing metal hallways, past pitch-black rooms filled with old naval equipment.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Faye Navarro: \u003c/b>Watch your head, too.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Katherine Monahan: \u003c/b>We step into the Hornet’s sick bay, where wounded crewmembers would have been treated … and where likely some of them died. Rows of WWII-era hospital beds with white sheets and metal frames stretch back into shadowed corners.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Navarro places a small, coffin-shaped box on one of the beds. A piece of equipment she’s calibrating so we can use it to sense the presence of spirits.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Faye Navarro: \u003c/b>This is our motion detective, uh, music box. We’ll calibrate the space … \u003ci>[a small music box plays a high-pitched tune]\u003c/i> … When you’re looking down, and this thing is going off, and you don’t see anybody, it gets creepy.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Katherine Monahan: \u003c/b>Navarro’s partner, Steve Jackson, takes out two little mag flashlights — the kind where you twist the top to turn them on and off.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>He unscrews them just enough so that they’re off and sets them on the ground.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Steve Jackson: \u003c/b>The theory is the spirits are able to bridge the gap between the battery and the light to be able to answer questions.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Katherine Monahan: \u003c/b>And they start talking to ghosts.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Steve Jackson: \u003c/b>Is there more than one spirit in here?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Katherine Monahan: \u003c/b>The flashlight stays off, indicating a no-answer\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Steve Jackson: \u003c/b>Is it just you that’s in here?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Katherine Monahan: \u003c/b>And it comes on\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Steve Jackson: \u003c/b>Thank you, can you turn the flashlight off please?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Katherine Monahan: \u003c/b> … and it goes back off.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Steve Jackson: \u003c/b>There’s something particular about this place.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Katherine Monahan: \u003c/b>Jackson has been to other spaces that are known as haunted — like the Winchester Mystery House. But he says the USS Hornet is exceptionally full of ghosts.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Steve Jackson: \u003c/b>They’re not just the spirits that were here when the ship was active. They’re spirits from all over the place. I mean, the spirit will come with somebody, and it’ll stay, or a spirit will leave with somebody.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Katherine Monahan: \u003c/b>Nearby is the surgery room, with an operating table for the patient and a tray of old instruments for the doctor. A single surgical lamp spotlights the bed — the only light in this otherwise dark room. One of the guests, Ashley Juarez Bilow, climbs on, lays down, and reaches out to the past.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Ashley Juarez Bilow:\u003c/b> Doctor, could you please check my leg? My right leg? (pause) Oh, it feels like my foot is being held right now.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Katherine Monahan: \u003c/b>She says it’s not a frightening feeling.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Ashley Juarez Bilow: \u003c/b>I felt like my foot was being gripped, like held on to. It didn’t feel like a bad entity. Felt like someone caring for me and checking something out, like when your mother looks at your knee when you have a boo-boo kind of thing.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Katherine Monahan: \u003c/b>She says she’s kind of used to this.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Ashley Juarez Bilow:\u003c/b> I’ve been into it since I was about 13. I used to go to my local cemetery with my Ouija board and go talk to the spirits over there. I was a little bit of a weird kid, so I liked the paranormal. I liked the supernatural. I believe in all of it. I believe your spirit can stay on this earth.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Katherine Monahan: \u003c/b>Our guides, Navarro and Jackson, lead us on through the dark, up a metal staircase so narrow it’s more of a ladder. We peer through doorways at dusty pieces of the past: sonar buoy casings and old radio equipment. We come to a big, open room with pipes running across the ceiling. And here, we’re introduced to a new means of communication with the spirit world.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Faye Navarro: \u003c/b>Has anybody heard of or seen a Human Pendulum?\u003cb> \u003c/b>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Guest: \u003c/b>Human what?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Faye Navarro:\u003c/b> Pendulum.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Guest:\u003c/b> Is that the wires that cross?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Faye Navarro: \u003c/b>No. This is with people.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Katherine Monahan: \u003c/b>They ask for a volunteer to stand in the middle of the room and just allow their body to go loose.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Faye Navarro: \u003c/b>So Spirits, we have a new friend here that is willing to be your, um, talking board, so to speak. So if you can touch her lightly and show us what your yes answer will be.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Katherine Monahan: \u003c/b>The volunteer leans slightly forward.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Faye Navarro:\u003c/b> Forward is a yes. Okay, can you show us what your no answer is going to be, please? (pause) Yep, backwards. Okay, Spirit, that we’re talking to right now, Are you a crew member? (pause) No. Okay. Is this your first time on the ship? (pause) Yes.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Katherine Monahan: \u003c/b>And this is when Zaniah Velazquez, another guest, starts to feel she knows who this is. She reaches out in Spanish.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Zaniah Velazquez: \u003c/b>Eres tu Mama?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Faye Navarro:\u003c/b> Yes\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Zaniah Velazquez: \u003c/b>I asked her, ‘Is it you, mom?’ Because my mom passed away, you know.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Faye Navarro: \u003c/b>We got a yes. It went forward.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Zaniah Velazquez: \u003c/b> Estas aqui ma?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Faye Navarro: \u003c/b>Yes.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Zaniah Velazquez: \u003c/b> I love you mama.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Katherine Monahan: \u003c/b>Velazquez lost her mother three years ago.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Zaniah Velazquez: \u003c/b>I’ve lost a lot of friends and family members. But I feel her presence, always. And my friends. They’re always around. But she’s there to protect me. You know?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Katherine Monahan: \u003c/b>She says she often feels spirits around her.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Zaniah Velazquez: \u003c/b>I’ve been like that all my life. I’m very sensitive to stuff. As soon as I came in the ship, I started feeling like, uh, like I went outside and, you know, started talking. Like, you know, I’m just like, I come in peace. Like, don’t follow me home.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Katherine Monahan: \u003c/b>It can be unsettling, she says. Sometimes, she even gets nauseous, overwhelmed. But all in all, she says, it’s fun, and she keeps coming back for more. This is actually her fifth time on the tour.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Zaniah Velazquez: The first, first day we spent the night here. It was creepy to me because I felt something get on top of me. \u003c/b>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[eerie music plays]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Zaniah Velazquez: \u003c/b>It wouldn’t let me move. And I started praying. Once I started praying, that’s when I felt it. I felt it leave. And then it came back again the second time. And then I was like, oh man, that’s when I really, like, started, like I was praying in Spanish. That’s when I, you know, I felt it get up off of me when I turned around. That’s when I see, I seen it pass by. I seen a black shadow pass by.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ci>[sounds of people walking around]\u003c/i>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Katherine Monahan: \u003c/b>It’s almost midnight now and getting cold. We walk — carefully, it’s pitch black — even deeper into the heart of the ship.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Steve Jackson: \u003c/b>This is Radio Central. This is one of the secretest places on the ship.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Katherine Monahan: \u003c/b>The walls of this small room are covered with knobs and switches. Jackson and Navarro set up their equipment — including a temperature sensor that beeps if the air gets abruptly colder. They lay the flashlights on the ground, and immediately they start winking on.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Faye Navarro: \u003c/b>Okay, can you turn that flashlight off for us, please? Thank you. Did you follow us from the other space? \u003ci>[device beeps] \u003c/i>A temperature change? Mm hmm. It got colder.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Steve Jackson: \u003c/b>That wasn’t my stomach either.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Katherin Monahan: \u003c/b>I did hear it. Uh-huh.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Katherine Monahan: \u003c/b>And then Velazquez sees something\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Zaniah Velazquez:\u003c/b> Did you guys see that little orb? Mm mm. I seen something pass by. Like a little ball of light.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Faye Navarro: \u003c/b>Outside?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Zaniah Velazquez: \u003c/b>Yeah, outside the door. I seen it go that way.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ci>BEAT / MUSIC / CREEPY SOUNDS\u003c/i>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Katherine Monahan: \u003c/b>Around midnight, the guides leave, and the rest of the guests get ready to spend the night in the original sailors’ sleeping compartments. Ashley Juarez Bilow — the one who felt the doctor touch her foot on the operating table — has her ouija board and tarot cards. She’s with her husband, and she’s hoping to communicate with his late mother — whom she sensed earlier in one of the rooms.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Ashley Juarez Bilow: \u003c/b>I have a feeling that it might be her. So I want to ask questions to see if she’s here.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Katherine Monahan: \u003c/b>Her husband, David Juarez Bilow, is more of a skeptic but happy to be here with his wife.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>David Juarez Bilow: \u003c/b>I find these cool places that say that they’re haunted, because I know that she likes it, I just bring her along. I mean, happy wife, happy life, right? (laughs)\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Katherine Monahan: \u003c/b>As he goes to get some snacks from the vending machine, Ashley says that she expects to run into more spirits tonight but … she’s not afraid.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Ashley Juarez Bilow:\u003c/b> Because entities, if you don’t interact with them, they generally leave you alone. I learned that in the cemeteries.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Katherine Monahan: \u003c/b>Solid advice … if you want to come spend the night on the USS Hornet.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Just crawl into a nice WWII-era metal cot, close your eyes, and see what happens.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ci>MUSIC BOX MUSIC\u003c/i>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/b>That was KQED reporter Katherine Monahan.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The USS Hornet holds paranormal overnight adventure tours about once a month. To find out more, go to their website at uss-hornet.org. And if sleeping on a ship brimming with ghosts isn’t your thing, they, of course, have daytime tours and also overnights that focus on the ship’s history — and are presumably way less spooky. Presumably.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Bay Curious is made in San Francisco at member-supported KQED. Our show is made by Ana De Almeida Amaral, Amanda Font, Christopher Beale, Olivia Allen-Price. Extra support from Jen, Chien, Katie Sprenger, Maha Sanad, Holly Kernan and the whole KQED family.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>I’m Olivia Allen-Price. Nighty Night!\u003c/p>\n\n\u003c/div>"
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"headTitle": "Ghost of a Legend: How a San Francisco Civil Rights Icon Was Made a Monster | KQED",
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"content": "\u003cp>\u003cem>This story first published online and aired on “Bay Curious” on Oct 25, 2018.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ca href=\"#episode-transcript\">\u003ci>View the full episode transcript.\u003c/i>\u003c/a>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“What are the most haunted places in San Francisco?”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>That’s the question that \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/news/series/baycurious\">Bay Curious\u003c/a> listener Kelsey Poole asked us a few weeks ago. Which is how I found myself standing with her on the steep streets of San Francisco’s Pacific Heights neighborhood as the sun went down — on the San Francisco Ghost Hunt.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_11699617\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-11699617\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/news/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/10/RS33251_composite_2-qut.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1271\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/10/RS33251_composite_2-qut.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/10/RS33251_composite_2-qut-160x106.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/10/RS33251_composite_2-qut-800x530.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/10/RS33251_composite_2-qut-1020x675.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/10/RS33251_composite_2-qut-1200x794.jpg 1200w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/10/RS33251_composite_2-qut-1180x781.jpg 1180w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/10/RS33251_composite_2-qut-960x636.jpg 960w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/10/RS33251_composite_2-qut-240x159.jpg 240w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/10/RS33251_composite_2-qut-375x248.jpg 375w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/10/RS33251_composite_2-qut-520x344.jpg 520w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Christian Cagigal leading the San Francisco Ghost Hunt through Pacific Heights \u003ccite>(Anne Wernikoff/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>A Tennessee transplant to the Bay Area, Poole is actually already a fan of going on ghost tours when she travels, as a way to learn the history of a city she’s visiting — plus “you get some spooky stories that keep you up at night,” she says. But she’d never done one in San Francisco. \u003cem>(Want to go on a ghost hunt with the Bay Curious team on Nov. 1? \u003ca href=\"https://www.eventbrite.com/e/bay-curious-sf-ghost-hunt-tour-and-meetup-tickets-51352552868\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">Details and tickets here\u003c/a>!)\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The Ghost Hunt tour is led by performer Christian Cagigal, who leads us through these streets in full 19th century dress, top hat and clacking cane. From tales of ghostly apparitions to aristocrats meeting grisly ends, every corner brings another ghoulish story from San Francisco history.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_11700249\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-11700249\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/news/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/10/RS33238_10062018_AW_GhostStory_11-qut.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1401\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/10/RS33238_10062018_AW_GhostStory_11-qut.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/10/RS33238_10062018_AW_GhostStory_11-qut-160x117.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/10/RS33238_10062018_AW_GhostStory_11-qut-800x584.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/10/RS33238_10062018_AW_GhostStory_11-qut-1020x744.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/10/RS33238_10062018_AW_GhostStory_11-qut-1200x876.jpg 1200w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/10/RS33238_10062018_AW_GhostStory_11-qut-1180x861.jpg 1180w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/10/RS33238_10062018_AW_GhostStory_11-qut-960x701.jpg 960w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/10/RS33238_10062018_AW_GhostStory_11-qut-240x175.jpg 240w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/10/RS33238_10062018_AW_GhostStory_11-qut-375x274.jpg 375w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/10/RS33238_10062018_AW_GhostStory_11-qut-520x379.jpg 520w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Bay Curious listener Kelsey Poole \u003ccite>(Anne Wernikoff / KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>There’s one stop on this tour we discovered, however, that tells a real-life story bigger than any Halloween legend: at the corner of Octavia and Bush streets, the place known as Mary Ellen Pleasant Memorial Park.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The ghost of Mary Ellen Pleasant — a 19th century entrepreneur who once lived in a now-vanished mansion nearby, and actually planted the eucalyptus trees above our heads — is said to still haunt this unlit corner. Her spirit is said to summon chills, frighten dogs and even throw eucalyptus nuts at passers-by. (For the record, we escaped unscathed that night.)\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_11700253\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"wp-image-11700253 size-full\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/news/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/10/10062018_AW_GhostStory_100-e1540151423725.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1343\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Christian Cagigal holds up a photograph of 19th century San Francisco on his Ghost Hunt tour, at Mary Ellen Memorial Park \u003ccite>(Anne Wernikoff)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Pleasant, Cagigal tells us, was born into slavery in the South and came to San Francisco in the mid-1800s — defying white society’s constraints to not only amass great wealth, but to use her power to advance the cause of civil rights in the city.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_11700602\" class=\"wp-caption alignright\" style=\"max-width: 291px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"wp-image-11700602 size-full\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/news/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/10/AAD-2997.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"291\" height=\"400\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/10/AAD-2997.jpg 291w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/10/AAD-2997-160x220.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/10/AAD-2997-240x330.jpg 240w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 291px) 100vw, 291px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Photograph of Mary Ellen Pleasant, age 87. \u003ccite>(Courtesy San Francisco Public Library History Center)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Yet she was \u003cem>also\u003c/em> described as a witch, a “voodoo queen” and even a murderer. What’s real here?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Her life is so enshrouded in mystery because she was her own spin doctor,” says Sacramento writer and performer Susheel Bibbs, who has studied Pleasant’s story for decades. Pleasant wrote three autobiographies — but each one contradicts the other on basic facts, such as the year of her birth.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>We do know that she was born in Georgia, and was raised in Nantucket, Massachusetts, “in indenture,” says Bibbs. There on the East Coast, the young Pleasant became a crucial figure in the civil rights fight, secretly teaming up with abolitionists and rescuing escaped slaves on the Underground Railroad.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Her double life actually including presenting as a white woman when she could.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“She was very used to being covert,” Bibbs says.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The death of her first husband left her rich, and she arrived in San Francisco in 1852 — still passing as white. She invested this sizable fortune in property by establishing boardinghouses and laundries: services that a town full of prospectors relied on.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_11700259\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-11700259\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/news/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/10/RS33344_DSC_1169-qut.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1280\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/10/RS33344_DSC_1169-qut.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/10/RS33344_DSC_1169-qut-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/10/RS33344_DSC_1169-qut-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/10/RS33344_DSC_1169-qut-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/10/RS33344_DSC_1169-qut-1200x800.jpg 1200w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/10/RS33344_DSC_1169-qut-1180x787.jpg 1180w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/10/RS33344_DSC_1169-qut-960x640.jpg 960w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/10/RS33344_DSC_1169-qut-240x160.jpg 240w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/10/RS33344_DSC_1169-qut-375x250.jpg 375w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/10/RS33344_DSC_1169-qut-520x347.jpg 520w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Sacramento writer and performer Susheel Bibbs \u003ccite>(Carly Severn / KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>In these spaces, she learned the private secrets of powerful men, and used them as another kind of currency, to rise in society. While wealthy white people of San Francisco knew her as the white boardinghouse proprietress, the city’s growing black community knew her \u003cem>real\u003c/em> identity.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>To them, she was known as “The Black City Hall,” who brought the Underground Railroad to the West and helped black people find employment. And almost a century before Rosa Parks, Pleasant challenged San Francisco’s segregated transit system in court, winning black people the right to ride the streetcars.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“My cause,” Pleasant wrote in one of her memoirs, “was the cause of freedom and equality for myself and for my people. And I’d rather be a corpse than a coward.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_11700604\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 1007px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-11700604\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/news/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/10/Chron-3.png\" alt=\"\" width=\"1007\" height=\"565\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/10/Chron-3.png 1007w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/10/Chron-3-160x90.png 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/10/Chron-3-800x449.png 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/10/Chron-3-960x539.png 960w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/10/Chron-3-240x135.png 240w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/10/Chron-3-375x210.png 375w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/10/Chron-3-520x292.png 520w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1007px) 100vw, 1007px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Mary Ellen Pleasant pictured in the San Francisco Chronicle in 1899 \u003ccite>(Courtesy San Francisco Chronicle)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>After the Civil War, over a decade after she arrived in the city, Pleasant finally checked the box that said “Black” on the census of 1865. While this undoubtedly caused a stir, Pleasant continued to move in wealthy white circles.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But by the 1880s, the wild, mud-caked San Francisco that Mary Ellen Pleasant the capitalist had carved her way into had itself transformed into a “very much more overtly racist” city, says Bibbs.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Across the nation, emancipated slaves became a convenient scapegoat for the economy’s woes — and as a wealthy, older black woman, Pleasant now inspired suspicion, even fear. The press coined a racist nickname: “Mammy Pleasant.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Whispers grew that she had some otherworldly hold over the wealthy white people she was close to — especially when Pleasant became entangled in the scandalous 1883 trial of Nevada Sen. William Sharon, accused of seducing and then abandoning a young woman.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“It was like the O.J. Simpson trial” in notoriety, says Bibbs.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_11700255\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"wp-image-11700255 size-full\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/news/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/10/10062018_AW_GhostStory_102-e1540151451936.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1280\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">The crowd listens to Christian Cagigal telling the story of Mary Ellen Pleasant on the San Francisco Ghost Hunt tour \u003ccite>(Anne Wernikoff / KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Lawyers for Sharon claimed that Pleasant, as the young woman’s friend, had used dark forces to manipulate her into entrapping the senator. And rather than rejecting the rumors, she defied them — encouraged them. She carried a voodoo doll in court, claiming she would use it to bring about his death. Wild thing is, he soon \u003cem>did\u003c/em> die during the trial.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Pleasant’s status as a “voodoo queen” grew, cementing her reputation as a quasi-mystical figure in San Francisco. To the public, voodoo meant blood magic and malevolent intent.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>To Mary Ellen Pleasant, however, the real voodoo — vodoun, or vodun — was actually her religion from her ancestral homeland of Haiti, says Bibbs.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Scandal followed scandal. When her business partner, a Scotsman named Thomas Bell, was found dead in Pleasant’s mansion in 1899, his widow collaborated on a full-page smear piece in the San Francisco Chronicle with the headline “The Queen of the Voodoos.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_11700490\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 1359px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-11700490\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/news/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/10/Chron-2.png\" alt=\"\" width=\"1359\" height=\"867\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/10/Chron-2.png 1359w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/10/Chron-2-160x102.png 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/10/Chron-2-800x510.png 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/10/Chron-2-1020x651.png 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/10/Chron-2-1200x766.png 1200w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/10/Chron-2-1180x753.png 1180w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/10/Chron-2-960x612.png 960w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/10/Chron-2-240x153.png 240w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/10/Chron-2-375x239.png 375w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/10/Chron-2-520x332.png 520w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1359px) 100vw, 1359px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">The “Queen of the Voodoos” article about Mary Ellen Pleasant in the San Francisco Chronicle \u003ccite>(Courtesy San Francisco Chronicle )\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>The press had used the language of the supernatural to describe her for years — but now, they made her into a flat-out monster, accusing her of witchcraft and heavily implying she murdered Bell.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It’s telling who gets a legend — and who gets a ghost story. Mary Ellen Pleasant was demonized in her own lifetime. Yet in a system so loaded against a black woman in the public eye, playing with rumor, as she did, was perhaps the only way to play the game — even if it was ultimately her undoing.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>She died in 1904, in her 90s, and her obituary in the San Francisco Examiner was titled: “Mammy Pleasant Will Work Weird Spells No More.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>How we’re remembered depends on who’s telling your story. And with such varying accounts, “one could not tell \u003cem>who\u003c/em> she was,” says Bibbs. “Was she the … mother of civil rights, or was she a murderess?”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_11700257\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-11700257\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/news/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/10/RS33243_10062018_AW_GhostStory_76-qut.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1311\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/10/RS33243_10062018_AW_GhostStory_76-qut.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/10/RS33243_10062018_AW_GhostStory_76-qut-160x109.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/10/RS33243_10062018_AW_GhostStory_76-qut-800x546.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/10/RS33243_10062018_AW_GhostStory_76-qut-1020x696.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/10/RS33243_10062018_AW_GhostStory_76-qut-1200x819.jpg 1200w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/10/RS33243_10062018_AW_GhostStory_76-qut-1180x806.jpg 1180w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/10/RS33243_10062018_AW_GhostStory_76-qut-960x656.jpg 960w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/10/RS33243_10062018_AW_GhostStory_76-qut-240x164.jpg 240w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/10/RS33243_10062018_AW_GhostStory_76-qut-375x256.jpg 375w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/10/RS33243_10062018_AW_GhostStory_76-qut-520x355.jpg 520w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">The San Francisco Ghost Hunt concludes in Room 407 — rumored to be haunted — of the Hotel Majestic in Pacific Heights \u003ccite>(Anne Wernikoff / KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Or as Christian Cagigal put it in closing on the San Francisco Ghost Hunt, under those eucalyptus trees she’s said to haunt: “When there’s three versions of your life story. We don’t know what to do with your life story…. And we \u003cem>forget\u003c/em> your story.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>He keeps Mary Ellen Pleasant on his ghost hunt, he says, “so we might start to remember.”\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2 id=\"episode-transcript\">Episode Transcript\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">The nights are getting longer. Pumpkins are popping up on doorsteps all over town. And soon ghoulish trick or treaters may be knocking at your door. Today on Bay Curious, we’ve got a treat for you to kick off spooky season, all inspired by this question from a listener.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Kelsey Poole: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Hi, I’m Kelsey Poole and my question is, what are the most haunted places in San Francisco?\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">We sent Kelsey on a San Francisco Ghost Hunt tour to learn the haunted side of the city’s history.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Kelsey Poole: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">It’s a cool way to see the city and you get some spooky stories that keep you up at night.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">But what we didn’t expect to find on the tour was the real life story that would shake us the most. Something not found in many San Francisco history books. Something more significant than any Halloween legend.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">I’m Olivia Allen-Price, this is Bay Curious. Today we’re bringing back a story we first aired in 2018 about a crusading heroine who somehow became a demon in her own lifetime. That’s all just ahead. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ci>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Sponsor message\u003c/span>\u003c/i>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Bay Curious reporter Carly Seven went along with Kelsey on the ghost tour and brings us the tale.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Christian Cagigal: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Alright ghost hunters. Gather ‘round, gather ‘round.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Carly Severn: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">The San Francisco Ghost Hunt starts at dusk in the city’s Pacific Heights neighborhood in the shadow of those looming Victorians.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Christian Cagigal: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Hello and welcome to the San Francisco Ghost Hunt walking tour. Thank you.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Carly Severn: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Actor Christian Cagigal leads us around the steep streets in full 19th century dress – top hat and clacking cane. Every corner brings another ghoulish story from San Francisco history, from ghostly apparitions to an aristocrat who disappeared under grisly circumstances.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Christian Cagigal: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Windows and doors were said to slam shut throughout the entire house, as inside, they discovered the pickled body of George Atherton.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Carly Severn: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">But on one particularly dark street corner, our guide Christian places his flickering lantern down on the sidewalk to illuminate a large circular plaque under our feet, dedicated to a woman who lived and died here over a century ago.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Christian Cagigal: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">She was said to be worth $30 million. For anybody, anytime, that is an accomplishment. For a woman in the Victorian time, quite an accomplishment. For an African-American woman, for that time, almost unheard of. \u003c/span>\u003ci>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Almost.\u003c/span>\u003c/i>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\"> This, my friends, is Miss Mary Ellen Pleasant.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Carly Severn: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">The excitable crowd on this tour has come to be scared. But sometimes Christian says they get more than they bargained for. Mary’s ghost is said to summon chills, frighten dogs, even throw nuts from the nearby eucalyptus trees at people like us.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Christian Cagigal: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Not on your head. From behind … on your back.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Carly Severn: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">After the crowds disperse into the night, I wondered: why would the soul still be so restless? I wanted to learn more about the flesh and blood Mary. And there’s one person who knows her better than most, Sacramento writer Susheel Bibbs.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Susheel Bibbs: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Her life is so enshrouded in mystery because she was her own spin doctor.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Carly Severn: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Mary wrote three autobiographies, but each one contradicts the other. Here’s what we do know about her.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Susheel Bibbs: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">She was born a slave in Georgia. She was raised in Nantucket in indenture.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Carly Severn:\u003c/b> \u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">There on the East Coast, years before she came to San Francisco, Mary was a crucial figure in the civil rights fight, secretly teaming up with abolitionists and rescuing escaped slaves on the Underground Railroad. In this world, nothing could ever be as it seemed.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Susheel Bibbs: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">She was very used to being covert, and she often said that words were made to conceal feelings and that she was good at it.\u003c/span>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\"> \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Carly Severn: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">And that double life included presenting as a white woman when she could. Early on, she married well, and rich. And when she was widowed, she inherited all that money.\u003c/span>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\"> \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Susheel Bibbs: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">$45,000 in gold from her husband’s estate.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Carly Severn: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">And she made the journey by steamer to San Francisco in 1852, still passing as white. She found a town filled with men come to make their gold rush fortunes. They were far from home and needed somewhere to live. So Mary buys up boarding houses and laundries.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Susheel Bibbs: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">All kinds of things that she thinks will be a niche in San Francisco to make more money.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Carly Severn: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Thing is, Mary also did the cooking and the cleaning for these men. Why? Because you can hear secrets that way. She had the dirty laundry of influential men, literally, and she was using it as leverage to further her real cause, bringing the Underground Railroad out west. You see, only San Francisco’s growing Black community knew her as a Black woman. They called her the Black City Hall, the place where you go to get what you need.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Susheel Bibbs: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">She helped African Americans get jobs on steamers and in homes and in her own businesses.\u003c/span>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\"> \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Carly Severn: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Not only that, almost a century before Rosa Parks, Mary Ellen Pleasant challenged the city’s segregated transit system.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Susheel Bibbs: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">She won in and out of court, and in 1868, African Americans could ride the trolleys in San Francisco.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Carly Severn: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">After the Civil War. Over a decade after she arrived in the city, Mary finally checked the box that said Black on the census of 1865. Susheel, who also performs as Mary on stage, reads from her memoirs.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Susheel Bibbs: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">My cause was the cause of freedom and equality for myself and for my people, and I’d rather be a corpse than a coward.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Carly Severn: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">But by the 1880s, the wild mud-caked San Francisco that Mary Ellen Pleasant, the capitalist, had carved her way into, had itself transformed.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Susheel Bibbs: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Very much more overtly racist.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Carly Severn: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Across the nation, emancipated slaves became a convenient scapegoat for the economy’s woes. And as a wealthy, older Black woman, Mary now inspired suspicion, even fear. And that is how a heroine becomes a villain. Now, the press coined a racist nickname, Mammy Pleasant. And in 1883, she became entangled in the scandalous trial of a Nevada senator accused of seducing, then abandoning a young woman. That woman was Mary’s friend.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Susheel Bibbs: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">It was a trial like the O.J. Simpson trial of the 20th century and went all the way to New York and it was reported everywhere, every day.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Carly Severn: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Though she wasn’t on trial, Mary was painted as a sinister crone with an otherworldly hold over the white people she was close to. But rather than rejecting the rumors, she defied them, encouraged them even, during the senator’s trial.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Susheel Bibbs: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">At one point, she planted a voodoo doll and said that, you know, he would die. He did die during, over the course of the trials.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Carly Severn: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">To Mary Ellen Pleasant, voodoo wasn’t just some scare tactic. It was, vodoun, or vodun, a belief system from her ancestral homeland of Haiti.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Susheel Bibbs: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">It was Pleasant’s religion from the time she was a child. She was born the daughter of a voodoo priestess and the granddaughter of a voodoo priest from Haiti.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Carly Severn: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Scandal followed scandal. When her wealthy white business partner was found dead in her mansion, his widow collaborated on a full page smear piece in the San Francisco Chronicle. The headline…\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Paul Lancour (reading from newspaper): \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">The Queen of the Voodoos\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Carly Severn: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">The press had used the language of the supernatural to describe her for years, and now they made her into a flat out monster. And the public turned on her.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Susheel Bibbs: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">They exploited those rumors and called her a blackmailer. They called her a baby stealer. So I would say that it was hate, revenge and racism.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Carly Severn: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Pleasant died in 1904, in her 90s. After such a life, so many achievements, this was the obituary she received in the San Francisco Examiner.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Paul Lancour (reading from a newspaper): \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Mammy Pleasant will work weird spells no more.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Carly Severn: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">It’s telling who gets a legend and who gets a ghost story. How we are remembered depends on who’s telling your story. Or as our tour guide, Christian put it ,under those haunted eucalyptus trees in San Francisco …\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Christian Cagigal: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">But when there’s three versions of your life story, we don’t know what to do with your life story. We stop telling your life story and we forget your story.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Carly Severn: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">He keeps Mary Ellen Pleasant on his ghost hunt, he says so that she’s not forgotten. But given Mary’s own penchant for mystery and a good story, then maybe you could choose a worse time to get to know Mary Ellen Pleasant than Halloween.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Before we go, let’s check back in with Kelsey, our question asker.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Carly Severn: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">What do you think about the story of Mary Ellen Pleasant?\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Kelsey Poole: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">It was really cool history I didn’t know before. But I hope she doesn’t throw a gumball at me.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Reporter Carly Seven. Thanks for bringing us this story. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Mark your calendars for a super fun event we have coming up. It’s a free and festive block party and open house at KQED headquarters in San Francisco’s Mission District. It’s called KQED Fest, and it’s a daylong celebration of local food, music, culture and your favorite KQED, PBS and NPR programs. Bay Curious will be live on stage talking about the statewide propositions that we recently covered in our Prop Fest series. So be sure to swing by and say hello. I’ll be there. It all goes down on October 19th. Find details and register for free at kqed.org/live. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Bay Curious is made in San Francisco at member-supported KQED. Our show is produced by Amanda Font, Christopher Beale, Ana De Almeida Amaral and me, Olivia Allen-Price. Additional support from Victoria Mauleon, Jen Chien, Katie Sprenger, Maha Sanad, Holly Kernan and the whole KQED family.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">I’m Olivia Ellen Price, and I hope to see you at KQED Fest. Thanks for listening!\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad floatright]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[baycuriousquestion]\u003c/p>\n\n",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>\u003cem>This story first published online and aired on “Bay Curious” on Oct 25, 2018.\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ca href=\"#episode-transcript\">\u003ci>View the full episode transcript.\u003c/i>\u003c/a>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“What are the most haunted places in San Francisco?”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>That’s the question that \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/news/series/baycurious\">Bay Curious\u003c/a> listener Kelsey Poole asked us a few weeks ago. Which is how I found myself standing with her on the steep streets of San Francisco’s Pacific Heights neighborhood as the sun went down — on the San Francisco Ghost Hunt.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_11699617\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-11699617\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/news/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/10/RS33251_composite_2-qut.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1271\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/10/RS33251_composite_2-qut.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/10/RS33251_composite_2-qut-160x106.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/10/RS33251_composite_2-qut-800x530.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/10/RS33251_composite_2-qut-1020x675.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/10/RS33251_composite_2-qut-1200x794.jpg 1200w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/10/RS33251_composite_2-qut-1180x781.jpg 1180w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/10/RS33251_composite_2-qut-960x636.jpg 960w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/10/RS33251_composite_2-qut-240x159.jpg 240w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/10/RS33251_composite_2-qut-375x248.jpg 375w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/10/RS33251_composite_2-qut-520x344.jpg 520w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Christian Cagigal leading the San Francisco Ghost Hunt through Pacific Heights \u003ccite>(Anne Wernikoff/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>A Tennessee transplant to the Bay Area, Poole is actually already a fan of going on ghost tours when she travels, as a way to learn the history of a city she’s visiting — plus “you get some spooky stories that keep you up at night,” she says. But she’d never done one in San Francisco. \u003cem>(Want to go on a ghost hunt with the Bay Curious team on Nov. 1? \u003ca href=\"https://www.eventbrite.com/e/bay-curious-sf-ghost-hunt-tour-and-meetup-tickets-51352552868\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener\">Details and tickets here\u003c/a>!)\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The Ghost Hunt tour is led by performer Christian Cagigal, who leads us through these streets in full 19th century dress, top hat and clacking cane. From tales of ghostly apparitions to aristocrats meeting grisly ends, every corner brings another ghoulish story from San Francisco history.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_11700249\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-11700249\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/news/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/10/RS33238_10062018_AW_GhostStory_11-qut.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1401\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/10/RS33238_10062018_AW_GhostStory_11-qut.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/10/RS33238_10062018_AW_GhostStory_11-qut-160x117.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/10/RS33238_10062018_AW_GhostStory_11-qut-800x584.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/10/RS33238_10062018_AW_GhostStory_11-qut-1020x744.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/10/RS33238_10062018_AW_GhostStory_11-qut-1200x876.jpg 1200w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/10/RS33238_10062018_AW_GhostStory_11-qut-1180x861.jpg 1180w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/10/RS33238_10062018_AW_GhostStory_11-qut-960x701.jpg 960w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/10/RS33238_10062018_AW_GhostStory_11-qut-240x175.jpg 240w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/10/RS33238_10062018_AW_GhostStory_11-qut-375x274.jpg 375w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/10/RS33238_10062018_AW_GhostStory_11-qut-520x379.jpg 520w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Bay Curious listener Kelsey Poole \u003ccite>(Anne Wernikoff / KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>There’s one stop on this tour we discovered, however, that tells a real-life story bigger than any Halloween legend: at the corner of Octavia and Bush streets, the place known as Mary Ellen Pleasant Memorial Park.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The ghost of Mary Ellen Pleasant — a 19th century entrepreneur who once lived in a now-vanished mansion nearby, and actually planted the eucalyptus trees above our heads — is said to still haunt this unlit corner. Her spirit is said to summon chills, frighten dogs and even throw eucalyptus nuts at passers-by. (For the record, we escaped unscathed that night.)\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_11700253\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"wp-image-11700253 size-full\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/news/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/10/10062018_AW_GhostStory_100-e1540151423725.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1343\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Christian Cagigal holds up a photograph of 19th century San Francisco on his Ghost Hunt tour, at Mary Ellen Memorial Park \u003ccite>(Anne Wernikoff)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Pleasant, Cagigal tells us, was born into slavery in the South and came to San Francisco in the mid-1800s — defying white society’s constraints to not only amass great wealth, but to use her power to advance the cause of civil rights in the city.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_11700602\" class=\"wp-caption alignright\" style=\"max-width: 291px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"wp-image-11700602 size-full\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/news/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/10/AAD-2997.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"291\" height=\"400\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/10/AAD-2997.jpg 291w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/10/AAD-2997-160x220.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/10/AAD-2997-240x330.jpg 240w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 291px) 100vw, 291px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Photograph of Mary Ellen Pleasant, age 87. \u003ccite>(Courtesy San Francisco Public Library History Center)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Yet she was \u003cem>also\u003c/em> described as a witch, a “voodoo queen” and even a murderer. What’s real here?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“Her life is so enshrouded in mystery because she was her own spin doctor,” says Sacramento writer and performer Susheel Bibbs, who has studied Pleasant’s story for decades. Pleasant wrote three autobiographies — but each one contradicts the other on basic facts, such as the year of her birth.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>We do know that she was born in Georgia, and was raised in Nantucket, Massachusetts, “in indenture,” says Bibbs. There on the East Coast, the young Pleasant became a crucial figure in the civil rights fight, secretly teaming up with abolitionists and rescuing escaped slaves on the Underground Railroad.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Her double life actually including presenting as a white woman when she could.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“She was very used to being covert,” Bibbs says.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The death of her first husband left her rich, and she arrived in San Francisco in 1852 — still passing as white. She invested this sizable fortune in property by establishing boardinghouses and laundries: services that a town full of prospectors relied on.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_11700259\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-11700259\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/news/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/10/RS33344_DSC_1169-qut.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1280\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/10/RS33344_DSC_1169-qut.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/10/RS33344_DSC_1169-qut-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/10/RS33344_DSC_1169-qut-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/10/RS33344_DSC_1169-qut-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/10/RS33344_DSC_1169-qut-1200x800.jpg 1200w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/10/RS33344_DSC_1169-qut-1180x787.jpg 1180w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/10/RS33344_DSC_1169-qut-960x640.jpg 960w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/10/RS33344_DSC_1169-qut-240x160.jpg 240w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/10/RS33344_DSC_1169-qut-375x250.jpg 375w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/10/RS33344_DSC_1169-qut-520x347.jpg 520w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Sacramento writer and performer Susheel Bibbs \u003ccite>(Carly Severn / KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>In these spaces, she learned the private secrets of powerful men, and used them as another kind of currency, to rise in society. While wealthy white people of San Francisco knew her as the white boardinghouse proprietress, the city’s growing black community knew her \u003cem>real\u003c/em> identity.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>To them, she was known as “The Black City Hall,” who brought the Underground Railroad to the West and helped black people find employment. And almost a century before Rosa Parks, Pleasant challenged San Francisco’s segregated transit system in court, winning black people the right to ride the streetcars.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“My cause,” Pleasant wrote in one of her memoirs, “was the cause of freedom and equality for myself and for my people. And I’d rather be a corpse than a coward.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_11700604\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 1007px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-11700604\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/news/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/10/Chron-3.png\" alt=\"\" width=\"1007\" height=\"565\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/10/Chron-3.png 1007w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/10/Chron-3-160x90.png 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/10/Chron-3-800x449.png 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/10/Chron-3-960x539.png 960w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/10/Chron-3-240x135.png 240w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/10/Chron-3-375x210.png 375w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/10/Chron-3-520x292.png 520w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1007px) 100vw, 1007px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Mary Ellen Pleasant pictured in the San Francisco Chronicle in 1899 \u003ccite>(Courtesy San Francisco Chronicle)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>After the Civil War, over a decade after she arrived in the city, Pleasant finally checked the box that said “Black” on the census of 1865. While this undoubtedly caused a stir, Pleasant continued to move in wealthy white circles.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But by the 1880s, the wild, mud-caked San Francisco that Mary Ellen Pleasant the capitalist had carved her way into had itself transformed into a “very much more overtly racist” city, says Bibbs.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Across the nation, emancipated slaves became a convenient scapegoat for the economy’s woes — and as a wealthy, older black woman, Pleasant now inspired suspicion, even fear. The press coined a racist nickname: “Mammy Pleasant.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Whispers grew that she had some otherworldly hold over the wealthy white people she was close to — especially when Pleasant became entangled in the scandalous 1883 trial of Nevada Sen. William Sharon, accused of seducing and then abandoning a young woman.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“It was like the O.J. Simpson trial” in notoriety, says Bibbs.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_11700255\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"wp-image-11700255 size-full\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/news/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/10/10062018_AW_GhostStory_102-e1540151451936.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1280\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">The crowd listens to Christian Cagigal telling the story of Mary Ellen Pleasant on the San Francisco Ghost Hunt tour \u003ccite>(Anne Wernikoff / KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Lawyers for Sharon claimed that Pleasant, as the young woman’s friend, had used dark forces to manipulate her into entrapping the senator. And rather than rejecting the rumors, she defied them — encouraged them. She carried a voodoo doll in court, claiming she would use it to bring about his death. Wild thing is, he soon \u003cem>did\u003c/em> die during the trial.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Pleasant’s status as a “voodoo queen” grew, cementing her reputation as a quasi-mystical figure in San Francisco. To the public, voodoo meant blood magic and malevolent intent.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>To Mary Ellen Pleasant, however, the real voodoo — vodoun, or vodun — was actually her religion from her ancestral homeland of Haiti, says Bibbs.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Scandal followed scandal. When her business partner, a Scotsman named Thomas Bell, was found dead in Pleasant’s mansion in 1899, his widow collaborated on a full-page smear piece in the San Francisco Chronicle with the headline “The Queen of the Voodoos.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_11700490\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 1359px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-11700490\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/news/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/10/Chron-2.png\" alt=\"\" width=\"1359\" height=\"867\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/10/Chron-2.png 1359w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/10/Chron-2-160x102.png 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/10/Chron-2-800x510.png 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/10/Chron-2-1020x651.png 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/10/Chron-2-1200x766.png 1200w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/10/Chron-2-1180x753.png 1180w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/10/Chron-2-960x612.png 960w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/10/Chron-2-240x153.png 240w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/10/Chron-2-375x239.png 375w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/10/Chron-2-520x332.png 520w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1359px) 100vw, 1359px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">The “Queen of the Voodoos” article about Mary Ellen Pleasant in the San Francisco Chronicle \u003ccite>(Courtesy San Francisco Chronicle )\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>The press had used the language of the supernatural to describe her for years — but now, they made her into a flat-out monster, accusing her of witchcraft and heavily implying she murdered Bell.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It’s telling who gets a legend — and who gets a ghost story. Mary Ellen Pleasant was demonized in her own lifetime. Yet in a system so loaded against a black woman in the public eye, playing with rumor, as she did, was perhaps the only way to play the game — even if it was ultimately her undoing.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>She died in 1904, in her 90s, and her obituary in the San Francisco Examiner was titled: “Mammy Pleasant Will Work Weird Spells No More.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>How we’re remembered depends on who’s telling your story. And with such varying accounts, “one could not tell \u003cem>who\u003c/em> she was,” says Bibbs. “Was she the … mother of civil rights, or was she a murderess?”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_11700257\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 1920px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-11700257\" src=\"https://ww2.kqed.org/news/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/10/RS33243_10062018_AW_GhostStory_76-qut.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1920\" height=\"1311\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/10/RS33243_10062018_AW_GhostStory_76-qut.jpg 1920w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/10/RS33243_10062018_AW_GhostStory_76-qut-160x109.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/10/RS33243_10062018_AW_GhostStory_76-qut-800x546.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/10/RS33243_10062018_AW_GhostStory_76-qut-1020x696.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/10/RS33243_10062018_AW_GhostStory_76-qut-1200x819.jpg 1200w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/10/RS33243_10062018_AW_GhostStory_76-qut-1180x806.jpg 1180w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/10/RS33243_10062018_AW_GhostStory_76-qut-960x656.jpg 960w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/10/RS33243_10062018_AW_GhostStory_76-qut-240x164.jpg 240w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/10/RS33243_10062018_AW_GhostStory_76-qut-375x256.jpg 375w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2018/10/RS33243_10062018_AW_GhostStory_76-qut-520x355.jpg 520w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1920px) 100vw, 1920px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">The San Francisco Ghost Hunt concludes in Room 407 — rumored to be haunted — of the Hotel Majestic in Pacific Heights \u003ccite>(Anne Wernikoff / KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Or as Christian Cagigal put it in closing on the San Francisco Ghost Hunt, under those eucalyptus trees she’s said to haunt: “When there’s three versions of your life story. We don’t know what to do with your life story…. And we \u003cem>forget\u003c/em> your story.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>He keeps Mary Ellen Pleasant on his ghost hunt, he says, “so we might start to remember.”\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-content post-body\">\u003ch2 id=\"episode-transcript\">Episode Transcript\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">The nights are getting longer. Pumpkins are popping up on doorsteps all over town. And soon ghoulish trick or treaters may be knocking at your door. Today on Bay Curious, we’ve got a treat for you to kick off spooky season, all inspired by this question from a listener.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Kelsey Poole: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Hi, I’m Kelsey Poole and my question is, what are the most haunted places in San Francisco?\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">We sent Kelsey on a San Francisco Ghost Hunt tour to learn the haunted side of the city’s history.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Kelsey Poole: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">It’s a cool way to see the city and you get some spooky stories that keep you up at night.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">But what we didn’t expect to find on the tour was the real life story that would shake us the most. Something not found in many San Francisco history books. Something more significant than any Halloween legend.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">I’m Olivia Allen-Price, this is Bay Curious. Today we’re bringing back a story we first aired in 2018 about a crusading heroine who somehow became a demon in her own lifetime. That’s all just ahead. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003ci>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Sponsor message\u003c/span>\u003c/i>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Bay Curious reporter Carly Seven went along with Kelsey on the ghost tour and brings us the tale.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Christian Cagigal: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Alright ghost hunters. Gather ‘round, gather ‘round.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Carly Severn: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">The San Francisco Ghost Hunt starts at dusk in the city’s Pacific Heights neighborhood in the shadow of those looming Victorians.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Christian Cagigal: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Hello and welcome to the San Francisco Ghost Hunt walking tour. Thank you.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Carly Severn: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Actor Christian Cagigal leads us around the steep streets in full 19th century dress – top hat and clacking cane. Every corner brings another ghoulish story from San Francisco history, from ghostly apparitions to an aristocrat who disappeared under grisly circumstances.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Christian Cagigal: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Windows and doors were said to slam shut throughout the entire house, as inside, they discovered the pickled body of George Atherton.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Carly Severn: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">But on one particularly dark street corner, our guide Christian places his flickering lantern down on the sidewalk to illuminate a large circular plaque under our feet, dedicated to a woman who lived and died here over a century ago.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Christian Cagigal: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">She was said to be worth $30 million. For anybody, anytime, that is an accomplishment. For a woman in the Victorian time, quite an accomplishment. For an African-American woman, for that time, almost unheard of. \u003c/span>\u003ci>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Almost.\u003c/span>\u003c/i>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\"> This, my friends, is Miss Mary Ellen Pleasant.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Carly Severn: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">The excitable crowd on this tour has come to be scared. But sometimes Christian says they get more than they bargained for. Mary’s ghost is said to summon chills, frighten dogs, even throw nuts from the nearby eucalyptus trees at people like us.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Christian Cagigal: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Not on your head. From behind … on your back.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Carly Severn: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">After the crowds disperse into the night, I wondered: why would the soul still be so restless? I wanted to learn more about the flesh and blood Mary. And there’s one person who knows her better than most, Sacramento writer Susheel Bibbs.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Susheel Bibbs: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Her life is so enshrouded in mystery because she was her own spin doctor.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Carly Severn: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Mary wrote three autobiographies, but each one contradicts the other. Here’s what we do know about her.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Susheel Bibbs: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">She was born a slave in Georgia. She was raised in Nantucket in indenture.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Carly Severn:\u003c/b> \u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">There on the East Coast, years before she came to San Francisco, Mary was a crucial figure in the civil rights fight, secretly teaming up with abolitionists and rescuing escaped slaves on the Underground Railroad. In this world, nothing could ever be as it seemed.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Susheel Bibbs: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">She was very used to being covert, and she often said that words were made to conceal feelings and that she was good at it.\u003c/span>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\"> \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Carly Severn: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">And that double life included presenting as a white woman when she could. Early on, she married well, and rich. And when she was widowed, she inherited all that money.\u003c/span>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\"> \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Susheel Bibbs: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">$45,000 in gold from her husband’s estate.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Carly Severn: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">And she made the journey by steamer to San Francisco in 1852, still passing as white. She found a town filled with men come to make their gold rush fortunes. They were far from home and needed somewhere to live. So Mary buys up boarding houses and laundries.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Susheel Bibbs: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">All kinds of things that she thinks will be a niche in San Francisco to make more money.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Carly Severn: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Thing is, Mary also did the cooking and the cleaning for these men. Why? Because you can hear secrets that way. She had the dirty laundry of influential men, literally, and she was using it as leverage to further her real cause, bringing the Underground Railroad out west. You see, only San Francisco’s growing Black community knew her as a Black woman. They called her the Black City Hall, the place where you go to get what you need.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Susheel Bibbs: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">She helped African Americans get jobs on steamers and in homes and in her own businesses.\u003c/span>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\"> \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Carly Severn: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Not only that, almost a century before Rosa Parks, Mary Ellen Pleasant challenged the city’s segregated transit system.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Susheel Bibbs: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">She won in and out of court, and in 1868, African Americans could ride the trolleys in San Francisco.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Carly Severn: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">After the Civil War. Over a decade after she arrived in the city, Mary finally checked the box that said Black on the census of 1865. Susheel, who also performs as Mary on stage, reads from her memoirs.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Susheel Bibbs: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">My cause was the cause of freedom and equality for myself and for my people, and I’d rather be a corpse than a coward.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Carly Severn: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">But by the 1880s, the wild mud-caked San Francisco that Mary Ellen Pleasant, the capitalist, had carved her way into, had itself transformed.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Susheel Bibbs: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Very much more overtly racist.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Carly Severn: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Across the nation, emancipated slaves became a convenient scapegoat for the economy’s woes. And as a wealthy, older Black woman, Mary now inspired suspicion, even fear. And that is how a heroine becomes a villain. Now, the press coined a racist nickname, Mammy Pleasant. And in 1883, she became entangled in the scandalous trial of a Nevada senator accused of seducing, then abandoning a young woman. That woman was Mary’s friend.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Susheel Bibbs: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">It was a trial like the O.J. Simpson trial of the 20th century and went all the way to New York and it was reported everywhere, every day.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Carly Severn: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Though she wasn’t on trial, Mary was painted as a sinister crone with an otherworldly hold over the white people she was close to. But rather than rejecting the rumors, she defied them, encouraged them even, during the senator’s trial.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Susheel Bibbs: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">At one point, she planted a voodoo doll and said that, you know, he would die. He did die during, over the course of the trials.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Carly Severn: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">To Mary Ellen Pleasant, voodoo wasn’t just some scare tactic. It was, vodoun, or vodun, a belief system from her ancestral homeland of Haiti.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Susheel Bibbs: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">It was Pleasant’s religion from the time she was a child. She was born the daughter of a voodoo priestess and the granddaughter of a voodoo priest from Haiti.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Carly Severn: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Scandal followed scandal. When her wealthy white business partner was found dead in her mansion, his widow collaborated on a full page smear piece in the San Francisco Chronicle. The headline…\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Paul Lancour (reading from newspaper): \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">The Queen of the Voodoos\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Carly Severn: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">The press had used the language of the supernatural to describe her for years, and now they made her into a flat out monster. And the public turned on her.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Susheel Bibbs: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">They exploited those rumors and called her a blackmailer. They called her a baby stealer. So I would say that it was hate, revenge and racism.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Carly Severn: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Pleasant died in 1904, in her 90s. After such a life, so many achievements, this was the obituary she received in the San Francisco Examiner.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Paul Lancour (reading from a newspaper): \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Mammy Pleasant will work weird spells no more.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Carly Severn: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">It’s telling who gets a legend and who gets a ghost story. How we are remembered depends on who’s telling your story. Or as our tour guide, Christian put it ,under those haunted eucalyptus trees in San Francisco …\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Christian Cagigal: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">But when there’s three versions of your life story, we don’t know what to do with your life story. We stop telling your life story and we forget your story.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Carly Severn: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">He keeps Mary Ellen Pleasant on his ghost hunt, he says so that she’s not forgotten. But given Mary’s own penchant for mystery and a good story, then maybe you could choose a worse time to get to know Mary Ellen Pleasant than Halloween.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Before we go, let’s check back in with Kelsey, our question asker.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Carly Severn: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">What do you think about the story of Mary Ellen Pleasant?\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Kelsey Poole: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">It was really cool history I didn’t know before. But I hope she doesn’t throw a gumball at me.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Reporter Carly Seven. Thanks for bringing us this story. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Mark your calendars for a super fun event we have coming up. It’s a free and festive block party and open house at KQED headquarters in San Francisco’s Mission District. It’s called KQED Fest, and it’s a daylong celebration of local food, music, culture and your favorite KQED, PBS and NPR programs. Bay Curious will be live on stage talking about the statewide propositions that we recently covered in our Prop Fest series. So be sure to swing by and say hello. I’ll be there. It all goes down on October 19th. Find details and register for free at kqed.org/live. \u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">Bay Curious is made in San Francisco at member-supported KQED. Our show is produced by Amanda Font, Christopher Beale, Ana De Almeida Amaral and me, Olivia Allen-Price. Additional support from Victoria Mauleon, Jen Chien, Katie Sprenger, Maha Sanad, Holly Kernan and the whole KQED family.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cb>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/b>\u003cspan style=\"font-weight: 400;\">I’m Olivia Ellen Price, and I hope to see you at KQED Fest. Thanks for listening!\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\n\u003c/div>\u003c/div>"
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"slug": "the-hunters-point-cranes-legacy-is-both-majestic-and-troubling",
"title": "The Hunters Point Crane's Legacy Is Both Majestic and Troubling",
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"headTitle": "The Hunters Point Crane’s Legacy Is Both Majestic and Troubling | KQED",
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"content": "\u003cp>\u003ca href=\"#episode-transcript\">\u003cem>View the full episode transcript.\u003c/em>\u003c/a>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[dropcap]A[/dropcap]fter breakfast and coffee every morning, James Bryant heads out the front door. From his home on a hill in San Francisco, he sees the Hunters Point Gantry Crane, what he calls the “West Coast Statue of Liberty.” The metal monolith sits on the edge of the Bay at the old Hunters Point Naval Shipyard.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“It is huge, and it’s breathtaking,” said Bryant, who has lived in San Francisco’s Bayview neighborhood for over four decades and is a neighborhood historian. “The gantry crane represents what New York has in their bay, what we have in our bay.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[baycuriouspodcastinfo]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The crane is 450 feet tall and 730 feet long, so big it can be seen from three counties. It weighs as much as the Eiffel Tower. It’s an iconic piece of infrastructure, not unlike the Sutro Tower or the Bay Bridge, but perhaps the more underrated cousin.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The crane was used to load ships from the 1940s to the 1970s. For some, it’s a celebrated Bay Area icon worth. There’s even \u003ca href=\"https://www.hunterspointcrane.com/\">a whole fan website for the old crane\u003c/a>, where they sell merchandise and tell some of its history.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>However, the legacy and effect of the crane are much more profound than its metal form.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Bay Curious listener Olivia Grubert wrote to Bay Curious asking for more information about the crane. So, let’s take a closer look.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>The crane’s history\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>To understand how the Hunters Point Gantry Crane came to be, we have to go back to the late 1940s when the Cold War started between the United States, the Soviet Union and their respective allies.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The U.S. Navy built the crane in 1947 for $2.5 million. At this point, it looked like a giant table from afar. On two sides, the crane loaded massive gun turrets onto warships. Altogether, it could lift more than a million pounds. The goal was to fix and load up ships fast so they could get back to battle.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12005067\" class=\"wp-caption alignright\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12005067\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/09/240917-Hunters-Point-Gantry-Crane-SFPL-01-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1523\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/09/240917-Hunters-Point-Gantry-Crane-SFPL-01-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/09/240917-Hunters-Point-Gantry-Crane-SFPL-01-KQED-800x609.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/09/240917-Hunters-Point-Gantry-Crane-SFPL-01-KQED-1020x777.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/09/240917-Hunters-Point-Gantry-Crane-SFPL-01-KQED-160x122.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/09/240917-Hunters-Point-Gantry-Crane-SFPL-01-KQED-1536x1170.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/09/240917-Hunters-Point-Gantry-Crane-SFPL-01-KQED-1920x1462.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">The Hunters Point Naval Shipyard in San Francisco on June 25, 1953. \u003ccite>(Courtesy of San Francisco Public Library)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“The boats would pull in, and they were lifted and loaded,” Bryant said. “The idea was that we’re going to war and need to load these ships right now. These ships were major.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The Navy also tested missiles on the crane — Polaris, hydrogen bomb-tipped missiles. At Hunters Point, the Navy initially hurled missiles into the bay and retrieved them after. Later, the military shot them into mid-air, but an apparatus prevented them from flight. In the ’70s, when the Navy wanted to test more potent Poseidon missiles on the crane, they attached a 170-foot arch to strengthen it.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>At the shipyard, the Navy also decontaminated ships after atomic bomb tests and established the Naval Radiological Defense Laboratory. This process contaminated the soil in and around the base with radioactive chemicals, heavy metals and petroleum fuels.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The Navy base remained active until 1974, and after that, a private company used the property for ship repair for a short period of time. The base was declared one of the nation’s most contaminated sites in 1989. The crane has remained, standing unused for decades.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12005326\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12005326\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/09/240918-HUNTERSPOINTCRANE-12-BL-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/09/240918-HUNTERSPOINTCRANE-12-BL-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/09/240918-HUNTERSPOINTCRANE-12-BL-KQED-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/09/240918-HUNTERSPOINTCRANE-12-BL-KQED-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/09/240918-HUNTERSPOINTCRANE-12-BL-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/09/240918-HUNTERSPOINTCRANE-12-BL-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/09/240918-HUNTERSPOINTCRANE-12-BL-KQED-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">the Hunters Point gantry crane at the naval shipyard in San Francisco on Sept. 18, 2024. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>A complex legacy\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>While the history of the crane itself is relatively straightforward, its legacy is complex. On one hand, the Navy brought jobs to the Bay Area, much-needed jobs for people who had left the South.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The shipyard employed as many as 18,000 people at its peak, many of whom were Black. They built and serviced ships for wartime efforts. Bryant said they came from the South — places like Alabama, Mississippi and Texas. For many of them, the shipyard jobs allowed them to buy homes.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Bryant said the crane reminds many people in the Bayview of the prosperity they were afforded by working at the shipyard.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“It was prosperity because they got to own a home,” he said. “They got to live in the best weather. You can’t beat the Bayview weather.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>On the other hand, the Hunters Point Crane is a reminder of another legacy. Radioactive contamination is still in the ground all these years later. The Navy is working on cleaning up the site, and just last year, the Navy \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/science/1985646/radioactive-object-found-at-san-franciscos-hunters-point-naval-shipyard-raises-new-concerns\">unearthed two radioactive objects there\u003c/a>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12005325\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12005325\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/09/240918-HUNTERSPOINTCRANE-05-BL-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/09/240918-HUNTERSPOINTCRANE-05-BL-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/09/240918-HUNTERSPOINTCRANE-05-BL-KQED-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/09/240918-HUNTERSPOINTCRANE-05-BL-KQED-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/09/240918-HUNTERSPOINTCRANE-05-BL-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/09/240918-HUNTERSPOINTCRANE-05-BL-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/09/240918-HUNTERSPOINTCRANE-05-BL-KQED-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">An abandoned building at the Hunters Point Naval Shipyard in San Francisco on Sept. 18, 2024. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>The Navy did not respond to KQED’s email with a comment. But in the past, the Navy defended its remedies.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Community advocates like Bryant have called for a more thorough site cleanup for years.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“It can be eradicated. If it were on the other side of town, it would have been gone,” said Byrant, who worked for the Navy in the 1970s at the shipyard in public relations.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>All these years later, Bryant is now 70 and still raves about the crane but is worried about the contamination in the ground beneath it.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“You can almost hear the buildings talking to you, [saying] there’s history here that no one’s talking about,” he said. “The Navy ships that went in there were loaded with nuclear stuff, which is one of the reasons why it is still sitting there because it was a little contaminated.”\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>‘Still work to be done’\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>Someone who knows a lot about this contamination and how it could be hurting the community is Arieann Harrison.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Harrison’s mother, Marie Harrison, pushed for the cleanup of the shipyard for decades before passing away in 2019 from lung disease. Harrison took up her mantle in a way and now leads the Marie Harrison Community Foundation, focused on environmental justice.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>She is \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/science/1979614/for-these-black-bayview-hunters-point-residents-reparations-include-safeguarding-against-rising-toxic-contamination\">advocating for an “absolute cleanup of the shipyard.\u003c/a>” But she believes there’s a “huge chance” the Navy will leave contamination in the ground.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Harrison grew up very close to the shipyard and believes over time, she was exposed to radioactive contamination. A local doctor tested her for contaminants and found high levels of a bunch of them — contaminants like lead, manganese, uranium and plutonium.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>A scientist told her that her case looks like “that of people serving in the military.” Because of all that new information, she’s worried her health issues are related to the contamination. The doctor who took Harrison’s tests and those of more than 150 others plans to create a registry of their results. She wants to expand testing across the community.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12005327\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12005327\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/09/240918-HUNTERSPOINTCRANE-14-BL-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/09/240918-HUNTERSPOINTCRANE-14-BL-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/09/240918-HUNTERSPOINTCRANE-14-BL-KQED-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/09/240918-HUNTERSPOINTCRANE-14-BL-KQED-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/09/240918-HUNTERSPOINTCRANE-14-BL-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/09/240918-HUNTERSPOINTCRANE-14-BL-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/09/240918-HUNTERSPOINTCRANE-14-BL-KQED-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">James Bryant stands at Hillpoint Park overlooking the Hunters Point gantry crane at the naval shipyard in San Francisco on Sept. 18, 2024. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“I am still angry, and I am still hopeful for the future,” she said. “I have a lot of a vested interest in making sure that if it’s the last thing I do, things improve.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Harrison wants all the contaminated soil removed from the site. The Navy has removed some of it. Its solutions also include treating or sealing the contaminated soil under a thick layer of asphalt or dirt to contain it.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But Harrison worries those remedies aren’t enough because scientists expect human-caused climate change to raise sea levels. That could push water up from underneath the toxic site and spread the contamination into the Bay and the community.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Unless the Navy removes toxic soil, she believes rising seas will cause the contamination “to seep out into the greater Bay Area.” Over the last year, the Navy announced it found several radioactive objects within the site, \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/science/1985646/radioactive-object-found-at-san-franciscos-hunters-point-naval-shipyard-raises-new-concerns\">raising concerns about the efficacy of the cleanup\u003c/a>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Earlier this year, the Navy acknowledged for \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/news/11979473/us-navy-acknowledges-toxic-groundwater-rising-in-bayview-hunters-point\">the first time that potentially toxic groundwater could surface at the shipyard in just over a decade\u003c/a>. The Navy said it’s taken steps to protect against a 100-year storm and three feet of sea-level rise, like extending a seawall and landfill cap.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In June, an environmental justice nonprofit filed \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/science/1993505/cleanup-of-san-francisco-superfund-site-has-been-badly-mishandled-lawsuit-alleges\">a lawsuit alleging “egregious” mishandling of the cleanup of radioactive contamination\u003c/a> at the site.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Harrison is apprehensive about the contamination left underground because the city of San Francisco hopes to allow developers to build \u003ca href=\"https://sfocii.org/projects/hunters-point-shipyard-candlestick-point-2/overview\">thousands of homes on the site\u003c/a>. If and when developers build those homes, many people who live in them will have a view of the Hunters Point Crane.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>For Harrison, the crane is a daily reminder of the contamination left in her community.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“To me, [the crane] signifies that there’s still work to be done,” she said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[baycuriousquestion]\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2 id=\"episode-transcript\">Episode Transcript\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>\u003ci>This is a computer-generated transcript. While our team has reviewed it, there may be errors.\u003c/i>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen Price: \u003c/strong>Every time Olivia Grubert drives over the Bay Bridge from Oakland, she notices this thing perched on the edge of the bay on the south side of the city.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Grubert:\u003c/strong> You see this massive structure just kind of all by itself. And it seems that no one really knows too much about it. I keep pointing it out.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen Price: \u003c/strong>It turns out that metal monolith has a name. It’s called the Hunters Point Gantry Crane. From a distance, you see the structure looks like an outline of a dining table with four legs and a rectangular top on top of that table on one side. A wide arch reaches up to the sky. And this thing is big. So big it can be seen from at least three counties. Olivia sent us this question:\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Grubert: \u003c/strong>I live in Oakland, and I was curious, can you tell us about the massive crane at Hunters Point? How did it used to operate and why is it still around today?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen Price: \u003c/strong>The Hunters Point Gantry crane is 450 feet tall and 730 feet long. It weighs as much as the Eiffel Tower. It’s an iconic piece of infrastructure, not unlike the Sutro Tower or the Bay Bridge, but perhaps the more underrated cousin. What else is there to know? A whole lot. I’m Olivia Allen Price. On today’s episode, we dig into the Crane’s history by talking to San Francisco locals who see the crane as a piece of ingenuity, but also as a reminder of how actions by the U.S. Navy decades ago still haunt San Franciscans today. We’ll get into all of that just after a quick break. Stay with us.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[SPONSOR MESSAGE]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen Price: \u003c/strong>To help us answer Olivia’s question about the Hunters Point Crane, we’ve got KQED climate reporter Ezra David Romero here. Hey, Ezra.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ezra David Romero: \u003c/strong>Hey, Olivia. Yeah. Whenever I think of the Hunters Point Crane, I always think of those cranes at the Port of Oakland that you can see from the Bay Bridge. I was always told that they inspired the imperial walkers. You know, those like creatures that walk in the snow in the \u003cem>Star Wars\u003c/em> film \u003cem>The Empire Strikes Back\u003c/em>. I personally love that scene where the rebel alliance takes down an imperial walker on the snow planet, Hoth.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen Price: \u003c/strong>But Bay Curious did an episode in 2017 demystifying that idea. George Lucas is on record saying there’s no connection. Sorry, Ezra.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ezra David Romero: \u003c/strong>It may not have inspired George Lucas, but I learned the notion of the crane being related to war isn’t farfetched. James Bryant has lived in the Bayview for more than 40 years. He’s known in the community as a neighborhood historian. I took our question asker Olivia Grubert, to meet him.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>James Bryant: \u003c/strong>This is my house right here. I’m not going to disturb my wife. I’m gonna park here. Watch your step.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ezra David Romero: \u003c/strong>But from his front porch, he sees the old gantry crane off in the distance every single day.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>James Bryant: \u003c/strong>There it is. What a picture. The west coast Statue of Liberty, right here. The Gantry Crane represents what New York has in their bay, we have in our bay.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ezra David Romero: \u003c/strong>To me and Olivia, from this vantage point, it kind of looks like a futuristic metal space dog guarding San Francisco.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>James Bryant: \u003c/strong>It is huge and it’s breathtaking. You ever seen a crane like this anywhere in the world?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Grubert: \u003c/strong>I’m really excited we have this here.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ezra David Romero: \u003c/strong>To understand how the Hunters Point Gantry Crane came to be. We have to go back in time to the late 1940s when the Cold War started between the United States, the Soviet Union, and the respective allies.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[music]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ezra David Romero: \u003c/strong>The crane was built in 1947 for $2.5 million. At this point, it looked like a giant table from afar. On two sides, the crane loaded massive gun turrets on the warships.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>James Bryant: \u003c/strong>The overhead was being operated on two sides of the columns or the boats pulled in and they were being, you know, lifted, loaded.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ezra David Romero: \u003c/strong>All together, it could lift over 1 million pounds. The goal was to fix and load up ships fast so they could get back to battle.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>James Bryant: \u003c/strong>The crane was used for loading like four or five ships at once. It was an idea that, you know what, we’re going to war and we need to load these ships like, right now. Because, you know, these ships were major.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ezra David Romero: \u003c/strong>The Navy also tested missiles on the crane, Polaris missiles, which are hydrogen bomb tipped. I wasn’t able to find any archival recordings of a missile test from the Hunters Point Crane. But here’s what one sounded like in 1960 being shot out of a submarine off the Florida coast.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Archival Tape: \u003c/strong>The George Washington goes down some 50 to 60 feet below the surface and the time for launching is at hand.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ezra David Romero: \u003c/strong>At Hunters Point, the missiles were originally hurled into the bay and then later retrieved. Later they were shot into midair, but an apparatus prevented them from flight. In the 70s, when the Navy wanted to test stronger Poseidon missiles on the crane, they attached a 170 foot arch to strengthen it. Here’s a Poseidon being launched by the Navy off the Florida coast in 1972.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>[Archival Tape]\u003c/strong>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ezra David Romero: \u003c/strong>At the shipyard, the Navy decontaminated ships after atomic bomb tests and established the Naval Radiological Defense Laboratory. This process contaminated the soil in and around the base with radioactive chemicals, heavy metals, and petroleum fuels. The Navy base remained active until 1974 and was used by a private company for ship repair after that. The base was declared one of the nation’s most contaminated sites in 1989. The crane has remained unused for decades. While the history of the crane is quite straightforward, its legacy is complex. On one hand, the Navy brought jobs to the Bay Area, much needed jobs for people who had left the South. The shipyard employed as many as 18,000 people at its peak, many of whom were black. They built in-service ships for wartime efforts.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>James Bryant: \u003c/strong>They came up from Alabama, Mississippi, Texas, and, you know, they were looking for some sort of prosperity. And imagine people who went in there, got jobs, ended up being homeowners.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ezra David Romero: \u003c/strong>So, it represented, like, prosperity, like opportunity.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>James Bryant: \u003c/strong>There was two things for people who came up from the south and didn’t have a job. They didn’t have opportunity in those southern states. And it was prosperity because they got to own a home. They got to live in the best weather. You can’t beat this where they can’t beat the Bayview weather, right?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ezra David Romero: \u003c/strong>But on the other hand, the hunters point crane is a reminder of another legacy. Radioactive contamination is still on the ground all these years later. The Navy is working on cleaning up the site. And just last year, two soil samples unearthed radioactive objects there. The Navy did not respond to my emails for comment. But in the past, the Navy defended its remedies. Community advocates like James have for years called for a more thorough cleanup of the site.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>James Bryant: \u003c/strong>It could be eradicated. If it was on the other side of town, it would have been gone. You know what I mean? If it was a Sea Cliff, there would have never been an issue because the value of the homes and stuff, it should be prosperity again. That should switch Bayview Hunters Point from none to prosperity. It could provide jobs.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ezra David Romero: \u003c/strong>In the late 1970s. James worked for the Navy at the shipyard in public relations.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>James Bryant: \u003c/strong>I said, okay, but there’s something about me that you might know up front. And this was that. I don’t lie. I went along with that project for about two years.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ezra David Romero: \u003c/strong>He left that job because he did not agree with a message the Navy wanted to portray about the contamination left at the shipyard. James now owns a public relations firm in the Bayview. All these years later, James is now 70 and still raves about the crane, but is worried about the contamination left in the ground beneath it.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>James Bryant: \u003c/strong>You can almost hear the buildings talk to you. There’s history here that no one is talking about. Somehow the Navy ships that went in there were loaded with the nuclear stuff, which is one of the reasons why it is still sitting there, because it was a little contaminated.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ezra David Romero: \u003c/strong>A little contaminated?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>James Bryant: \u003c/strong>Just a little [laughs]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ezra David Romero: \u003c/strong>Someone who knows a lot about this contamination and how it could be hurting the community is Arieann Harrison. We’re at her office.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Arieann Harrison \u003c/strong>How are you? Oh, you look so cute.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ezra David Romero: \u003c/strong>Good to see you.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ezra David Romero: \u003c/strong>I met Ariana a few years ago. Her mom, Marie Harrison, pushed for the cleanup of the shipyard for decades before passing away in 2019 from lung disease. Ariana took up her mom’s mantle in a way, and now leads the Marie Harrison Community Foundation, which is focused on environmental justice.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Arieann Harrison \u003c/strong>Right now, we’re still at, you know, absolutely clean up of the shipyard. Even though we know that there’s a really big, huge chance they’re not going to take all that stuff off from under the ground.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ezra David Romero: \u003c/strong>Erin grew up very close to the shipyard and believes she was exposed to the radioactive contamination. A local doctor tested her for contaminants and found a bunch of them.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Arieann Harrison: \u003c/strong>For me to see elevated levels of lead, which we usually see that in low income areas anyway. And manganese and, you know, radioactive isotopes and metals and all that other stuff that’s not good for you. And then to come back positive for PCI 24 — uranium and plutonium. I mean, come on, man, you know. And you have a scientist as saying that your case is that of people that were serving in the military, people that tested positive for this stuff. Come on. What do you do with that information?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ezra David Romero: \u003c/strong>Because of all that new information, she’s worried her health issues are related to the contamination. The doctor who took Ariana’s tests and more than 150 others plans to create a registry of their results. She wants to expand testing across the community.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Arieann Harrison \u003c/strong>I remain hopeful. If you want to get yourself to our early grave, you can stay bitter, right? And stay angry. That was affecting my health, too. I am still angry and I know that and is still hopeful at the same time, for the future, you know. I have a lot of a vested interest in making sure if it’s the last thing I do, that things improve.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ezra David Romero: \u003c/strong>Ariana believes a more thorough cleanup is needed. She wants all of the contaminated soil removed from the site, but the Navy has removed some of it. IT solutions also include treating or sealing the contaminated soil under a thick layer of asphalt or dirt to contain it. But she’s also worried those remedies aren’t enough because human caused climate change is expected to raise sea levels. That could push water up from underneath the toxic site and spread the contamination into the bay and the community.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Arieann Harrison: \u003c/strong>Later on down the line, a year or two or three from now, because we don’t know what the science is projecting, what sea level rise is going to look like, that this stuff that’s under the ground is definitely going to seep out to the Greater Bay Area.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ezra David Romero: \u003c/strong>Earlier this year, the Navy acknowledged for the first time that potentially toxic groundwater could surface at the shipyard in just over a decade. They say they’ve taken steps to protect against a 100-year storm and three feet of sea level rise like extending a seawall and a landfill cap. Their findings raise questions about the city’s plan to build thousands of homes here. If and when those homes are built. Many will have a view of the Hunters Point crane. For some, it’s an icon to be celebrated. There’s even a whole fan website for the old crane where they sell merchandise and tell some of the history behind it.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Arieann Harrison: \u003c/strong>We know that maybe they want to preserve that, which is fine as long as they, you know, do their best to clean up all the crap that’s around it you know. But to me, it signifies that there’s still work to be done. It’s like when you have war, there’s always a fallout.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ezra David Romero: \u003c/strong>It’s just that Arieann doesn’t want that fallout to any longer be on the shores of San Francisco. And in her case, the crane is a daily reminder of contamination left in her community.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[Music]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen Price: \u003c/strong>That was KQED’s Ezra David Romero. Thanks to Olivia Grubert for asking this week’s question. If you’ve got a question you’d like to hear answered on Bay Curious, head to Baycurious.org and ask. Next Monday is the start of Propfest, our podcast series that digs in deep on the propositions on California’s ballot this year. For two weeks, we’ll be dropping a new episode every Monday through Friday, each one covering one of the ten propositions that you’ll be voting on. We hope you’ll tune in so you can vote with confidence on the issues that matter to you. And honestly, the ones that maybe don’t matter to you yet, but you might care more about after you listen. It all kicks off Monday, September 23rd, so be sure you’re subscribed to Bay Curious so you don’t miss a thing. Bay Curious is made in San Francisco at member supported KQED. Our show is made by Amanda Font, Christopher Beal, Ana De Almeida Amaral, and me, Olivia Allen Price. Additional support from Jen Chien, Katrina Schwartz, Maha Sanad, Holly Kernan, and the whole KQED family. I’m Olivia Allen Price. We will see you next Monday. Bye!\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad floatright]\u003c/p>\n",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>\u003ca href=\"#episode-transcript\">\u003cem>View the full episode transcript.\u003c/em>\u003c/a>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003cspan class=\"utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__dropcapShortcode__dropcap\">A\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\u003cp>fter breakfast and coffee every morning, James Bryant heads out the front door. From his home on a hill in San Francisco, he sees the Hunters Point Gantry Crane, what he calls the “West Coast Statue of Liberty.” The metal monolith sits on the edge of the Bay at the old Hunters Point Naval Shipyard.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“It is huge, and it’s breathtaking,” said Bryant, who has lived in San Francisco’s Bayview neighborhood for over four decades and is a neighborhood historian. “The gantry crane represents what New York has in their bay, what we have in our bay.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003caside class=\"alignleft utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__bayCuriousPodcastShortcode__bayCurious\">\u003cimg src=https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/2023/02/bayCuriousLogo.png alt=\"Bay Curious Podcast\" loading=\"lazy\" />\n \u003ca href=\"/news/series/baycurious\">Bay Curious\u003c/a> is a podcast that answers your questions about the Bay Area.\n Subscribe on \u003ca href=\"https://itunes.apple.com/us/podcast/bay-curious/id1172473406\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">Apple Podcasts\u003c/a>,\n \u003ca href=\"http://www.npr.org/podcasts/500557090/bay-curious\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">NPR One\u003c/a> or your favorite podcast platform.\u003c/aside>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The crane is 450 feet tall and 730 feet long, so big it can be seen from three counties. It weighs as much as the Eiffel Tower. It’s an iconic piece of infrastructure, not unlike the Sutro Tower or the Bay Bridge, but perhaps the more underrated cousin.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The crane was used to load ships from the 1940s to the 1970s. For some, it’s a celebrated Bay Area icon worth. There’s even \u003ca href=\"https://www.hunterspointcrane.com/\">a whole fan website for the old crane\u003c/a>, where they sell merchandise and tell some of its history.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>However, the legacy and effect of the crane are much more profound than its metal form.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Bay Curious listener Olivia Grubert wrote to Bay Curious asking for more information about the crane. So, let’s take a closer look.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>The crane’s history\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>To understand how the Hunters Point Gantry Crane came to be, we have to go back to the late 1940s when the Cold War started between the United States, the Soviet Union and their respective allies.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The U.S. Navy built the crane in 1947 for $2.5 million. At this point, it looked like a giant table from afar. On two sides, the crane loaded massive gun turrets onto warships. Altogether, it could lift more than a million pounds. The goal was to fix and load up ships fast so they could get back to battle.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12005067\" class=\"wp-caption alignright\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12005067\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/09/240917-Hunters-Point-Gantry-Crane-SFPL-01-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1523\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/09/240917-Hunters-Point-Gantry-Crane-SFPL-01-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/09/240917-Hunters-Point-Gantry-Crane-SFPL-01-KQED-800x609.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/09/240917-Hunters-Point-Gantry-Crane-SFPL-01-KQED-1020x777.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/09/240917-Hunters-Point-Gantry-Crane-SFPL-01-KQED-160x122.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/09/240917-Hunters-Point-Gantry-Crane-SFPL-01-KQED-1536x1170.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/09/240917-Hunters-Point-Gantry-Crane-SFPL-01-KQED-1920x1462.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">The Hunters Point Naval Shipyard in San Francisco on June 25, 1953. \u003ccite>(Courtesy of San Francisco Public Library)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“The boats would pull in, and they were lifted and loaded,” Bryant said. “The idea was that we’re going to war and need to load these ships right now. These ships were major.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The Navy also tested missiles on the crane — Polaris, hydrogen bomb-tipped missiles. At Hunters Point, the Navy initially hurled missiles into the bay and retrieved them after. Later, the military shot them into mid-air, but an apparatus prevented them from flight. In the ’70s, when the Navy wanted to test more potent Poseidon missiles on the crane, they attached a 170-foot arch to strengthen it.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>At the shipyard, the Navy also decontaminated ships after atomic bomb tests and established the Naval Radiological Defense Laboratory. This process contaminated the soil in and around the base with radioactive chemicals, heavy metals and petroleum fuels.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The Navy base remained active until 1974, and after that, a private company used the property for ship repair for a short period of time. The base was declared one of the nation’s most contaminated sites in 1989. The crane has remained, standing unused for decades.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12005326\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12005326\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/09/240918-HUNTERSPOINTCRANE-12-BL-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/09/240918-HUNTERSPOINTCRANE-12-BL-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/09/240918-HUNTERSPOINTCRANE-12-BL-KQED-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/09/240918-HUNTERSPOINTCRANE-12-BL-KQED-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/09/240918-HUNTERSPOINTCRANE-12-BL-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/09/240918-HUNTERSPOINTCRANE-12-BL-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/09/240918-HUNTERSPOINTCRANE-12-BL-KQED-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">the Hunters Point gantry crane at the naval shipyard in San Francisco on Sept. 18, 2024. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>A complex legacy\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>While the history of the crane itself is relatively straightforward, its legacy is complex. On one hand, the Navy brought jobs to the Bay Area, much-needed jobs for people who had left the South.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The shipyard employed as many as 18,000 people at its peak, many of whom were Black. They built and serviced ships for wartime efforts. Bryant said they came from the South — places like Alabama, Mississippi and Texas. For many of them, the shipyard jobs allowed them to buy homes.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Bryant said the crane reminds many people in the Bayview of the prosperity they were afforded by working at the shipyard.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“It was prosperity because they got to own a home,” he said. “They got to live in the best weather. You can’t beat the Bayview weather.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>On the other hand, the Hunters Point Crane is a reminder of another legacy. Radioactive contamination is still in the ground all these years later. The Navy is working on cleaning up the site, and just last year, the Navy \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/science/1985646/radioactive-object-found-at-san-franciscos-hunters-point-naval-shipyard-raises-new-concerns\">unearthed two radioactive objects there\u003c/a>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12005325\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12005325\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/09/240918-HUNTERSPOINTCRANE-05-BL-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/09/240918-HUNTERSPOINTCRANE-05-BL-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/09/240918-HUNTERSPOINTCRANE-05-BL-KQED-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/09/240918-HUNTERSPOINTCRANE-05-BL-KQED-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/09/240918-HUNTERSPOINTCRANE-05-BL-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/09/240918-HUNTERSPOINTCRANE-05-BL-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/09/240918-HUNTERSPOINTCRANE-05-BL-KQED-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">An abandoned building at the Hunters Point Naval Shipyard in San Francisco on Sept. 18, 2024. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>The Navy did not respond to KQED’s email with a comment. But in the past, the Navy defended its remedies.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Community advocates like Bryant have called for a more thorough site cleanup for years.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“It can be eradicated. If it were on the other side of town, it would have been gone,” said Byrant, who worked for the Navy in the 1970s at the shipyard in public relations.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>All these years later, Bryant is now 70 and still raves about the crane but is worried about the contamination in the ground beneath it.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“You can almost hear the buildings talking to you, [saying] there’s history here that no one’s talking about,” he said. “The Navy ships that went in there were loaded with nuclear stuff, which is one of the reasons why it is still sitting there because it was a little contaminated.”\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>‘Still work to be done’\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>Someone who knows a lot about this contamination and how it could be hurting the community is Arieann Harrison.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Harrison’s mother, Marie Harrison, pushed for the cleanup of the shipyard for decades before passing away in 2019 from lung disease. Harrison took up her mantle in a way and now leads the Marie Harrison Community Foundation, focused on environmental justice.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>She is \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/science/1979614/for-these-black-bayview-hunters-point-residents-reparations-include-safeguarding-against-rising-toxic-contamination\">advocating for an “absolute cleanup of the shipyard.\u003c/a>” But she believes there’s a “huge chance” the Navy will leave contamination in the ground.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Harrison grew up very close to the shipyard and believes over time, she was exposed to radioactive contamination. A local doctor tested her for contaminants and found high levels of a bunch of them — contaminants like lead, manganese, uranium and plutonium.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>A scientist told her that her case looks like “that of people serving in the military.” Because of all that new information, she’s worried her health issues are related to the contamination. The doctor who took Harrison’s tests and those of more than 150 others plans to create a registry of their results. She wants to expand testing across the community.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12005327\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12005327\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/09/240918-HUNTERSPOINTCRANE-14-BL-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/09/240918-HUNTERSPOINTCRANE-14-BL-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/09/240918-HUNTERSPOINTCRANE-14-BL-KQED-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/09/240918-HUNTERSPOINTCRANE-14-BL-KQED-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/09/240918-HUNTERSPOINTCRANE-14-BL-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/09/240918-HUNTERSPOINTCRANE-14-BL-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/09/240918-HUNTERSPOINTCRANE-14-BL-KQED-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">James Bryant stands at Hillpoint Park overlooking the Hunters Point gantry crane at the naval shipyard in San Francisco on Sept. 18, 2024. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“I am still angry, and I am still hopeful for the future,” she said. “I have a lot of a vested interest in making sure that if it’s the last thing I do, things improve.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Harrison wants all the contaminated soil removed from the site. The Navy has removed some of it. Its solutions also include treating or sealing the contaminated soil under a thick layer of asphalt or dirt to contain it.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>But Harrison worries those remedies aren’t enough because scientists expect human-caused climate change to raise sea levels. That could push water up from underneath the toxic site and spread the contamination into the Bay and the community.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Unless the Navy removes toxic soil, she believes rising seas will cause the contamination “to seep out into the greater Bay Area.” Over the last year, the Navy announced it found several radioactive objects within the site, \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/science/1985646/radioactive-object-found-at-san-franciscos-hunters-point-naval-shipyard-raises-new-concerns\">raising concerns about the efficacy of the cleanup\u003c/a>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Earlier this year, the Navy acknowledged for \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/news/11979473/us-navy-acknowledges-toxic-groundwater-rising-in-bayview-hunters-point\">the first time that potentially toxic groundwater could surface at the shipyard in just over a decade\u003c/a>. The Navy said it’s taken steps to protect against a 100-year storm and three feet of sea-level rise, like extending a seawall and landfill cap.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In June, an environmental justice nonprofit filed \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/science/1993505/cleanup-of-san-francisco-superfund-site-has-been-badly-mishandled-lawsuit-alleges\">a lawsuit alleging “egregious” mishandling of the cleanup of radioactive contamination\u003c/a> at the site.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Harrison is apprehensive about the contamination left underground because the city of San Francisco hopes to allow developers to build \u003ca href=\"https://sfocii.org/projects/hunters-point-shipyard-candlestick-point-2/overview\">thousands of homes on the site\u003c/a>. If and when developers build those homes, many people who live in them will have a view of the Hunters Point Crane.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>For Harrison, the crane is a daily reminder of the contamination left in her community.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“To me, [the crane] signifies that there’s still work to be done,” she said.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-content post-body\">\u003ch2 id=\"episode-transcript\">Episode Transcript\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>\u003ci>This is a computer-generated transcript. While our team has reviewed it, there may be errors.\u003c/i>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen Price: \u003c/strong>Every time Olivia Grubert drives over the Bay Bridge from Oakland, she notices this thing perched on the edge of the bay on the south side of the city.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Grubert:\u003c/strong> You see this massive structure just kind of all by itself. And it seems that no one really knows too much about it. I keep pointing it out.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen Price: \u003c/strong>It turns out that metal monolith has a name. It’s called the Hunters Point Gantry Crane. From a distance, you see the structure looks like an outline of a dining table with four legs and a rectangular top on top of that table on one side. A wide arch reaches up to the sky. And this thing is big. So big it can be seen from at least three counties. Olivia sent us this question:\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Grubert: \u003c/strong>I live in Oakland, and I was curious, can you tell us about the massive crane at Hunters Point? How did it used to operate and why is it still around today?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen Price: \u003c/strong>The Hunters Point Gantry crane is 450 feet tall and 730 feet long. It weighs as much as the Eiffel Tower. It’s an iconic piece of infrastructure, not unlike the Sutro Tower or the Bay Bridge, but perhaps the more underrated cousin. What else is there to know? A whole lot. I’m Olivia Allen Price. On today’s episode, we dig into the Crane’s history by talking to San Francisco locals who see the crane as a piece of ingenuity, but also as a reminder of how actions by the U.S. Navy decades ago still haunt San Franciscans today. We’ll get into all of that just after a quick break. Stay with us.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[SPONSOR MESSAGE]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen Price: \u003c/strong>To help us answer Olivia’s question about the Hunters Point Crane, we’ve got KQED climate reporter Ezra David Romero here. Hey, Ezra.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ezra David Romero: \u003c/strong>Hey, Olivia. Yeah. Whenever I think of the Hunters Point Crane, I always think of those cranes at the Port of Oakland that you can see from the Bay Bridge. I was always told that they inspired the imperial walkers. You know, those like creatures that walk in the snow in the \u003cem>Star Wars\u003c/em> film \u003cem>The Empire Strikes Back\u003c/em>. I personally love that scene where the rebel alliance takes down an imperial walker on the snow planet, Hoth.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen Price: \u003c/strong>But Bay Curious did an episode in 2017 demystifying that idea. George Lucas is on record saying there’s no connection. Sorry, Ezra.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ezra David Romero: \u003c/strong>It may not have inspired George Lucas, but I learned the notion of the crane being related to war isn’t farfetched. James Bryant has lived in the Bayview for more than 40 years. He’s known in the community as a neighborhood historian. I took our question asker Olivia Grubert, to meet him.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>James Bryant: \u003c/strong>This is my house right here. I’m not going to disturb my wife. I’m gonna park here. Watch your step.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ezra David Romero: \u003c/strong>But from his front porch, he sees the old gantry crane off in the distance every single day.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>James Bryant: \u003c/strong>There it is. What a picture. The west coast Statue of Liberty, right here. The Gantry Crane represents what New York has in their bay, we have in our bay.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ezra David Romero: \u003c/strong>To me and Olivia, from this vantage point, it kind of looks like a futuristic metal space dog guarding San Francisco.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>James Bryant: \u003c/strong>It is huge and it’s breathtaking. You ever seen a crane like this anywhere in the world?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Grubert: \u003c/strong>I’m really excited we have this here.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ezra David Romero: \u003c/strong>To understand how the Hunters Point Gantry Crane came to be. We have to go back in time to the late 1940s when the Cold War started between the United States, the Soviet Union, and the respective allies.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[music]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ezra David Romero: \u003c/strong>The crane was built in 1947 for $2.5 million. At this point, it looked like a giant table from afar. On two sides, the crane loaded massive gun turrets on the warships.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>James Bryant: \u003c/strong>The overhead was being operated on two sides of the columns or the boats pulled in and they were being, you know, lifted, loaded.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ezra David Romero: \u003c/strong>All together, it could lift over 1 million pounds. The goal was to fix and load up ships fast so they could get back to battle.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>James Bryant: \u003c/strong>The crane was used for loading like four or five ships at once. It was an idea that, you know what, we’re going to war and we need to load these ships like, right now. Because, you know, these ships were major.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ezra David Romero: \u003c/strong>The Navy also tested missiles on the crane, Polaris missiles, which are hydrogen bomb tipped. I wasn’t able to find any archival recordings of a missile test from the Hunters Point Crane. But here’s what one sounded like in 1960 being shot out of a submarine off the Florida coast.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Archival Tape: \u003c/strong>The George Washington goes down some 50 to 60 feet below the surface and the time for launching is at hand.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ezra David Romero: \u003c/strong>At Hunters Point, the missiles were originally hurled into the bay and then later retrieved. Later they were shot into midair, but an apparatus prevented them from flight. In the 70s, when the Navy wanted to test stronger Poseidon missiles on the crane, they attached a 170 foot arch to strengthen it. Here’s a Poseidon being launched by the Navy off the Florida coast in 1972.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>[Archival Tape]\u003c/strong>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ezra David Romero: \u003c/strong>At the shipyard, the Navy decontaminated ships after atomic bomb tests and established the Naval Radiological Defense Laboratory. This process contaminated the soil in and around the base with radioactive chemicals, heavy metals, and petroleum fuels. The Navy base remained active until 1974 and was used by a private company for ship repair after that. The base was declared one of the nation’s most contaminated sites in 1989. The crane has remained unused for decades. While the history of the crane is quite straightforward, its legacy is complex. On one hand, the Navy brought jobs to the Bay Area, much needed jobs for people who had left the South. The shipyard employed as many as 18,000 people at its peak, many of whom were black. They built in-service ships for wartime efforts.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>James Bryant: \u003c/strong>They came up from Alabama, Mississippi, Texas, and, you know, they were looking for some sort of prosperity. And imagine people who went in there, got jobs, ended up being homeowners.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ezra David Romero: \u003c/strong>So, it represented, like, prosperity, like opportunity.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>James Bryant: \u003c/strong>There was two things for people who came up from the south and didn’t have a job. They didn’t have opportunity in those southern states. And it was prosperity because they got to own a home. They got to live in the best weather. You can’t beat this where they can’t beat the Bayview weather, right?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ezra David Romero: \u003c/strong>But on the other hand, the hunters point crane is a reminder of another legacy. Radioactive contamination is still on the ground all these years later. The Navy is working on cleaning up the site. And just last year, two soil samples unearthed radioactive objects there. The Navy did not respond to my emails for comment. But in the past, the Navy defended its remedies. Community advocates like James have for years called for a more thorough cleanup of the site.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>James Bryant: \u003c/strong>It could be eradicated. If it was on the other side of town, it would have been gone. You know what I mean? If it was a Sea Cliff, there would have never been an issue because the value of the homes and stuff, it should be prosperity again. That should switch Bayview Hunters Point from none to prosperity. It could provide jobs.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ezra David Romero: \u003c/strong>In the late 1970s. James worked for the Navy at the shipyard in public relations.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>James Bryant: \u003c/strong>I said, okay, but there’s something about me that you might know up front. And this was that. I don’t lie. I went along with that project for about two years.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ezra David Romero: \u003c/strong>He left that job because he did not agree with a message the Navy wanted to portray about the contamination left at the shipyard. James now owns a public relations firm in the Bayview. All these years later, James is now 70 and still raves about the crane, but is worried about the contamination left in the ground beneath it.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>James Bryant: \u003c/strong>You can almost hear the buildings talk to you. There’s history here that no one is talking about. Somehow the Navy ships that went in there were loaded with the nuclear stuff, which is one of the reasons why it is still sitting there, because it was a little contaminated.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ezra David Romero: \u003c/strong>A little contaminated?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>James Bryant: \u003c/strong>Just a little [laughs]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ezra David Romero: \u003c/strong>Someone who knows a lot about this contamination and how it could be hurting the community is Arieann Harrison. We’re at her office.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Arieann Harrison \u003c/strong>How are you? Oh, you look so cute.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ezra David Romero: \u003c/strong>Good to see you.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ezra David Romero: \u003c/strong>I met Ariana a few years ago. Her mom, Marie Harrison, pushed for the cleanup of the shipyard for decades before passing away in 2019 from lung disease. Ariana took up her mom’s mantle in a way, and now leads the Marie Harrison Community Foundation, which is focused on environmental justice.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Arieann Harrison \u003c/strong>Right now, we’re still at, you know, absolutely clean up of the shipyard. Even though we know that there’s a really big, huge chance they’re not going to take all that stuff off from under the ground.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ezra David Romero: \u003c/strong>Erin grew up very close to the shipyard and believes she was exposed to the radioactive contamination. A local doctor tested her for contaminants and found a bunch of them.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Arieann Harrison: \u003c/strong>For me to see elevated levels of lead, which we usually see that in low income areas anyway. And manganese and, you know, radioactive isotopes and metals and all that other stuff that’s not good for you. And then to come back positive for PCI 24 — uranium and plutonium. I mean, come on, man, you know. And you have a scientist as saying that your case is that of people that were serving in the military, people that tested positive for this stuff. Come on. What do you do with that information?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ezra David Romero: \u003c/strong>Because of all that new information, she’s worried her health issues are related to the contamination. The doctor who took Ariana’s tests and more than 150 others plans to create a registry of their results. She wants to expand testing across the community.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Arieann Harrison \u003c/strong>I remain hopeful. If you want to get yourself to our early grave, you can stay bitter, right? And stay angry. That was affecting my health, too. I am still angry and I know that and is still hopeful at the same time, for the future, you know. I have a lot of a vested interest in making sure if it’s the last thing I do, that things improve.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ezra David Romero: \u003c/strong>Ariana believes a more thorough cleanup is needed. She wants all of the contaminated soil removed from the site, but the Navy has removed some of it. IT solutions also include treating or sealing the contaminated soil under a thick layer of asphalt or dirt to contain it. But she’s also worried those remedies aren’t enough because human caused climate change is expected to raise sea levels. That could push water up from underneath the toxic site and spread the contamination into the bay and the community.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Arieann Harrison: \u003c/strong>Later on down the line, a year or two or three from now, because we don’t know what the science is projecting, what sea level rise is going to look like, that this stuff that’s under the ground is definitely going to seep out to the Greater Bay Area.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ezra David Romero: \u003c/strong>Earlier this year, the Navy acknowledged for the first time that potentially toxic groundwater could surface at the shipyard in just over a decade. They say they’ve taken steps to protect against a 100-year storm and three feet of sea level rise like extending a seawall and a landfill cap. Their findings raise questions about the city’s plan to build thousands of homes here. If and when those homes are built. Many will have a view of the Hunters Point crane. For some, it’s an icon to be celebrated. There’s even a whole fan website for the old crane where they sell merchandise and tell some of the history behind it.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Arieann Harrison: \u003c/strong>We know that maybe they want to preserve that, which is fine as long as they, you know, do their best to clean up all the crap that’s around it you know. But to me, it signifies that there’s still work to be done. It’s like when you have war, there’s always a fallout.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ezra David Romero: \u003c/strong>It’s just that Arieann doesn’t want that fallout to any longer be on the shores of San Francisco. And in her case, the crane is a daily reminder of contamination left in her community.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[Music]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen Price: \u003c/strong>That was KQED’s Ezra David Romero. Thanks to Olivia Grubert for asking this week’s question. If you’ve got a question you’d like to hear answered on Bay Curious, head to Baycurious.org and ask. Next Monday is the start of Propfest, our podcast series that digs in deep on the propositions on California’s ballot this year. For two weeks, we’ll be dropping a new episode every Monday through Friday, each one covering one of the ten propositions that you’ll be voting on. We hope you’ll tune in so you can vote with confidence on the issues that matter to you. And honestly, the ones that maybe don’t matter to you yet, but you might care more about after you listen. It all kicks off Monday, September 23rd, so be sure you’re subscribed to Bay Curious so you don’t miss a thing. Bay Curious is made in San Francisco at member supported KQED. Our show is made by Amanda Font, Christopher Beal, Ana De Almeida Amaral, and me, Olivia Allen Price. Additional support from Jen Chien, Katrina Schwartz, Maha Sanad, Holly Kernan, and the whole KQED family. I’m Olivia Allen Price. We will see you next Monday. Bye!\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003c/div>"
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"slug": "for-a-taste-of-the-old-west-head-to-this-tiny-bay-area-town",
"title": "The Bay Area Wild West Port Town That Reinvented Itself",
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"content": "\u003cp>\u003ca href=\"#episode-transcript\">\u003ci>View the full episode transcript.\u003c/i>\u003c/a>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Port Costa is a tiny, funky town on the Carquinez Strait that looks and feels like a time capsule.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It’s way out at the end of a windy road. If you drive there, you won’t see anything along the way except oak trees and maybe a squirrel or some crows. It seems totally disconnected from the rest of the world. But if you could come by ship or by train — it would all make sense.[baycuriouspodcastinfo align=\"right\"]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The tracks of the old transcontinental railroad run along the edge of town, and just offshore, the water is deep enough for merchant ships from Europe to have docked at what was once one of the busiest ports on the West Coast.\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>A Growing Port Town\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>In the late 1800s, California was exporting huge quantities of wheat and barley, and Port Costa was in the perfect location: right on the main waterway connecting the food markets of Europe to the farms of the Central Valley. Soon, warehouses and wharves lined the shore, almost from Crockett to Martinez.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12002227\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1999px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12002227\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/240827-PortCosta-56-BL_qed.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1999\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/240827-PortCosta-56-BL_qed.jpg 1999w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/240827-PortCosta-56-BL_qed-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/240827-PortCosta-56-BL_qed-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/240827-PortCosta-56-BL_qed-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/240827-PortCosta-56-BL_qed-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/240827-PortCosta-56-BL_qed-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1999px) 100vw, 1999px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A train passes by the town of Port Costa in Contra Costa County on Aug. 27, 2024. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>They worked like a buffet table. Trains could pull up to the warehouses on one side and ships and barges on the other to load and unload grain. Businesses sprang up in between as thousands of people flocked to the growing town.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In 1879, Port Costa became a major stop on the transcontinental railroad.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The largest ferry in the world called the Solano, carried entire trains across the water between Benicia and Port Costa. It had four tracks on it and could fit 48 freight cars or 24 passenger cars. Trains drove onto the deck, and a team uncoupled them and pushed the remaining sections onboard with a switching engine. On the other side, the team put the trains back together and they drove off. The entire operation, including the journey across the strait, took less than half an hour.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In 1914, an even bigger ferry, called the Contra Costa, was added.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Port Costa developed a reputation as a fun place to stop on the transcontinental route between New York and San Francisco.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12002240\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12002240\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/240827-PortCosta-72-BL_qed.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/240827-PortCosta-72-BL_qed.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/240827-PortCosta-72-BL_qed-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/240827-PortCosta-72-BL_qed-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/240827-PortCosta-72-BL_qed-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/240827-PortCosta-72-BL_qed-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/240827-PortCosta-72-BL_qed-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A sign for Port Costa outside the town in Contra Costa County on Aug. 27, 2024.\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“This place was kind of the classic Wild West,” said Suzanne Statler of the Port Costa Conservation Society. “You’d get off the ferry, and you’d turn right, and you’d have a hotel . . . and a saloon . . . and a place to cash your money . . . and a saloon . . .”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It was quite the raucous scene! But it was short-lived.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>California’s wheat market dropped off at the beginning of the 20th century. Fires kept destroying the wooden waterfront, and shipworms ate into the pilings that held up the wharves. In 1930 came the final blow: a train bridge was built between Benicia and Martinez, shifting passenger and freight traffic inland.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“All the activities around the trains, it all dried up,” Statler said. “The whole purpose of this town got kind of run over by time. So the town was dying.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12002238\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1999px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12002238\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/240827-PortCosta-61-BL_qed.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1999\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/240827-PortCosta-61-BL_qed.jpg 1999w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/240827-PortCosta-61-BL_qed-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/240827-PortCosta-61-BL_qed-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/240827-PortCosta-61-BL_qed-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/240827-PortCosta-61-BL_qed-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/240827-PortCosta-61-BL_qed-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1999px) 100vw, 1999px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">The town of Port Costa in Contra Costa County on Aug. 27, 2024.\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>The Town’s Next Chapter\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>By the 1960s, all that was left of the waterfront was rotting pilings stretched along the shore (you can still see them today). Only the inland part of town was still standing when a Coors delivery driver named Bill Rich first saw it. He thought it could make for a cool, eclectic place for artists. He bought the downtown for a cheap price and revived some of the old establishments.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>One of them is the Burlington Hotel, a charming yellow three-story building from 1883. Each of its rooms has a lady’s name painted on the door.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The urban legend is that these were sex workers in Port Costa’s wild heyday. But many of the townsfolk say these women were, in fact, Bill Rich’s artist friends who had little shops up here in the 1970s. Sarah Louise Humann, who owns the crystal shop next door to the hotel, thinks the place is too fancy to be a brothel.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12002154\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12002154\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/240827-PORTCOSTA-13-BL-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/240827-PORTCOSTA-13-BL-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/240827-PORTCOSTA-13-BL-KQED-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/240827-PORTCOSTA-13-BL-KQED-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/240827-PORTCOSTA-13-BL-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/240827-PORTCOSTA-13-BL-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/240827-PORTCOSTA-13-BL-KQED-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">The ‘Peggy’ room at the Burlington Hotel, which closed in 2020, in Port Costa on Aug. 27, 2024. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“The center of town was what you wanted the investors to see,” Humann said. “All the ill repute was probably done closer to the water. But they may have snuck gentlemen out the back door.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In the hotel’s hallway is a big mirror full of shifting shadows that seem to lead back into misty dimensions. It’s old enough to have been made with real silver behind the glass, which tarnishes with age and creates a dark, dripping look.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“This mirror is likely partially responsible for at least people’s illusion of ghosts in the hotel,” Humann said. “It’s extremely old and exudes that haunted ‘anything could be on the other side of it’ vibe.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12002224\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12002224\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/240827-PortCosta-04-BL_qed.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/240827-PortCosta-04-BL_qed.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/240827-PortCosta-04-BL_qed-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/240827-PortCosta-04-BL_qed-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/240827-PortCosta-04-BL_qed-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/240827-PortCosta-04-BL_qed-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/240827-PortCosta-04-BL_qed-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">An antique mirror hangs on the third floor of the Burlington Hotel, which closed in 2020, in Port Costa on Aug. 27, 2024. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Humann says the rumor of haunting has attracted badly behaved ghost hunters.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“It is a little bit of a touchy subject for locals,” she said, “because there’s been vandalization and damage and disrespect done.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Humann hasn’t seen any ghosts, but Barbara Williams, who bartends across the street in the Warehouse Cafe, says she has.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I was in the bar. I was closing,” Williams said. “And I felt a breeze going past my face. And as I turned to tell the people that I was closed, I saw a woman look at me and walk through the door.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The door, she said, was closed and locked.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12002158\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12002158\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/240827-PORTCOSTA-29-BL-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/240827-PORTCOSTA-29-BL-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/240827-PORTCOSTA-29-BL-KQED-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/240827-PORTCOSTA-29-BL-KQED-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/240827-PORTCOSTA-29-BL-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/240827-PORTCOSTA-29-BL-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/240827-PORTCOSTA-29-BL-KQED-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Paintings hang above the entryway staircase at the Burlington Hotel in Port Costa on Aug. 27, 2024. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>Port Costa Today\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>These days, the Warehouse is a popular weekend hangout for motorcycle clubs. Bands play out front in what used to be the train yard. And inside, dilapidated, festive relics and bits of art cover the walls and ceiling. In the corner, an almost 9-foot-tall taxidermied polar bear looms over a baby seal. There’s also a water buffalo, a metal Medusa sculpture, circus masks and life preservers.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12002161\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12002161\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/240827-PORTCOSTA-39-BL-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/240827-PORTCOSTA-39-BL-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/240827-PORTCOSTA-39-BL-KQED-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/240827-PORTCOSTA-39-BL-KQED-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/240827-PORTCOSTA-39-BL-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/240827-PORTCOSTA-39-BL-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/240827-PORTCOSTA-39-BL-KQED-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">The Warehouse Cafe, a bar and restaurant, in Port Costa on Aug. 27, 2024. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>The collection has taken on a momentum of its own, bartender Lary Dameron says. Just a few years ago, someone donated a Kodiak bear.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12002159\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12002159\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/240827-PORTCOSTA-34-BL-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/240827-PORTCOSTA-34-BL-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/240827-PORTCOSTA-34-BL-KQED-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/240827-PORTCOSTA-34-BL-KQED-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/240827-PORTCOSTA-34-BL-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/240827-PORTCOSTA-34-BL-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/240827-PORTCOSTA-34-BL-KQED-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A taxidermy polar bear and bear are on display at The Warehouse Cafe, a bar and restaurant, in Port Costa on Aug. 27, 2024. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“A guy who comes in on Sundays for music works at the wildlife museum, and they were cleaning out the basement, so he calls up, and he’s like, you guys interested in a Kodiak bear, you know, taxidermy?” Dameron said. “It’s like, ‘hell yeah, I want it.’ How often do people offer you a bear?”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Port Costa still has the raucous character of its old port days. Only about 250 people live here now, and though \u003ca href=\"https://www.sfchronicle.com/opinion/soleilho/article/california-san-francisco-bay-area-nimby-battle-19518620.php\">they don’t agree on everything\u003c/a>, they do share a devotion to this unique place along the Carquinez Strait.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12002162\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12002162\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/240827-PORTCOSTA-44-BL-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/240827-PORTCOSTA-44-BL-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/240827-PORTCOSTA-44-BL-KQED-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/240827-PORTCOSTA-44-BL-KQED-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/240827-PORTCOSTA-44-BL-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/240827-PORTCOSTA-44-BL-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/240827-PORTCOSTA-44-BL-KQED-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Lary Dameron stands behind the bar at the Warehouse Cafe in Port Costa on Aug. 27, 2024. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>[baycuriousquestion]\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2 id=\"episode-transcript\">Episode Transcript\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price:\u003c/strong> Marianne Hockenberry has vivid memories of being a teenager and going on long bike rides with her mom. They’d often start in Crockett, ride along the Carquinez Strait to Martinez. And sometimes continue on all the way to Danville, some 25 miles away.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Marianne Hockenberry:\u003c/strong> And then my dad would follow us in, in the VA, in the VW bus. So we had a camper bus, and he biked sometimes, but he wasn’t into it like my mom was. And so yeah, then he would follow along. And so when we got tired, we could just like take a break and get in the bus in the VW.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price:\u003c/strong> Along these journeys — Marianne and her mom passed through some of the rural, golden hills of the Bay Area. And the towns nestled in them.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Marianne Hockenberry:\u003c/strong> She liked to tell me stories about Port Costa when we would go through there. We’d be eating at the warehouse…\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price:\u003c/strong> The Warehouse … an iconic building in the small town of Port Costa, and just across the street is an old Victorian hotel. It’s weather-worn but still charming with its chipped yellow and blue paint…\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Marianne Hockenberry:\u003c/strong> … and, she would tell me this used to be, a brothel or used to be women of the night here like she would say, you know.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price:\u003c/strong> Marianne isn’t totally sure about the truth behind her mom’s stories.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Marianne Hockenberry:\u003c/strong> My mom was… she was a wonderful kind of crazy woman. And, you know, I don’t know, I, I pretty much take after her, I think. (laughs)\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price:\u003c/strong> Marianne isn’t the only person curious about Port Costa. We’ve received a few questions over the years about this tiny, eclectic town sitting along the Carquinez Strait. Today, we’ll answer a slew of them! Did that old hotel used to be a brothel? Is it haunted? Was Port Costa once a port, as the name suggests?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price:\u003c/strong> That’s all just ahead on Bay Curious. The show that explores the hidden true stories of the San Francisco Bay Area. I’m Olivia Allen-Price. Stay with us.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Sponsor message\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price:\u003c/strong> To answer the questions from Marianne and other listeners about Port Costa, we first have to get there! KQED’s Katherine Monahan got the job.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan:\u003c/strong> If you drive to Port Costa, it’s pretty hard to understand why it’s here. It’s way out at the end of a windy road. You won’t see anything along the way except oak trees and maybe a squirrel or some crows. It seems totally disconnected from the rest of the world. But if you could come by ship or by train — it would all make sense. So we’re going to cross the tracks, look to the left, look to the right. No trains. Let’s go.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan:\u003c/strong> Suzanne Statler with the Port Costa Conservation Society steps across the railroad tracks that run along the shoreline at the edge of town. She points out into the waters of the Carquinez Strait.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Suzanne Statler:\u003c/strong> If you go just out, 50 feet. It drops down to 50 feet there.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan:\u003c/strong> That’s deep enough for merchant ships from Europe to have docked here . . . at what was once one of the busiest ports on the West Coast.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>[Music]\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan:\u003c/strong> In the late 1800s, California was exporting huge quantities of wheat and barley. And a businessman named George W. McNear realized that Port Costa was in the perfect location: right on the main waterway connecting the food markets of Europe to the farms of the Central Valley. So he bought a stretch of shoreline and started building.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Suzanne Statler:\u003c/strong> All along the Carquinez Straits, you had warehouses that were built and burned down and rebuilt.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan:\u003c/strong> It worked like a buffet table. Trains could pull up to the warehouses on one side and ships and barges on the other and load and unload grain. Businesses sprang up in between.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Suzanne Statler:\u003c/strong> All along the waterfront there, that is where downtown was located at Port Costa. And it was quite a bustling place.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan:\u003c/strong> Thousands of people flocked to the growing town — stevedores, railroad workers, fishermen. McNear, who became known as “The Wheat King,” started building inland as well, up a narrow valley, away from the wildness of the wharves. Port Costa grew into kind of a T-shape, with the waterfront as the top of the T, and then along the stem …\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Suzanne Statler:\u003c/strong> The modern town was where people lived. So your boarding houses were there, your individual family homes were there.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan:\u003c/strong> In 1879, it became a major stop on the transcontinental railroad. The largest ferry in the world carried entire trains across the water between Benicia and Port Costa — 24 hours a day. It was called the Solano.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Suzanne Statler:\u003c/strong> It was 425 feet long.\u003cbr>\n\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan (in tape):\u003c/strong> What!?\u003cbr>\n\u003cstrong>Suzanne Statler:\u003c/strong> Four, four football fields. Plus.\u003cbr>\n\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan (in tape):\u003c/strong> That’s buck wild.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan:\u003c/strong> The Solano could carry 48 freight cars or 24 passenger cars. It had four tracks on it. Trains drove right up onto the deck, and a team uncoupled them and pushed the remaining sections onboard with a switching engine. On the other side, the team put the trains back together again and they drove off. The entire operation — including the journey across the strait — took less than half an hour.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan:\u003c/strong> Port Costa developed a reputation as a fun place to stop on the transcontinental route, which ran between the East Coast and Oakland.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"margin: 0px;padding: 0px\">\u003cstrong>Suzanne Statler:\u003c/strong> This place was kind of the classic Wild West. You’d get off the ferry, and you’d turn right, and you’d have a hotel and a saloon and a place to cash your money and a saloon.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan:\u003c/strong> It was quite the raucous scene! But it was short-lived. California’s wheat market dropped off at the beginning of the 20th century. Fires kept destroying the wooden waterfront, and shipworms — small wood-burrowing mollusks — ate into the pilings that held up the wharves. In 1930 came the final blow — a train bridge was built a little ways inland, between Benicia and Martinez, rendering the Solano train ferry obsolete\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Suzanne Statler:\u003c/strong> People coming in and out of Port Costa and all the activities around the trains, it all dried up. The whole purpose of this town that had been built on, got kind of run over by time. So the town was dying.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan:\u003c/strong> Some thirty years passed, and by the 1960s, the place was almost a ghost town. The waterfront part, all the warehouses and saloons and such, was gone — just a bunch of rotting pilings stretched along the shore. Only the inland part was still standing when a man named Bill Rich first saw it.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Suzanne Statler:\u003c/strong> He was a Coors delivery driver. And he said, you know what, this would be an awesome place to make into a really eclectic, funky, awesome place.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan:\u003c/strong> And he did it! Rich bought the downtown for cheap and revived some of the old establishments. One of them is the Burlington Hotel. It closed during the pandemic, but Sarah Humann, who owns a crystal shop next door, has the keys.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>[Keys jingling]\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Sarah Humann:\u003c/strong> So the doors to the Burlington Hotel are a very popular photo backdrop. Watch your step.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>[Door opening]\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan:\u003c/strong> Oh. my. Goodness.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Sarah Humann:\u003c/strong> Yeah, so everything in the hotel’s pretty creaky. Uh, we can head upstairs.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>[Stepping sounds]\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan:\u003c/strong> Through the carved wooden doors, up past the painted portraits mounted on the velvet embossed wallpaper, are the hotel rooms. And each has a lady’s name painted on the door.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Sarah Humann:\u003c/strong> So we have Hazel, Corrine, Victoria is a really pretty room. And I think I can get you in.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan:\u003c/strong> The urban legend is that these were sex workers in Port Costa’s wild heyday.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Sarah Humann:\u003c/strong> So this is Ethel.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>[Keys opening the door]\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan:\u003c/strong> But many of the townsfolk say these women were, in fact, Bill Rich’s artist friends who had little shops up here in the 70s. Which seems like a more probable fit. I mean, maybe Ethel was a sexy name back in the 1800s. But . . . Fanny?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Sarah Humann:\u003c/strong> Fanny is a room that has purple maroon furniture set against an olive green wall color. There’s definitely some porcelain kitty cats and some cotton candy, pink, floral decorated lamps.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan:\u003c/strong> Humann thinks this hotel was too fancy to be a brothel, and besides, it was in the more straight-laced, residential section.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Sarah Humann:\u003c/strong> Just understanding how these old towns worked is, the center of town was what you wanted the investors to see. All the ill-repute was probably done closer to the water. But they may have snuck gentlemen out the back door. (laughs)\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan:\u003c/strong> Down the hallway, Humann points out the probable source of another popular rumor.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Sarah Humann:\u003c/strong> This mirror is likely partially responsible for at least people’s illusion of ghosts in the hotel. It’s extremely old and exudes that haunted, anything could be on the other side of it, vibe.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan:\u003c/strong> It’s about 4 feet tall and wide and full of shifting shadows that seem to lead back into misty dimensions.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Sarah Humann:\u003c/strong> The old mirrors have an actual layer of silver on the other side of the glass. And so, over time, that silver has tarnished. And you can kind of see how it all drips down. It’s very cool looking.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan:\u003c/strong> The hotel is old and creaky and has actual bats living in the walls. Humann says it’s not surprising that people like to think it’s haunted. But that the rumor has attracted badly behaved ghost hunters.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Sarah Humann:\u003c/strong> It is a little bit of a touchy subject for locals, because there’s been vandalization and damage and disrespect done.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan:\u003c/strong> Humann hasn’t seen any ghosts. But Barbara Williams, who works across the street, says she has. She bartends in the Warehouse Cafe. It’s on the first floor of the last of the town’s grain warehouses, built in 1886.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Barbara Williams:\u003c/strong> I was in the bar. I was closing. And I felt a breeze going past my face, and as I turned to tell the people that I was closed, I saw a woman look at me and walk through the door.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan (in tape):\u003c/strong> And when you say walk through the door, was the door open?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Barbara Williams:\u003c/strong> The door was locked. It was closed.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan:\u003c/strong> Another night, she says, she saw a man go into the back of the bar, and she went to tell him he wasn’t allowed there.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Barbara Williams:\u003c/strong> Got up, looked around. No one was here. So, I told the other bartender the next day about what happened. And she said you described Bill Rich.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan:\u003c/strong> Bill Rich, the guy who bought the town in the 1960s, had passed away some years before that. But he used to own the Warehouse bar.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>[Music of band playing outside Warehouse Cafe]\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan:\u003c/strong> These days, the Warehouse is a popular weekend hangout for motorcycle clubs. Bands play out front in what used to be the train yard. And daytrippers, along with some of the town’s 250 residents, come here to drink and chat. It’s nice. It’s sunny. A few cats are walking around.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan:\u003c/strong> And inside, it is seriously funky, with dilapidated, festive relics and bits of art all over the walls and ceiling. Lary Dameron has been bartending here for close to 20 years. He points to a taxidermied polar bear in a glass case.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Lary Dameron:\u003c/strong> He’s 8 foot, 8 inches tall. He’s standing up like he’s gonna swipe at you or something. But, um, the dead baby seal at his feet is unique.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan:\u003c/strong> The polar bear is too weird and majestic to call the bar’s mascot, but it’s certainly part of its soul.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Lary Dameron:\u003c/strong> It was payment for some work that Bill, the guy who bought the town … he did some work for this guy and that was how he paid him back.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan (in tape):\u003c/strong> With a polar bear.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Lary Dameron:\u003c/strong> Yeah.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan:\u003c/strong> There’s also a water buffalo, a metal medusa sculpture, circus masks and giant candelabras and life preservers. And the collection has taken on a momentum of its own. Just a few years ago, someone donated a Kodiak bear.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Lary Dameron:\u003c/strong> A guy who comes in on Sundays for music works at the wildlife museum and they were cleaning out the basement. So he calls up, and he’s like, “You guys interested in a Kodiak bear, you know, taxidermy?” I was like, “For free?” He’s like, “Yeah.” (sarcastically) I’m like, “No, no, I don’t want that…” It’s like, “hell yeah. I want it!” It’s like, how often do people offer you a bear?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan:\u003c/strong> Port Costa is a unique place. And the people who know about it really treasure it. Dameron walks outside to where the band is packing up at the end of their set, and a few residents and bikers are just enjoying the evening.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Lary Dameron:\u003c/strong> You know, when the sun goes down, it’s kind of like this. It’s really nice. And you get, you know, boats go by, and ships go by, and trains and stuff. And it’s kind of cool.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan:\u003c/strong> It’s a time capsule. It’s still got that raucous character that it had in the beginning. And as Dameron points out, Port Costa is surrounded by designated parkland, so it won’t be growing any time soon.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Lary Dameron:\u003c/strong> If the town doesn’t just disintegrate or something, it’ll be exactly how it is today because it’s not going to change. I mean, it can’t really change; as long as people maintain it and live here, it’ll be just like it is now.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>[Sound of train going by]\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price:\u003c/strong> That was KQED’s Katherine Monahan. Thanks to Marianne Hockenberry for asking the question.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price:\u003c/strong> We won’t be dropping an episode next week because the Bay Curious team is off for Labor Day (and I really hope you are, too.) We need all the rest we can get because when we return, we start work on Prop Fest — our podcast series that explains all those confuddling props on the statewide ballot. If there’s one on your radar you’ve got questions about, send ‘em our way! There’s a question box to fill out at BayCurious.org.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price:\u003c/strong> Are you a longtime listener who hasn’t gotten around to leaving us a rating and review? I get it — but please, do us a solid and take a few minutes today. Those ahem, five-star reviews keep us going and help other listeners find us, too!\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Marianne Hockenberry:\u003c/strong> Bay Curious is made in SF at member-supported KQED.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price:\u003c/strong> Our show is produced by Amanda Font, Christopher Beale, Ana De Almeida Amaral and me, Olivia Allen-Price. Extra support from Katie Sprenger, Jen Chien, Maha Sanad, Holly Kernan and the whole KQED Family. I’m Olivia Allen-Price. Have a good one!\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad floatright]\u003c/p>\n",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>\u003ca href=\"#episode-transcript\">\u003ci>View the full episode transcript.\u003c/i>\u003c/a>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Port Costa is a tiny, funky town on the Carquinez Strait that looks and feels like a time capsule.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It’s way out at the end of a windy road. If you drive there, you won’t see anything along the way except oak trees and maybe a squirrel or some crows. It seems totally disconnected from the rest of the world. But if you could come by ship or by train — it would all make sense.\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003caside class=\"alignleft utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__bayCuriousPodcastShortcode__bayCurious\">\u003cimg src=https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/2023/02/bayCuriousLogo.png alt=\"Bay Curious Podcast\" loading=\"lazy\" />\n \u003ca href=\"/news/series/baycurious\">Bay Curious\u003c/a> is a podcast that answers your questions about the Bay Area.\n Subscribe on \u003ca href=\"https://itunes.apple.com/us/podcast/bay-curious/id1172473406\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">Apple Podcasts\u003c/a>,\n \u003ca href=\"http://www.npr.org/podcasts/500557090/bay-curious\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">NPR One\u003c/a> or your favorite podcast platform.\u003c/aside>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The tracks of the old transcontinental railroad run along the edge of town, and just offshore, the water is deep enough for merchant ships from Europe to have docked at what was once one of the busiest ports on the West Coast.\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>A Growing Port Town\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>In the late 1800s, California was exporting huge quantities of wheat and barley, and Port Costa was in the perfect location: right on the main waterway connecting the food markets of Europe to the farms of the Central Valley. Soon, warehouses and wharves lined the shore, almost from Crockett to Martinez.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12002227\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1999px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12002227\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/240827-PortCosta-56-BL_qed.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1999\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/240827-PortCosta-56-BL_qed.jpg 1999w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/240827-PortCosta-56-BL_qed-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/240827-PortCosta-56-BL_qed-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/240827-PortCosta-56-BL_qed-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/240827-PortCosta-56-BL_qed-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/240827-PortCosta-56-BL_qed-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1999px) 100vw, 1999px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A train passes by the town of Port Costa in Contra Costa County on Aug. 27, 2024. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>They worked like a buffet table. Trains could pull up to the warehouses on one side and ships and barges on the other to load and unload grain. Businesses sprang up in between as thousands of people flocked to the growing town.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In 1879, Port Costa became a major stop on the transcontinental railroad.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The largest ferry in the world called the Solano, carried entire trains across the water between Benicia and Port Costa. It had four tracks on it and could fit 48 freight cars or 24 passenger cars. Trains drove onto the deck, and a team uncoupled them and pushed the remaining sections onboard with a switching engine. On the other side, the team put the trains back together and they drove off. The entire operation, including the journey across the strait, took less than half an hour.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In 1914, an even bigger ferry, called the Contra Costa, was added.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Port Costa developed a reputation as a fun place to stop on the transcontinental route between New York and San Francisco.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12002240\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12002240\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/240827-PortCosta-72-BL_qed.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/240827-PortCosta-72-BL_qed.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/240827-PortCosta-72-BL_qed-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/240827-PortCosta-72-BL_qed-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/240827-PortCosta-72-BL_qed-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/240827-PortCosta-72-BL_qed-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/240827-PortCosta-72-BL_qed-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A sign for Port Costa outside the town in Contra Costa County on Aug. 27, 2024.\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“This place was kind of the classic Wild West,” said Suzanne Statler of the Port Costa Conservation Society. “You’d get off the ferry, and you’d turn right, and you’d have a hotel . . . and a saloon . . . and a place to cash your money . . . and a saloon . . .”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>It was quite the raucous scene! But it was short-lived.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>California’s wheat market dropped off at the beginning of the 20th century. Fires kept destroying the wooden waterfront, and shipworms ate into the pilings that held up the wharves. In 1930 came the final blow: a train bridge was built between Benicia and Martinez, shifting passenger and freight traffic inland.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“All the activities around the trains, it all dried up,” Statler said. “The whole purpose of this town got kind of run over by time. So the town was dying.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12002238\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 1999px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12002238\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/240827-PortCosta-61-BL_qed.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"1999\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/240827-PortCosta-61-BL_qed.jpg 1999w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/240827-PortCosta-61-BL_qed-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/240827-PortCosta-61-BL_qed-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/240827-PortCosta-61-BL_qed-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/240827-PortCosta-61-BL_qed-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/240827-PortCosta-61-BL_qed-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 1999px) 100vw, 1999px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">The town of Port Costa in Contra Costa County on Aug. 27, 2024.\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>The Town’s Next Chapter\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>By the 1960s, all that was left of the waterfront was rotting pilings stretched along the shore (you can still see them today). Only the inland part of town was still standing when a Coors delivery driver named Bill Rich first saw it. He thought it could make for a cool, eclectic place for artists. He bought the downtown for a cheap price and revived some of the old establishments.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>One of them is the Burlington Hotel, a charming yellow three-story building from 1883. Each of its rooms has a lady’s name painted on the door.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The urban legend is that these were sex workers in Port Costa’s wild heyday. But many of the townsfolk say these women were, in fact, Bill Rich’s artist friends who had little shops up here in the 1970s. Sarah Louise Humann, who owns the crystal shop next door to the hotel, thinks the place is too fancy to be a brothel.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12002154\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12002154\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/240827-PORTCOSTA-13-BL-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/240827-PORTCOSTA-13-BL-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/240827-PORTCOSTA-13-BL-KQED-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/240827-PORTCOSTA-13-BL-KQED-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/240827-PORTCOSTA-13-BL-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/240827-PORTCOSTA-13-BL-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/240827-PORTCOSTA-13-BL-KQED-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">The ‘Peggy’ room at the Burlington Hotel, which closed in 2020, in Port Costa on Aug. 27, 2024. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“The center of town was what you wanted the investors to see,” Humann said. “All the ill repute was probably done closer to the water. But they may have snuck gentlemen out the back door.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In the hotel’s hallway is a big mirror full of shifting shadows that seem to lead back into misty dimensions. It’s old enough to have been made with real silver behind the glass, which tarnishes with age and creates a dark, dripping look.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“This mirror is likely partially responsible for at least people’s illusion of ghosts in the hotel,” Humann said. “It’s extremely old and exudes that haunted ‘anything could be on the other side of it’ vibe.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12002224\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12002224\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/240827-PortCosta-04-BL_qed.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/240827-PortCosta-04-BL_qed.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/240827-PortCosta-04-BL_qed-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/240827-PortCosta-04-BL_qed-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/240827-PortCosta-04-BL_qed-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/240827-PortCosta-04-BL_qed-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/240827-PortCosta-04-BL_qed-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">An antique mirror hangs on the third floor of the Burlington Hotel, which closed in 2020, in Port Costa on Aug. 27, 2024. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Humann says the rumor of haunting has attracted badly behaved ghost hunters.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“It is a little bit of a touchy subject for locals,” she said, “because there’s been vandalization and damage and disrespect done.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Humann hasn’t seen any ghosts, but Barbara Williams, who bartends across the street in the Warehouse Cafe, says she has.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“I was in the bar. I was closing,” Williams said. “And I felt a breeze going past my face. And as I turned to tell the people that I was closed, I saw a woman look at me and walk through the door.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>The door, she said, was closed and locked.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12002158\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12002158\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/240827-PORTCOSTA-29-BL-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/240827-PORTCOSTA-29-BL-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/240827-PORTCOSTA-29-BL-KQED-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/240827-PORTCOSTA-29-BL-KQED-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/240827-PORTCOSTA-29-BL-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/240827-PORTCOSTA-29-BL-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/240827-PORTCOSTA-29-BL-KQED-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Paintings hang above the entryway staircase at the Burlington Hotel in Port Costa on Aug. 27, 2024. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>Port Costa Today\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>These days, the Warehouse is a popular weekend hangout for motorcycle clubs. Bands play out front in what used to be the train yard. And inside, dilapidated, festive relics and bits of art cover the walls and ceiling. In the corner, an almost 9-foot-tall taxidermied polar bear looms over a baby seal. There’s also a water buffalo, a metal Medusa sculpture, circus masks and life preservers.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12002161\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12002161\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/240827-PORTCOSTA-39-BL-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/240827-PORTCOSTA-39-BL-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/240827-PORTCOSTA-39-BL-KQED-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/240827-PORTCOSTA-39-BL-KQED-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/240827-PORTCOSTA-39-BL-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/240827-PORTCOSTA-39-BL-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/240827-PORTCOSTA-39-BL-KQED-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">The Warehouse Cafe, a bar and restaurant, in Port Costa on Aug. 27, 2024. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>The collection has taken on a momentum of its own, bartender Lary Dameron says. Just a few years ago, someone donated a Kodiak bear.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12002159\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12002159\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/240827-PORTCOSTA-34-BL-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/240827-PORTCOSTA-34-BL-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/240827-PORTCOSTA-34-BL-KQED-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/240827-PORTCOSTA-34-BL-KQED-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/240827-PORTCOSTA-34-BL-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/240827-PORTCOSTA-34-BL-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/240827-PORTCOSTA-34-BL-KQED-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A taxidermy polar bear and bear are on display at The Warehouse Cafe, a bar and restaurant, in Port Costa on Aug. 27, 2024. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>“A guy who comes in on Sundays for music works at the wildlife museum, and they were cleaning out the basement, so he calls up, and he’s like, you guys interested in a Kodiak bear, you know, taxidermy?” Dameron said. “It’s like, ‘hell yeah, I want it.’ How often do people offer you a bear?”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Port Costa still has the raucous character of its old port days. Only about 250 people live here now, and though \u003ca href=\"https://www.sfchronicle.com/opinion/soleilho/article/california-san-francisco-bay-area-nimby-battle-19518620.php\">they don’t agree on everything\u003c/a>, they do share a devotion to this unique place along the Carquinez Strait.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12002162\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12002162\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/240827-PORTCOSTA-44-BL-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/240827-PORTCOSTA-44-BL-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/240827-PORTCOSTA-44-BL-KQED-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/240827-PORTCOSTA-44-BL-KQED-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/240827-PORTCOSTA-44-BL-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/240827-PORTCOSTA-44-BL-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/240827-PORTCOSTA-44-BL-KQED-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Lary Dameron stands behind the bar at the Warehouse Cafe in Port Costa on Aug. 27, 2024. \u003ccite>(Beth LaBerge/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-content post-body\">\u003ch2 id=\"episode-transcript\">Episode Transcript\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price:\u003c/strong> Marianne Hockenberry has vivid memories of being a teenager and going on long bike rides with her mom. They’d often start in Crockett, ride along the Carquinez Strait to Martinez. And sometimes continue on all the way to Danville, some 25 miles away.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Marianne Hockenberry:\u003c/strong> And then my dad would follow us in, in the VA, in the VW bus. So we had a camper bus, and he biked sometimes, but he wasn’t into it like my mom was. And so yeah, then he would follow along. And so when we got tired, we could just like take a break and get in the bus in the VW.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price:\u003c/strong> Along these journeys — Marianne and her mom passed through some of the rural, golden hills of the Bay Area. And the towns nestled in them.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Marianne Hockenberry:\u003c/strong> She liked to tell me stories about Port Costa when we would go through there. We’d be eating at the warehouse…\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price:\u003c/strong> The Warehouse … an iconic building in the small town of Port Costa, and just across the street is an old Victorian hotel. It’s weather-worn but still charming with its chipped yellow and blue paint…\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Marianne Hockenberry:\u003c/strong> … and, she would tell me this used to be, a brothel or used to be women of the night here like she would say, you know.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price:\u003c/strong> Marianne isn’t totally sure about the truth behind her mom’s stories.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Marianne Hockenberry:\u003c/strong> My mom was… she was a wonderful kind of crazy woman. And, you know, I don’t know, I, I pretty much take after her, I think. (laughs)\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price:\u003c/strong> Marianne isn’t the only person curious about Port Costa. We’ve received a few questions over the years about this tiny, eclectic town sitting along the Carquinez Strait. Today, we’ll answer a slew of them! Did that old hotel used to be a brothel? Is it haunted? Was Port Costa once a port, as the name suggests?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price:\u003c/strong> That’s all just ahead on Bay Curious. The show that explores the hidden true stories of the San Francisco Bay Area. I’m Olivia Allen-Price. Stay with us.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Sponsor message\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price:\u003c/strong> To answer the questions from Marianne and other listeners about Port Costa, we first have to get there! KQED’s Katherine Monahan got the job.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan:\u003c/strong> If you drive to Port Costa, it’s pretty hard to understand why it’s here. It’s way out at the end of a windy road. You won’t see anything along the way except oak trees and maybe a squirrel or some crows. It seems totally disconnected from the rest of the world. But if you could come by ship or by train — it would all make sense. So we’re going to cross the tracks, look to the left, look to the right. No trains. Let’s go.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan:\u003c/strong> Suzanne Statler with the Port Costa Conservation Society steps across the railroad tracks that run along the shoreline at the edge of town. She points out into the waters of the Carquinez Strait.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Suzanne Statler:\u003c/strong> If you go just out, 50 feet. It drops down to 50 feet there.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan:\u003c/strong> That’s deep enough for merchant ships from Europe to have docked here . . . at what was once one of the busiest ports on the West Coast.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>[Music]\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan:\u003c/strong> In the late 1800s, California was exporting huge quantities of wheat and barley. And a businessman named George W. McNear realized that Port Costa was in the perfect location: right on the main waterway connecting the food markets of Europe to the farms of the Central Valley. So he bought a stretch of shoreline and started building.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Suzanne Statler:\u003c/strong> All along the Carquinez Straits, you had warehouses that were built and burned down and rebuilt.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan:\u003c/strong> It worked like a buffet table. Trains could pull up to the warehouses on one side and ships and barges on the other and load and unload grain. Businesses sprang up in between.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Suzanne Statler:\u003c/strong> All along the waterfront there, that is where downtown was located at Port Costa. And it was quite a bustling place.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan:\u003c/strong> Thousands of people flocked to the growing town — stevedores, railroad workers, fishermen. McNear, who became known as “The Wheat King,” started building inland as well, up a narrow valley, away from the wildness of the wharves. Port Costa grew into kind of a T-shape, with the waterfront as the top of the T, and then along the stem …\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Suzanne Statler:\u003c/strong> The modern town was where people lived. So your boarding houses were there, your individual family homes were there.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan:\u003c/strong> In 1879, it became a major stop on the transcontinental railroad. The largest ferry in the world carried entire trains across the water between Benicia and Port Costa — 24 hours a day. It was called the Solano.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Suzanne Statler:\u003c/strong> It was 425 feet long.\u003cbr>\n\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan (in tape):\u003c/strong> What!?\u003cbr>\n\u003cstrong>Suzanne Statler:\u003c/strong> Four, four football fields. Plus.\u003cbr>\n\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan (in tape):\u003c/strong> That’s buck wild.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan:\u003c/strong> The Solano could carry 48 freight cars or 24 passenger cars. It had four tracks on it. Trains drove right up onto the deck, and a team uncoupled them and pushed the remaining sections onboard with a switching engine. On the other side, the team put the trains back together again and they drove off. The entire operation — including the journey across the strait — took less than half an hour.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan:\u003c/strong> Port Costa developed a reputation as a fun place to stop on the transcontinental route, which ran between the East Coast and Oakland.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cspan style=\"margin: 0px;padding: 0px\">\u003cstrong>Suzanne Statler:\u003c/strong> This place was kind of the classic Wild West. You’d get off the ferry, and you’d turn right, and you’d have a hotel and a saloon and a place to cash your money and a saloon.\u003c/span>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan:\u003c/strong> It was quite the raucous scene! But it was short-lived. California’s wheat market dropped off at the beginning of the 20th century. Fires kept destroying the wooden waterfront, and shipworms — small wood-burrowing mollusks — ate into the pilings that held up the wharves. In 1930 came the final blow — a train bridge was built a little ways inland, between Benicia and Martinez, rendering the Solano train ferry obsolete\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Suzanne Statler:\u003c/strong> People coming in and out of Port Costa and all the activities around the trains, it all dried up. The whole purpose of this town that had been built on, got kind of run over by time. So the town was dying.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan:\u003c/strong> Some thirty years passed, and by the 1960s, the place was almost a ghost town. The waterfront part, all the warehouses and saloons and such, was gone — just a bunch of rotting pilings stretched along the shore. Only the inland part was still standing when a man named Bill Rich first saw it.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Suzanne Statler:\u003c/strong> He was a Coors delivery driver. And he said, you know what, this would be an awesome place to make into a really eclectic, funky, awesome place.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan:\u003c/strong> And he did it! Rich bought the downtown for cheap and revived some of the old establishments. One of them is the Burlington Hotel. It closed during the pandemic, but Sarah Humann, who owns a crystal shop next door, has the keys.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>[Keys jingling]\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Sarah Humann:\u003c/strong> So the doors to the Burlington Hotel are a very popular photo backdrop. Watch your step.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>[Door opening]\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan:\u003c/strong> Oh. my. Goodness.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Sarah Humann:\u003c/strong> Yeah, so everything in the hotel’s pretty creaky. Uh, we can head upstairs.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>[Stepping sounds]\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan:\u003c/strong> Through the carved wooden doors, up past the painted portraits mounted on the velvet embossed wallpaper, are the hotel rooms. And each has a lady’s name painted on the door.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Sarah Humann:\u003c/strong> So we have Hazel, Corrine, Victoria is a really pretty room. And I think I can get you in.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan:\u003c/strong> The urban legend is that these were sex workers in Port Costa’s wild heyday.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Sarah Humann:\u003c/strong> So this is Ethel.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>[Keys opening the door]\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan:\u003c/strong> But many of the townsfolk say these women were, in fact, Bill Rich’s artist friends who had little shops up here in the 70s. Which seems like a more probable fit. I mean, maybe Ethel was a sexy name back in the 1800s. But . . . Fanny?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Sarah Humann:\u003c/strong> Fanny is a room that has purple maroon furniture set against an olive green wall color. There’s definitely some porcelain kitty cats and some cotton candy, pink, floral decorated lamps.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan:\u003c/strong> Humann thinks this hotel was too fancy to be a brothel, and besides, it was in the more straight-laced, residential section.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Sarah Humann:\u003c/strong> Just understanding how these old towns worked is, the center of town was what you wanted the investors to see. All the ill-repute was probably done closer to the water. But they may have snuck gentlemen out the back door. (laughs)\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan:\u003c/strong> Down the hallway, Humann points out the probable source of another popular rumor.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Sarah Humann:\u003c/strong> This mirror is likely partially responsible for at least people’s illusion of ghosts in the hotel. It’s extremely old and exudes that haunted, anything could be on the other side of it, vibe.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan:\u003c/strong> It’s about 4 feet tall and wide and full of shifting shadows that seem to lead back into misty dimensions.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Sarah Humann:\u003c/strong> The old mirrors have an actual layer of silver on the other side of the glass. And so, over time, that silver has tarnished. And you can kind of see how it all drips down. It’s very cool looking.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan:\u003c/strong> The hotel is old and creaky and has actual bats living in the walls. Humann says it’s not surprising that people like to think it’s haunted. But that the rumor has attracted badly behaved ghost hunters.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Sarah Humann:\u003c/strong> It is a little bit of a touchy subject for locals, because there’s been vandalization and damage and disrespect done.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan:\u003c/strong> Humann hasn’t seen any ghosts. But Barbara Williams, who works across the street, says she has. She bartends in the Warehouse Cafe. It’s on the first floor of the last of the town’s grain warehouses, built in 1886.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Barbara Williams:\u003c/strong> I was in the bar. I was closing. And I felt a breeze going past my face, and as I turned to tell the people that I was closed, I saw a woman look at me and walk through the door.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan (in tape):\u003c/strong> And when you say walk through the door, was the door open?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Barbara Williams:\u003c/strong> The door was locked. It was closed.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan:\u003c/strong> Another night, she says, she saw a man go into the back of the bar, and she went to tell him he wasn’t allowed there.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Barbara Williams:\u003c/strong> Got up, looked around. No one was here. So, I told the other bartender the next day about what happened. And she said you described Bill Rich.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan:\u003c/strong> Bill Rich, the guy who bought the town in the 1960s, had passed away some years before that. But he used to own the Warehouse bar.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>[Music of band playing outside Warehouse Cafe]\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan:\u003c/strong> These days, the Warehouse is a popular weekend hangout for motorcycle clubs. Bands play out front in what used to be the train yard. And daytrippers, along with some of the town’s 250 residents, come here to drink and chat. It’s nice. It’s sunny. A few cats are walking around.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan:\u003c/strong> And inside, it is seriously funky, with dilapidated, festive relics and bits of art all over the walls and ceiling. Lary Dameron has been bartending here for close to 20 years. He points to a taxidermied polar bear in a glass case.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Lary Dameron:\u003c/strong> He’s 8 foot, 8 inches tall. He’s standing up like he’s gonna swipe at you or something. But, um, the dead baby seal at his feet is unique.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan:\u003c/strong> The polar bear is too weird and majestic to call the bar’s mascot, but it’s certainly part of its soul.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Lary Dameron:\u003c/strong> It was payment for some work that Bill, the guy who bought the town … he did some work for this guy and that was how he paid him back.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan (in tape):\u003c/strong> With a polar bear.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Lary Dameron:\u003c/strong> Yeah.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan:\u003c/strong> There’s also a water buffalo, a metal medusa sculpture, circus masks and giant candelabras and life preservers. And the collection has taken on a momentum of its own. Just a few years ago, someone donated a Kodiak bear.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Lary Dameron:\u003c/strong> A guy who comes in on Sundays for music works at the wildlife museum and they were cleaning out the basement. So he calls up, and he’s like, “You guys interested in a Kodiak bear, you know, taxidermy?” I was like, “For free?” He’s like, “Yeah.” (sarcastically) I’m like, “No, no, I don’t want that…” It’s like, “hell yeah. I want it!” It’s like, how often do people offer you a bear?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan:\u003c/strong> Port Costa is a unique place. And the people who know about it really treasure it. Dameron walks outside to where the band is packing up at the end of their set, and a few residents and bikers are just enjoying the evening.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Lary Dameron:\u003c/strong> You know, when the sun goes down, it’s kind of like this. It’s really nice. And you get, you know, boats go by, and ships go by, and trains and stuff. And it’s kind of cool.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Katherine Monahan:\u003c/strong> It’s a time capsule. It’s still got that raucous character that it had in the beginning. And as Dameron points out, Port Costa is surrounded by designated parkland, so it won’t be growing any time soon.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Lary Dameron:\u003c/strong> If the town doesn’t just disintegrate or something, it’ll be exactly how it is today because it’s not going to change. I mean, it can’t really change; as long as people maintain it and live here, it’ll be just like it is now.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>[Sound of train going by]\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price:\u003c/strong> That was KQED’s Katherine Monahan. Thanks to Marianne Hockenberry for asking the question.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price:\u003c/strong> We won’t be dropping an episode next week because the Bay Curious team is off for Labor Day (and I really hope you are, too.) We need all the rest we can get because when we return, we start work on Prop Fest — our podcast series that explains all those confuddling props on the statewide ballot. If there’s one on your radar you’ve got questions about, send ‘em our way! There’s a question box to fill out at BayCurious.org.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price:\u003c/strong> Are you a longtime listener who hasn’t gotten around to leaving us a rating and review? I get it — but please, do us a solid and take a few minutes today. Those ahem, five-star reviews keep us going and help other listeners find us, too!\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Marianne Hockenberry:\u003c/strong> Bay Curious is made in SF at member-supported KQED.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price:\u003c/strong> Our show is produced by Amanda Font, Christopher Beale, Ana De Almeida Amaral and me, Olivia Allen-Price. Extra support from Katie Sprenger, Jen Chien, Maha Sanad, Holly Kernan and the whole KQED Family. I’m Olivia Allen-Price. Have a good one!\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003c/div>"
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"slug": "the-provocative-and-flamboyant-origins-of-lowriding",
"title": "The Provocative, Rebellious and Flamboyant Origins of Lowriding",
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"content": "\u003cp>\u003ca href=\"#episode-transcript\">\u003ci>View the full episode transcript.\u003c/i>\u003c/a>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>To some, a lowrider might just be a car with hydraulics, but amongst the most passionate followers, lowriding is a culture with its own aesthetic, attitude and history. Lowriding aficionados can now be found globally — in the streets of France, Japan, Dubai and more — each with their own style. But the origins of this artistic automotive subculture are still hotly debated.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[baycuriouspodcastinfo]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>A Bay Curious listener heard that lowriding got its start in both Los Angeles and San José. They asked us to explore the lowriding origin story or stories.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Professor John Ulloa, the Dean of Arts and Social Science at West Valley College, has spent time researching the history of lowriding for his podcast.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>He says to start at ground zero we have to focus on one group of lowriders, the subculture of \u003ca href=\"https://www.bbc.com/travel/article/20230913-pachucos-the-latinx-subculture-that-defied-the-us\">pachucos\u003c/a> in East Los Angeles in the 1940s. Pachuco is Spanish for punk, and the group was made up of primarily Mexican American youth.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad fullwidth]\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>\u003cstrong>‘All my friends know the lowrider’\u003c/strong>\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>“Pachuco culture is provocative in nature, it really comes out of jazz culture, big band and swing,” Ulloa said. “These kids, by a white dominant paradigm, \u003ca href=\"https://www.pbssocal.org/shows/artbound/pachucos-not-just-mexican-american-males-or-juvenile-delinquents\">were othered and seen as foreign\u003c/a>.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Pachucos were children during the Great Depression, and they’d seen friends and family members deported en masse to Mexico — \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/news/12002189/over-1-million-were-deported-to-mexico-nearly-100-years-ago-most-of-them-were-u-s-citizens\">even if they were legal citizens\u003c/a>. So these kids were about fighting assimilation.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12001113\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12001113\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/20240817_LOWRIDERS_GC-34-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1235\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/20240817_LOWRIDERS_GC-34-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/20240817_LOWRIDERS_GC-34-KQED-800x494.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/20240817_LOWRIDERS_GC-34-KQED-1020x630.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/20240817_LOWRIDERS_GC-34-KQED-160x99.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/20240817_LOWRIDERS_GC-34-KQED-1536x948.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/20240817_LOWRIDERS_GC-34-KQED-1920x1186.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">The engine of ‘El Diablo,’ a 1963 GMC truck at the annual King of the Streets car show at the Palace of Fine Arts on Aug. 17, 2024. \u003ccite>(Gina Castro/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Pachuco culture developed in the shadow of World War II, at a time when many Americans were rationing gas, food, and not buying new clothes to save resources for the war effort. Rationing was seen as patriotic, but the pachuco style was extravagant. They wore zoot suits: a clothing style from jazz culture that was popular with Black, Latino and Filipino youth. It featured ballooned pants, exaggerated shoulder pads, and nice hats topped off with a single large feather.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“The whole presentation was really flamboyant and seen as not only criminalized but completely un-American,” Ulloa said. “It was the antithesis of the white Anglo picket fence.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12001111\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12001111\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/20240817_LOWRIDERS_GC-32-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/20240817_LOWRIDERS_GC-32-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/20240817_LOWRIDERS_GC-32-KQED-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/20240817_LOWRIDERS_GC-32-KQED-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/20240817_LOWRIDERS_GC-32-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/20240817_LOWRIDERS_GC-32-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/20240817_LOWRIDERS_GC-32-KQED-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">At the annual King of the Streets car show at the Palace of Fine Arts on Aug. 17, 2024. \u003ccite>(Gina Castro/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Pachucos also went against the grain when it came to American car culture. In the late ’40s and early ’50s, white Americans were hacking their hot rod cars to go fast. But the pachucos were doing the exact opposite. They bought less expensive, older cars and customized them to go low and slow. Before the advent of hydraulics, that meant making the car heavier to force it lower to the ground.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“You ‘slam it,’” said Ulloa, “Literally with sandbags, with rocks, with cinder blocks, with bricks, whatever you could find that was heavy to put in the trunk.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>So the argument for Los Angeles being the birthplace of lowriding is compelling. But, Ulloa said, the San José scene is extremely significant in terms of lowrider history.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12001107\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12001107\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/20240817_LOWRIDERS_GC-21-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/20240817_LOWRIDERS_GC-21-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/20240817_LOWRIDERS_GC-21-KQED-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/20240817_LOWRIDERS_GC-21-KQED-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/20240817_LOWRIDERS_GC-21-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/20240817_LOWRIDERS_GC-21-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/20240817_LOWRIDERS_GC-21-KQED-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Tracy Gallardo sits in her dream car, a 1958 Chevy Impala, at the annual King of the Streets car show at the Palace of Fine Arts on Aug. 17, 2024. \u003ccite>(Gina Castro/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>\u003cstrong>‘Do You Know the Way to San Jose?’ \u003c/strong>\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>“The San José argument largely has to do with [it being] the birthplace of \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/forum/2010101875250/san-jose-founded-lowrider-magazine-icon-of-chicano-car-culture-goes-out-of-print\">\u003cem>Lowrider\u003c/em> magazine\u003c/a>,” Ulloa said. “It was a lifestyle magazine, it wasn’t just cars and vehicles — it was people.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In 1977 while studying at San Jose State, Sonny Madrid launched \u003cem>Lowrider \u003c/em>magazine, a monthly publication that celebrated Chicano culture. A small staff, including some of Madrid’s friends, wrote articles about fashion, music, politics — it was a hit at the newsstands at just the right time.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12001102\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12001102\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/20240817_LOWRIDERS_GC-7-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/20240817_LOWRIDERS_GC-7-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/20240817_LOWRIDERS_GC-7-KQED-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/20240817_LOWRIDERS_GC-7-KQED-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/20240817_LOWRIDERS_GC-7-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/20240817_LOWRIDERS_GC-7-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/20240817_LOWRIDERS_GC-7-KQED-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">The steering wheel of a Buick Regal with ‘SF’ on it at the annual King of the Streets car show at the Palace of Fine Arts on Aug. 17, 2024. \u003ccite>(Gina Castro/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Ulloa stamps the first five years of \u003cem>Lowrider \u003c/em>being published as the “Golden Era,” because people were already lowriding but its circulation was able to reach audiences beyond San José.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“\u003cem>Lowrider \u003c/em>magazine was able to give everyone access to see what people were doing all over the Southwest,” said Ulloa. “The youth had \u003cem>Lowrider\u003c/em> magazine, whether they were lowriding or not — they were able to see themselves at a car show as participants.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12001105\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12001105\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/20240817_LOWRIDERS_GC-13-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/20240817_LOWRIDERS_GC-13-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/20240817_LOWRIDERS_GC-13-KQED-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/20240817_LOWRIDERS_GC-13-KQED-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/20240817_LOWRIDERS_GC-13-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/20240817_LOWRIDERS_GC-13-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/20240817_LOWRIDERS_GC-13-KQED-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A Monte Carlo parked on three wheels outside of the Palace of Fine Arts during the annual King of the Streets car show on Aug. 17, 2024. \u003ccite>(Gina Castro/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Lowrider\u003c/em> solidified lowriding as a culture in California, and then the circulation of the magazine went international. The Letters to the Editor section of the magazine was filled with submissions from readers in Great Britain, France, all over the world, giving praise for the magazine’s content.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>When there’s a global phenomenon, there’s always a local take on it. Each city adds their own flare to lowriding. People in the know can often spot a Bay Area lowrider versus one from L.A., or San Antonio, or Japan. Maybe it’s a custom paint job, or a tire size popular in a certain area.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12001110\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12001110\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/20240817_LOWRIDERS_GC-31-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/20240817_LOWRIDERS_GC-31-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/20240817_LOWRIDERS_GC-31-KQED-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/20240817_LOWRIDERS_GC-31-KQED-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/20240817_LOWRIDERS_GC-31-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/20240817_LOWRIDERS_GC-31-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/20240817_LOWRIDERS_GC-31-KQED-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A 1963 Chevy Impala enters the Palace of Fine Arts during the annual King of the Streets car show on Aug. 17, 2024. \u003ccite>(Gina Castro/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Everywhere lowriding goes, the community leaves a mark. Ulloa won’t settle the debate about the origins starting in Los Angeles or San José. He said it originates in the Mexican American experience in the southwestern part of the United States.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>To Ulloa, where lowriding started doesn’t matter. But why people care does. Everyone wants to own a piece of history, he said, especially when there are communities who have had their histories systemically erased.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>To learn more about lowriding, check out these episodes of \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13923205/best-of-roll-with-us-a-sisterhood-of-lowriding\">Rightnowish \u003c/a>and \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/trulyca/99/everything-comes-from-the-streets\">Truly CA\u003c/a>\u003cem>. \u003c/em>And if you want to know how lowriding — once banned in California — finally became legal, check out this episode of \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/news/11966254/california-lifts-decades-old-ban-on-lowrider-cruising\">The Bay\u003c/a>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12001112\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12001112\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/20240817_LOWRIDERS_GC-33-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/20240817_LOWRIDERS_GC-33-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/20240817_LOWRIDERS_GC-33-KQED-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/20240817_LOWRIDERS_GC-33-KQED-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/20240817_LOWRIDERS_GC-33-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/20240817_LOWRIDERS_GC-33-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/20240817_LOWRIDERS_GC-33-KQED-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A car with a sign reading ‘I’m not old, I’m classic’ is displayed on a 1964 GMC truck at the annual King of the Streets car show at the Palace of Fine Arts on Aug. 17, 2024. \u003ccite>(Gina Castro/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>[baycuriousquestion]\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2 id=\"episode-transcript\">Episode Transcript\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>\u003ci>This is a computer-generated transcript. While our team has reviewed it, there may be errors.\u003c/i>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>When Naomi Barrios and her sister Rosie were teenagers in the 1980s, they would look forward to cruising around Salinas every Friday and Saturday night. They’d roll low and slow, down Alisal Street.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>(music begins)\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Naomi Barrios: \u003c/strong>That was the best. Meeting people, seeing cars, having fun, enjoying the music, flirting with guys. It was fun!\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price:\u003c/strong> Naomi and Ros would cruise in a burgundy Pontiac Firebird … sporty looking car … with a regal yellow firebird painted on the hood.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Naomi Barrios:\u003c/strong> After we would cruise a little bit, a couple times, you know, three times. Then we would park, at a Winchell’s Donut place. That was our spot.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price:\u003c/strong> In the parking lot people, mostly from Salina’s Chicano community, would line up their immaculate cars and show off their newest modifications. I’m talking leather seats, shiny rims and precise paint jobs. These cars weren’t simply modes of transportation. They were creative vessels, canvases for artistic expression, one’s pride and joy.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Naomi Barrios: \u003c/strong>It was a big crowd hanging out there outside. Inside everybody ordering, chatting. Everybody had their music on. Again, just looking at their cars, meeting new people, making new friends.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price:\u003c/strong> The whole thing … it was a scene. One that was popping up in communities all across California. That’s because California is the birthplace of lowriding culture … but where exactly that birthplace is has been a point of contention. Some folks say Lowriding started down in L.A., others say things got going in San José.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price:\u003c/strong> A Bay Curious listener asked us to unpack the dispute. You selected the question in a public voting round. So, today on the show, we’ll explore the lowriding origin story … or stories. Then, we’ll learn how lowriding became criminalized, and catch up on where things are at today. I’m Olivia Allen-Price. We roll … right after this.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Sponsor Message\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>So, did lowriding start in San José or L.A.? Or somewhere else all together? To start today’s episode, Bay Curious intern, Ana De Almeida Amaral, headed out to a car show to get the lay of the land.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ana De Almeida Amaral (in tape):\u003c/strong> So I’m in a parking lot and there are dozens of cars just parked along both sides, and they’re painted all sorts of beautiful colors.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ana De Almeida Amaral: \u003c/strong>Right behind the palace of fine arts in San Francisco, over a hundred people are gathered for the King of the Streets car show. In the middle of the parking lot, a sparkly, lime green Chevy is parked — with the hood popped revealing a shiny chrome engine. Nearby is a light blue two-seater, with a painting of a nude woman on the hood. The car is balanced on three wheels — one wheel 3 feet in the air — showing off its hydraulic suspension.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ana De Almeida Amaral: \u003c/strong>People stand around cars that look like art pieces, drinking, eating, and talking all about the features. A car owner named Carlos brags about his ride.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Carlos:\u003c/strong> That’s my car right there, El Mas Gangster de Todos. It’s a 1948 Buick Super 50. It’s all original … original chromes, original paint.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ana De Almeida Amaral:\u003c/strong> As I walked down rows and rows of lifted, candy painted, and tricked out cars, I bumped into Anthony, who was wiping his white car’s exterior with a towel even though, to me, it already looked pristine.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Anthony:\u003c/strong> This is a 1969 Chevy Caprice, it has a 350 small block, uh brand new block. It has hydraulics, it’s lifted front and back — were from the BLVD Kings Car Club.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ana De Almeida Amaral:\u003c/strong> And how long have you been working on cars?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Anthony:\u003c/strong> Oof, since I was a kid.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ana De Almeida Amaral:\u003c/strong> He points to an older man working on the car with him.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Anthony:\u003c/strong> He basically taught me everything I know, the first car I remember him having was a ’72 Impala, so that basically got me into it. And then I remember growing up in the mission, seeing all the mini-trucks going up and down the mission. So, it’s been all my life.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ana De Almeida Amaral:\u003c/strong> Other people I spoke to shared the same passion for this art form and a deep pride in the lowriding culture. But when I asked about the origins of lowriding, I got a lot of answers …\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ana De Almeida Amaral (in tape):\u003c/strong> Where do you think that it got started?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Anthony: \u003c/strong>Oh, L.A. all day. Everybody knows, lowriding got started in L.A.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Man 1 at the car show:\u003c/strong> In my hometown, Turlock, California. Cause I was a kid from there! [laughs]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Man 2 at the car show:\u003c/strong> Hmmm, it’s been said San José.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Man 3 at the car show:\u003c/strong> From what I understand, it started somewhere in Baja California.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Robert:\u003c/strong> I think it started with every little kid who had a Hot Wheels and stole their mom’s nail polish and started candy painting their hot wheels.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price:\u003c/strong> Out on the streets, Ana didn’t find a straight answer, so we passed it off to reporter Sebastian Miño-Bucheli to dive deeper into the world of lowriding.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli:\u003c/strong> It’s clear that within the lowriding community, this matter isn’t settled. So I talked to someone who has been studying lowriding for a long time … Professor John Ulloa.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>John Ulloa:\u003c/strong> It’s debatable. I mean, it’s hotly debated. Hotly debated. Everybody wants to claim ground zero for low riding.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli:\u003c/strong> Ulloa is the dean of arts and social science at West Valley College. He says one tough thing about this question is that lowriding has evolved a lot over time …\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>John Ulloa:\u003c/strong> A lot of people say, well, it’s a it’s a car with hydraulics on it. But if you’re looking at culture and you’re looking at stance of car, you’re looking at attitude, you’re looking at aesthetics. Um, you know, the clothing and in tandem with the cars and, you know. Just the presence of, you know, how one presents themselves culturally… I think that we really have to be looking at the pachucos of the 1940s.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>(Jazzy mellow music from the 1940s era)\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli:\u003c/strong> Here comes the argument for Los Angeles being the birthplace of lowriding …\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli:\u003c/strong> The pachucos were a subculture of predominantly Mexican American young people that thrived in East Los Angeles around World War II. Pachuco means “Punk” in Spanish\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>They were kids during the Great Depression, and had seen their friends and family members of Mexican descent deported en masse, even those who were American citizens. It was part of the U.S. government’s “repatriation” program … which ultimately saw the mass deportation of about a million people.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>John Ulloa: \u003c/strong>These kids, by a white dominant paradigm, were othered and seen as foreign.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli:\u003c/strong> The U.S., and white society had not treated their families well, so the pachucos were all about resisting assimilation, and instead creating something of their own.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>John Ulloa: \u003c/strong>Pachuco culture is provocative in nature.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>(music ends)\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli:\u003c/strong> During World War II, many Americans were showing their patriotism by rationing … using less gas, eating less food, not buying new clothes. The idea was to save resources for the war effort. But the pachucos … they were rocking the Zoot suit.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>John Ulloa: \u003c/strong>You have an exaggerated aesthetic with ballooned out pants, exaggerated shoulders in the coats. Um, you know, topped off with a nice hat with a big single feather.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli:\u003c/strong> This clothing style came from jazz culture and it was popular amongst Black, Latino and Filipino youth.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>John Ulloa: \u003c/strong>So the whole presentation was really flamboyant and seen as not only criminalized but completely un-American.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli:\u003c/strong> Around this time, in the ’40s, White Americans were hacking their hotrod cars to go fast. So pachucos did the exact opposite. They went low and slow … sending a clear message about their nonconformity.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>John Ulloa: \u003c/strong>Necessity is the mother of all invention, right so. It was cheap to get a ’30s car and work on it, you know make it your own. You lower it in the back or you lower it all the way around.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli:\u003c/strong> And this was decades before hydraulics came on the scene, so getting low meant filling the trunk.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>John Ulloa: \u003c/strong>You slam it quote unquote as we say. Literally. With sandbags, with rocks, with cinder blocks, with bricks, whatever you could find that was heavy to put in the trunk. What that would do is that would take the car from sitting level, to being lowered in the back.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli:\u003c/strong> The pachucos also pushed against the grain with candy-colored paint jobs and Chicano art. These cars were a loud and proud statement about their culture.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>John Ulloa: \u003c/strong>Low and slow was the antithesis of hot rod fast.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli:\u003c/strong> So if we’re looking at who are the OG lowriders, the first to start driving low and slow, Los Angeles and the pachucos have a compelling argument. But then where does this San Jose argument come from? What stake does that city have in lowriding culture?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>John Ulloa:\u003c/strong> The San José argument largely has to do with it’s the birthplace of \u003cem>Lowrider\u003c/em> magazine.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>(Mellow 1970s era music)\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli: \u003c/strong>In 1977, a guy named Sonny Madrid was a student at San Jose State. With a few friends, he launched \u003cem>Lowrider\u003c/em> magazine, a monthly that celebrated Chicano culture.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>John Ulloa:\u003c/strong> It was a lifestyle magazine. It wasn’t just cars and vehicles. It was people. Right …\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli: \u003c/strong>The magazine had articles about fashion, music, politics. And it was hitting newsstands at just the right time.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>John Ulloa:\u003c/strong> The Golden Era, as I’ve timestamped it, was from 1977 to 1982 and those were the first five years of \u003cem>Lowrider\u003c/em> magazine. People were already lowriding prior to \u003cem>Lowrider\u003c/em> magazine, but now what \u003cem>Lowrider\u003c/em> magazine did is it was able to give everyone access to see what people were doing all over the Southwest, right?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli: \u003c/strong>It helped solidify lowriding as a culture. And then it exported that culture making it into a global phenomenon. The Letters to the Editor section of the magazine put that on full display.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>John Ulloa:\u003c/strong> There were letters in there from Great Britain, Scandinavia, France, Germany, all over the world. People are saying, “Hey, I just got your magazine in my hand, and this is so cool. We don’t have this here, but as soon as we can, we will.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli: \u003c/strong>And when there’s a global phenomenon going around, there’s always a local take on the phenomenon. Each city adds their own flare to lowriding. People in the know can often spot a Bay Area lowrider versus one from L.A. or one from San Antonio, or Japan. Maybe it’s a custom paint job. Or a tire size popular in a certain area. Everywhere lowriding goes, the community leaves a mark.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>(Blues begins)\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli: \u003c/strong>At the end of the day, Ulloa won’t settle the debate about if lowriding started in Los Angeles … or if what came out of San José and \u003cem>Lowrider\u003c/em> magazine was so unique it was something new altogether …\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>John Ulloa:\u003c/strong> Safely we can say that lowriding originates in the Mexican American experience in the southwestern part of the United States.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli: \u003c/strong>To Ulloa, where lowriding started doesn’t matter. But why people care does.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>John Ulloa:\u003c/strong> The real question is why are people planting that flag? That’s the deeper question and everybody wants to own history. Especially communities that have historically had their histories systematically erased, swept under the rug, ignored, altered, unheard.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>(Music in the clear for a few seconds and then fades)\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>Sebastian, Lowriding has such a fascinating history in this state. And while we can celebrate that it was born here, it hasn’t always been accepted here. Can you explain how lowriding first became criminalized?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli: \u003c/strong>If we go back to the pachucos in the 1940s, they were surrounded by military personnel in Los Angeles waiting to leave to fight in World War II. And the presence of pachucos did not sit well with them. They thought zoot suits were unpatriotic … a sign of gang affiliation. And that’s a narrative that the local press really fed into.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli: \u003c/strong>There were a series of violent clashes where off-duty servicemen, police and white civilians attacked the pachucos, known as the Zoot Suit Riots. Anyone caught by the mob were stripped of their zoot suits and beaten. That’s where we start to see pachuco culture become targeted by police. Racial profiling is happening. And it extends to people driving lowriders. This criminalization of lowriding would play out for decades to come.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>In 1982, the state of California passed a law that allowed cities to implement cruising bans … over concerns about traffic, noise and crime. It also set limits on how much a car could be lowered. And then Soon after that cities like Sacramento, Fresno, L.A. and San José all had cruising bans on the books. What happened to the community in those places?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli: \u003c/strong>The culture didn’t go anywhere, but people did get creative. People kept lowriding, eventually car shows started happening. These were sanctioned events where the lowriding community could still gather. But ultimately, activists started working to change things. And it worked! Just last year, California passed AB 436, a law that overturns the cruising bans, and lifts that prohibition on how low cars can go.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>We’re still seeing how it all plays out on the local level, but this last May, East San José had their first lowrider event since the ban was lifted for Cinco de Mayo. And people I spoke with there were optimistic about the future. And they were really happy to be there that day to share in the community and culture. They said finally we’re able to do this again!\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli. Thanks for your reporting on this one.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli: \u003c/strong>You’re welcome.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>(Music with trumpets begins)\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>KQED’s podcast The Bay has an excellent episode from when the cruising ban was lifted last year, that gets a lot more into how it was criminalized. It’s called “\u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/news/11966254/california-lifts-decades-old-ban-on-lowrider-cruising\">California Lifts Decades-Old Ban on Lowrider Cruising.\u003c/a>” We’ll link to it in our show notes.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>Also in our show notes is a link to the web story for this Bay Curious podcast episode — check it out for some awesome photos of that lowrider car show our intern Ana went to, along with several videos KQED has produced about lowriders over the years.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>Bay Curious is made in San Francisco at member-supported KQED. If you like what we’re doing here at Bay Curious, please consider becoming a KQED member today. Learn more at \u003ca href=\"http://kqed.org/donate\">KQED.org/donate\u003c/a>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>This episode was produced by Ana De Almeida Amaral, Amanda Font, Christopher Beale, and me Olivia Allen-Price. Special thanks to Katrina Schwartz, Katie Sprenger, Jen Chien, Maha Sanad, Holly Kernan and the whole KQED Family.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>I’m Olivia Allen-Price … hoping you have a wonderful week. Bye!\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>[ad floatright]\u003c/p>\n",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003cp>\u003ca href=\"#episode-transcript\">\u003ci>View the full episode transcript.\u003c/i>\u003c/a>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>To some, a lowrider might just be a car with hydraulics, but amongst the most passionate followers, lowriding is a culture with its own aesthetic, attitude and history. Lowriding aficionados can now be found globally — in the streets of France, Japan, Dubai and more — each with their own style. But the origins of this artistic automotive subculture are still hotly debated.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003caside class=\"alignleft utils-parseShortcode-shortcodes-__bayCuriousPodcastShortcode__bayCurious\">\u003cimg src=https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/2023/02/bayCuriousLogo.png alt=\"Bay Curious Podcast\" loading=\"lazy\" />\n \u003ca href=\"/news/series/baycurious\">Bay Curious\u003c/a> is a podcast that answers your questions about the Bay Area.\n Subscribe on \u003ca href=\"https://itunes.apple.com/us/podcast/bay-curious/id1172473406\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">Apple Podcasts\u003c/a>,\n \u003ca href=\"http://www.npr.org/podcasts/500557090/bay-curious\" target=\"_blank\" rel=\"noopener noreferrer\">NPR One\u003c/a> or your favorite podcast platform.\u003c/aside>\u003c/p>\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>A Bay Curious listener heard that lowriding got its start in both Los Angeles and San José. They asked us to explore the lowriding origin story or stories.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Professor John Ulloa, the Dean of Arts and Social Science at West Valley College, has spent time researching the history of lowriding for his podcast.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>He says to start at ground zero we have to focus on one group of lowriders, the subculture of \u003ca href=\"https://www.bbc.com/travel/article/20230913-pachucos-the-latinx-subculture-that-defied-the-us\">pachucos\u003c/a> in East Los Angeles in the 1940s. Pachuco is Spanish for punk, and the group was made up of primarily Mexican American youth.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-body\">\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003ch2>\u003cstrong>‘All my friends know the lowrider’\u003c/strong>\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>“Pachuco culture is provocative in nature, it really comes out of jazz culture, big band and swing,” Ulloa said. “These kids, by a white dominant paradigm, \u003ca href=\"https://www.pbssocal.org/shows/artbound/pachucos-not-just-mexican-american-males-or-juvenile-delinquents\">were othered and seen as foreign\u003c/a>.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>Pachucos were children during the Great Depression, and they’d seen friends and family members deported en masse to Mexico — \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/news/12002189/over-1-million-were-deported-to-mexico-nearly-100-years-ago-most-of-them-were-u-s-citizens\">even if they were legal citizens\u003c/a>. So these kids were about fighting assimilation.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12001113\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12001113\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/20240817_LOWRIDERS_GC-34-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1235\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/20240817_LOWRIDERS_GC-34-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/20240817_LOWRIDERS_GC-34-KQED-800x494.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/20240817_LOWRIDERS_GC-34-KQED-1020x630.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/20240817_LOWRIDERS_GC-34-KQED-160x99.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/20240817_LOWRIDERS_GC-34-KQED-1536x948.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/20240817_LOWRIDERS_GC-34-KQED-1920x1186.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">The engine of ‘El Diablo,’ a 1963 GMC truck at the annual King of the Streets car show at the Palace of Fine Arts on Aug. 17, 2024. \u003ccite>(Gina Castro/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Pachuco culture developed in the shadow of World War II, at a time when many Americans were rationing gas, food, and not buying new clothes to save resources for the war effort. Rationing was seen as patriotic, but the pachuco style was extravagant. They wore zoot suits: a clothing style from jazz culture that was popular with Black, Latino and Filipino youth. It featured ballooned pants, exaggerated shoulder pads, and nice hats topped off with a single large feather.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“The whole presentation was really flamboyant and seen as not only criminalized but completely un-American,” Ulloa said. “It was the antithesis of the white Anglo picket fence.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12001111\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12001111\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/20240817_LOWRIDERS_GC-32-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/20240817_LOWRIDERS_GC-32-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/20240817_LOWRIDERS_GC-32-KQED-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/20240817_LOWRIDERS_GC-32-KQED-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/20240817_LOWRIDERS_GC-32-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/20240817_LOWRIDERS_GC-32-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/20240817_LOWRIDERS_GC-32-KQED-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">At the annual King of the Streets car show at the Palace of Fine Arts on Aug. 17, 2024. \u003ccite>(Gina Castro/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Pachucos also went against the grain when it came to American car culture. In the late ’40s and early ’50s, white Americans were hacking their hot rod cars to go fast. But the pachucos were doing the exact opposite. They bought less expensive, older cars and customized them to go low and slow. Before the advent of hydraulics, that meant making the car heavier to force it lower to the ground.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“You ‘slam it,’” said Ulloa, “Literally with sandbags, with rocks, with cinder blocks, with bricks, whatever you could find that was heavy to put in the trunk.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>So the argument for Los Angeles being the birthplace of lowriding is compelling. But, Ulloa said, the San José scene is extremely significant in terms of lowrider history.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12001107\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12001107\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/20240817_LOWRIDERS_GC-21-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/20240817_LOWRIDERS_GC-21-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/20240817_LOWRIDERS_GC-21-KQED-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/20240817_LOWRIDERS_GC-21-KQED-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/20240817_LOWRIDERS_GC-21-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/20240817_LOWRIDERS_GC-21-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/20240817_LOWRIDERS_GC-21-KQED-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">Tracy Gallardo sits in her dream car, a 1958 Chevy Impala, at the annual King of the Streets car show at the Palace of Fine Arts on Aug. 17, 2024. \u003ccite>(Gina Castro/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003ch2>\u003cstrong>‘Do You Know the Way to San Jose?’ \u003c/strong>\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>“The San José argument largely has to do with [it being] the birthplace of \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/forum/2010101875250/san-jose-founded-lowrider-magazine-icon-of-chicano-car-culture-goes-out-of-print\">\u003cem>Lowrider\u003c/em> magazine\u003c/a>,” Ulloa said. “It was a lifestyle magazine, it wasn’t just cars and vehicles — it was people.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>In 1977 while studying at San Jose State, Sonny Madrid launched \u003cem>Lowrider \u003c/em>magazine, a monthly publication that celebrated Chicano culture. A small staff, including some of Madrid’s friends, wrote articles about fashion, music, politics — it was a hit at the newsstands at just the right time.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12001102\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12001102\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/20240817_LOWRIDERS_GC-7-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/20240817_LOWRIDERS_GC-7-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/20240817_LOWRIDERS_GC-7-KQED-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/20240817_LOWRIDERS_GC-7-KQED-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/20240817_LOWRIDERS_GC-7-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/20240817_LOWRIDERS_GC-7-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/20240817_LOWRIDERS_GC-7-KQED-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">The steering wheel of a Buick Regal with ‘SF’ on it at the annual King of the Streets car show at the Palace of Fine Arts on Aug. 17, 2024. \u003ccite>(Gina Castro/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Ulloa stamps the first five years of \u003cem>Lowrider \u003c/em>being published as the “Golden Era,” because people were already lowriding but its circulation was able to reach audiences beyond San José.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>“\u003cem>Lowrider \u003c/em>magazine was able to give everyone access to see what people were doing all over the Southwest,” said Ulloa. “The youth had \u003cem>Lowrider\u003c/em> magazine, whether they were lowriding or not — they were able to see themselves at a car show as participants.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12001105\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12001105\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/20240817_LOWRIDERS_GC-13-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/20240817_LOWRIDERS_GC-13-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/20240817_LOWRIDERS_GC-13-KQED-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/20240817_LOWRIDERS_GC-13-KQED-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/20240817_LOWRIDERS_GC-13-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/20240817_LOWRIDERS_GC-13-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/20240817_LOWRIDERS_GC-13-KQED-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A Monte Carlo parked on three wheels outside of the Palace of Fine Arts during the annual King of the Streets car show on Aug. 17, 2024. \u003ccite>(Gina Castro/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Lowrider\u003c/em> solidified lowriding as a culture in California, and then the circulation of the magazine went international. The Letters to the Editor section of the magazine was filled with submissions from readers in Great Britain, France, all over the world, giving praise for the magazine’s content.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>When there’s a global phenomenon, there’s always a local take on it. Each city adds their own flare to lowriding. People in the know can often spot a Bay Area lowrider versus one from L.A., or San Antonio, or Japan. Maybe it’s a custom paint job, or a tire size popular in a certain area.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12001110\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12001110\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/20240817_LOWRIDERS_GC-31-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/20240817_LOWRIDERS_GC-31-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/20240817_LOWRIDERS_GC-31-KQED-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/20240817_LOWRIDERS_GC-31-KQED-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/20240817_LOWRIDERS_GC-31-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/20240817_LOWRIDERS_GC-31-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/20240817_LOWRIDERS_GC-31-KQED-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A 1963 Chevy Impala enters the Palace of Fine Arts during the annual King of the Streets car show on Aug. 17, 2024. \u003ccite>(Gina Castro/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>Everywhere lowriding goes, the community leaves a mark. Ulloa won’t settle the debate about the origins starting in Los Angeles or San José. He said it originates in the Mexican American experience in the southwestern part of the United States.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>To Ulloa, where lowriding started doesn’t matter. But why people care does. Everyone wants to own a piece of history, he said, especially when there are communities who have had their histories systemically erased.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>To learn more about lowriding, check out these episodes of \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/arts/13923205/best-of-roll-with-us-a-sisterhood-of-lowriding\">Rightnowish \u003c/a>and \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/trulyca/99/everything-comes-from-the-streets\">Truly CA\u003c/a>\u003cem>. \u003c/em>And if you want to know how lowriding — once banned in California — finally became legal, check out this episode of \u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/news/11966254/california-lifts-decades-old-ban-on-lowrider-cruising\">The Bay\u003c/a>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cfigure id=\"attachment_12001112\" class=\"wp-caption alignnone\" style=\"max-width: 2000px\">\u003cimg loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" class=\"size-full wp-image-12001112\" src=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/20240817_LOWRIDERS_GC-33-KQED.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"2000\" height=\"1333\" srcset=\"https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/20240817_LOWRIDERS_GC-33-KQED.jpg 2000w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/20240817_LOWRIDERS_GC-33-KQED-800x533.jpg 800w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/20240817_LOWRIDERS_GC-33-KQED-1020x680.jpg 1020w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/20240817_LOWRIDERS_GC-33-KQED-160x107.jpg 160w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/20240817_LOWRIDERS_GC-33-KQED-1536x1024.jpg 1536w, https://cdn.kqed.org/wp-content/uploads/sites/10/2024/08/20240817_LOWRIDERS_GC-33-KQED-1920x1280.jpg 1920w\" sizes=\"(max-width: 2000px) 100vw, 2000px\">\u003cfigcaption class=\"wp-caption-text\">A car with a sign reading ‘I’m not old, I’m classic’ is displayed on a 1964 GMC truck at the annual King of the Streets car show at the Palace of Fine Arts on Aug. 17, 2024. \u003ccite>(Gina Castro/KQED)\u003c/cite>\u003c/figcaption>\u003c/figure>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\u003c/div>",
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"content": "\u003cdiv class=\"post-content post-body\">\u003ch2 id=\"episode-transcript\">Episode Transcript\u003c/h2>\n\u003cp>\u003ci>This is a computer-generated transcript. While our team has reviewed it, there may be errors.\u003c/i>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>When Naomi Barrios and her sister Rosie were teenagers in the 1980s, they would look forward to cruising around Salinas every Friday and Saturday night. They’d roll low and slow, down Alisal Street.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>(music begins)\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Naomi Barrios: \u003c/strong>That was the best. Meeting people, seeing cars, having fun, enjoying the music, flirting with guys. It was fun!\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price:\u003c/strong> Naomi and Ros would cruise in a burgundy Pontiac Firebird … sporty looking car … with a regal yellow firebird painted on the hood.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Naomi Barrios:\u003c/strong> After we would cruise a little bit, a couple times, you know, three times. Then we would park, at a Winchell’s Donut place. That was our spot.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price:\u003c/strong> In the parking lot people, mostly from Salina’s Chicano community, would line up their immaculate cars and show off their newest modifications. I’m talking leather seats, shiny rims and precise paint jobs. These cars weren’t simply modes of transportation. They were creative vessels, canvases for artistic expression, one’s pride and joy.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Naomi Barrios: \u003c/strong>It was a big crowd hanging out there outside. Inside everybody ordering, chatting. Everybody had their music on. Again, just looking at their cars, meeting new people, making new friends.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price:\u003c/strong> The whole thing … it was a scene. One that was popping up in communities all across California. That’s because California is the birthplace of lowriding culture … but where exactly that birthplace is has been a point of contention. Some folks say Lowriding started down in L.A., others say things got going in San José.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price:\u003c/strong> A Bay Curious listener asked us to unpack the dispute. You selected the question in a public voting round. So, today on the show, we’ll explore the lowriding origin story … or stories. Then, we’ll learn how lowriding became criminalized, and catch up on where things are at today. I’m Olivia Allen-Price. We roll … right after this.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>Sponsor Message\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>So, did lowriding start in San José or L.A.? Or somewhere else all together? To start today’s episode, Bay Curious intern, Ana De Almeida Amaral, headed out to a car show to get the lay of the land.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ana De Almeida Amaral (in tape):\u003c/strong> So I’m in a parking lot and there are dozens of cars just parked along both sides, and they’re painted all sorts of beautiful colors.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ana De Almeida Amaral: \u003c/strong>Right behind the palace of fine arts in San Francisco, over a hundred people are gathered for the King of the Streets car show. In the middle of the parking lot, a sparkly, lime green Chevy is parked — with the hood popped revealing a shiny chrome engine. Nearby is a light blue two-seater, with a painting of a nude woman on the hood. The car is balanced on three wheels — one wheel 3 feet in the air — showing off its hydraulic suspension.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ana De Almeida Amaral: \u003c/strong>People stand around cars that look like art pieces, drinking, eating, and talking all about the features. A car owner named Carlos brags about his ride.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Carlos:\u003c/strong> That’s my car right there, El Mas Gangster de Todos. It’s a 1948 Buick Super 50. It’s all original … original chromes, original paint.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ana De Almeida Amaral:\u003c/strong> As I walked down rows and rows of lifted, candy painted, and tricked out cars, I bumped into Anthony, who was wiping his white car’s exterior with a towel even though, to me, it already looked pristine.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Anthony:\u003c/strong> This is a 1969 Chevy Caprice, it has a 350 small block, uh brand new block. It has hydraulics, it’s lifted front and back — were from the BLVD Kings Car Club.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ana De Almeida Amaral:\u003c/strong> And how long have you been working on cars?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Anthony:\u003c/strong> Oof, since I was a kid.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ana De Almeida Amaral:\u003c/strong> He points to an older man working on the car with him.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Anthony:\u003c/strong> He basically taught me everything I know, the first car I remember him having was a ’72 Impala, so that basically got me into it. And then I remember growing up in the mission, seeing all the mini-trucks going up and down the mission. So, it’s been all my life.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ana De Almeida Amaral:\u003c/strong> Other people I spoke to shared the same passion for this art form and a deep pride in the lowriding culture. But when I asked about the origins of lowriding, I got a lot of answers …\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Ana De Almeida Amaral (in tape):\u003c/strong> Where do you think that it got started?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Anthony: \u003c/strong>Oh, L.A. all day. Everybody knows, lowriding got started in L.A.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Man 1 at the car show:\u003c/strong> In my hometown, Turlock, California. Cause I was a kid from there! [laughs]\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Man 2 at the car show:\u003c/strong> Hmmm, it’s been said San José.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Man 3 at the car show:\u003c/strong> From what I understand, it started somewhere in Baja California.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Robert:\u003c/strong> I think it started with every little kid who had a Hot Wheels and stole their mom’s nail polish and started candy painting their hot wheels.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price:\u003c/strong> Out on the streets, Ana didn’t find a straight answer, so we passed it off to reporter Sebastian Miño-Bucheli to dive deeper into the world of lowriding.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli:\u003c/strong> It’s clear that within the lowriding community, this matter isn’t settled. So I talked to someone who has been studying lowriding for a long time … Professor John Ulloa.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>John Ulloa:\u003c/strong> It’s debatable. I mean, it’s hotly debated. Hotly debated. Everybody wants to claim ground zero for low riding.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli:\u003c/strong> Ulloa is the dean of arts and social science at West Valley College. He says one tough thing about this question is that lowriding has evolved a lot over time …\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>John Ulloa:\u003c/strong> A lot of people say, well, it’s a it’s a car with hydraulics on it. But if you’re looking at culture and you’re looking at stance of car, you’re looking at attitude, you’re looking at aesthetics. Um, you know, the clothing and in tandem with the cars and, you know. Just the presence of, you know, how one presents themselves culturally… I think that we really have to be looking at the pachucos of the 1940s.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>(Jazzy mellow music from the 1940s era)\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli:\u003c/strong> Here comes the argument for Los Angeles being the birthplace of lowriding …\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli:\u003c/strong> The pachucos were a subculture of predominantly Mexican American young people that thrived in East Los Angeles around World War II. Pachuco means “Punk” in Spanish\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>They were kids during the Great Depression, and had seen their friends and family members of Mexican descent deported en masse, even those who were American citizens. It was part of the U.S. government’s “repatriation” program … which ultimately saw the mass deportation of about a million people.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>John Ulloa: \u003c/strong>These kids, by a white dominant paradigm, were othered and seen as foreign.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli:\u003c/strong> The U.S., and white society had not treated their families well, so the pachucos were all about resisting assimilation, and instead creating something of their own.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>John Ulloa: \u003c/strong>Pachuco culture is provocative in nature.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>(music ends)\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli:\u003c/strong> During World War II, many Americans were showing their patriotism by rationing … using less gas, eating less food, not buying new clothes. The idea was to save resources for the war effort. But the pachucos … they were rocking the Zoot suit.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>John Ulloa: \u003c/strong>You have an exaggerated aesthetic with ballooned out pants, exaggerated shoulders in the coats. Um, you know, topped off with a nice hat with a big single feather.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli:\u003c/strong> This clothing style came from jazz culture and it was popular amongst Black, Latino and Filipino youth.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>John Ulloa: \u003c/strong>So the whole presentation was really flamboyant and seen as not only criminalized but completely un-American.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli:\u003c/strong> Around this time, in the ’40s, White Americans were hacking their hotrod cars to go fast. So pachucos did the exact opposite. They went low and slow … sending a clear message about their nonconformity.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>John Ulloa: \u003c/strong>Necessity is the mother of all invention, right so. It was cheap to get a ’30s car and work on it, you know make it your own. You lower it in the back or you lower it all the way around.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli:\u003c/strong> And this was decades before hydraulics came on the scene, so getting low meant filling the trunk.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>John Ulloa: \u003c/strong>You slam it quote unquote as we say. Literally. With sandbags, with rocks, with cinder blocks, with bricks, whatever you could find that was heavy to put in the trunk. What that would do is that would take the car from sitting level, to being lowered in the back.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli:\u003c/strong> The pachucos also pushed against the grain with candy-colored paint jobs and Chicano art. These cars were a loud and proud statement about their culture.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>John Ulloa: \u003c/strong>Low and slow was the antithesis of hot rod fast.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli:\u003c/strong> So if we’re looking at who are the OG lowriders, the first to start driving low and slow, Los Angeles and the pachucos have a compelling argument. But then where does this San Jose argument come from? What stake does that city have in lowriding culture?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>John Ulloa:\u003c/strong> The San José argument largely has to do with it’s the birthplace of \u003cem>Lowrider\u003c/em> magazine.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>(Mellow 1970s era music)\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli: \u003c/strong>In 1977, a guy named Sonny Madrid was a student at San Jose State. With a few friends, he launched \u003cem>Lowrider\u003c/em> magazine, a monthly that celebrated Chicano culture.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>John Ulloa:\u003c/strong> It was a lifestyle magazine. It wasn’t just cars and vehicles. It was people. Right …\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli: \u003c/strong>The magazine had articles about fashion, music, politics. And it was hitting newsstands at just the right time.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>John Ulloa:\u003c/strong> The Golden Era, as I’ve timestamped it, was from 1977 to 1982 and those were the first five years of \u003cem>Lowrider\u003c/em> magazine. People were already lowriding prior to \u003cem>Lowrider\u003c/em> magazine, but now what \u003cem>Lowrider\u003c/em> magazine did is it was able to give everyone access to see what people were doing all over the Southwest, right?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli: \u003c/strong>It helped solidify lowriding as a culture. And then it exported that culture making it into a global phenomenon. The Letters to the Editor section of the magazine put that on full display.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>John Ulloa:\u003c/strong> There were letters in there from Great Britain, Scandinavia, France, Germany, all over the world. People are saying, “Hey, I just got your magazine in my hand, and this is so cool. We don’t have this here, but as soon as we can, we will.”\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli: \u003c/strong>And when there’s a global phenomenon going around, there’s always a local take on the phenomenon. Each city adds their own flare to lowriding. People in the know can often spot a Bay Area lowrider versus one from L.A. or one from San Antonio, or Japan. Maybe it’s a custom paint job. Or a tire size popular in a certain area. Everywhere lowriding goes, the community leaves a mark.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>(Blues begins)\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli: \u003c/strong>At the end of the day, Ulloa won’t settle the debate about if lowriding started in Los Angeles … or if what came out of San José and \u003cem>Lowrider\u003c/em> magazine was so unique it was something new altogether …\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>John Ulloa:\u003c/strong> Safely we can say that lowriding originates in the Mexican American experience in the southwestern part of the United States.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli: \u003c/strong>To Ulloa, where lowriding started doesn’t matter. But why people care does.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>John Ulloa:\u003c/strong> The real question is why are people planting that flag? That’s the deeper question and everybody wants to own history. Especially communities that have historically had their histories systematically erased, swept under the rug, ignored, altered, unheard.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>(Music in the clear for a few seconds and then fades)\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>Sebastian, Lowriding has such a fascinating history in this state. And while we can celebrate that it was born here, it hasn’t always been accepted here. Can you explain how lowriding first became criminalized?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli: \u003c/strong>If we go back to the pachucos in the 1940s, they were surrounded by military personnel in Los Angeles waiting to leave to fight in World War II. And the presence of pachucos did not sit well with them. They thought zoot suits were unpatriotic … a sign of gang affiliation. And that’s a narrative that the local press really fed into.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli: \u003c/strong>There were a series of violent clashes where off-duty servicemen, police and white civilians attacked the pachucos, known as the Zoot Suit Riots. Anyone caught by the mob were stripped of their zoot suits and beaten. That’s where we start to see pachuco culture become targeted by police. Racial profiling is happening. And it extends to people driving lowriders. This criminalization of lowriding would play out for decades to come.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>In 1982, the state of California passed a law that allowed cities to implement cruising bans … over concerns about traffic, noise and crime. It also set limits on how much a car could be lowered. And then Soon after that cities like Sacramento, Fresno, L.A. and San José all had cruising bans on the books. What happened to the community in those places?\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli: \u003c/strong>The culture didn’t go anywhere, but people did get creative. People kept lowriding, eventually car shows started happening. These were sanctioned events where the lowriding community could still gather. But ultimately, activists started working to change things. And it worked! Just last year, California passed AB 436, a law that overturns the cruising bans, and lifts that prohibition on how low cars can go.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>We’re still seeing how it all plays out on the local level, but this last May, East San José had their first lowrider event since the ban was lifted for Cinco de Mayo. And people I spoke with there were optimistic about the future. And they were really happy to be there that day to share in the community and culture. They said finally we’re able to do this again!\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli. Thanks for your reporting on this one.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Sebastian Miño-Bucheli: \u003c/strong>You’re welcome.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cem>(Music with trumpets begins)\u003c/em>\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>KQED’s podcast The Bay has an excellent episode from when the cruising ban was lifted last year, that gets a lot more into how it was criminalized. It’s called “\u003ca href=\"https://www.kqed.org/news/11966254/california-lifts-decades-old-ban-on-lowrider-cruising\">California Lifts Decades-Old Ban on Lowrider Cruising.\u003c/a>” We’ll link to it in our show notes.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>Also in our show notes is a link to the web story for this Bay Curious podcast episode — check it out for some awesome photos of that lowrider car show our intern Ana went to, along with several videos KQED has produced about lowriders over the years.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>Bay Curious is made in San Francisco at member-supported KQED. If you like what we’re doing here at Bay Curious, please consider becoming a KQED member today. Learn more at \u003ca href=\"http://kqed.org/donate\">KQED.org/donate\u003c/a>.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>This episode was produced by Ana De Almeida Amaral, Amanda Font, Christopher Beale, and me Olivia Allen-Price. Special thanks to Katrina Schwartz, Katie Sprenger, Jen Chien, Maha Sanad, Holly Kernan and the whole KQED Family.\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003cstrong>Olivia Allen-Price: \u003c/strong>I’m Olivia Allen-Price … hoping you have a wonderful week. Bye!\u003c/p>\n\u003cp>\u003c/p>\n\u003c/div>"
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"info": "What kind of no sabo word is Hyphenación? For us, it’s about living within a hyphenation. Like being a third-gen Mexican-American from the Texas border now living that Bay Area Chicano life. Like Xorje! Each week we bring together a couple of hyphenated Latinos to talk all about personal life choices: family, careers, relationships, belonging … everything is on the table. ",
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"info": "The MindShift podcast explores the innovations in education that are shaping how kids learn. Hosts Ki Sung and Katrina Schwartz introduce listeners to educators, researchers, parents and students who are developing effective ways to improve how kids learn. We cover topics like how fed-up administrators are developing surprising tactics to deal with classroom disruptions; how listening to podcasts are helping kids develop reading skills; the consequences of overparenting; and why interdisciplinary learning can engage students on all ends of the traditional achievement spectrum. This podcast is part of the MindShift education site, a division of KQED News. KQED is an NPR/PBS member station based in San Francisco. You can also visit the MindShift website for episodes and supplemental blog posts or tweet us \u003ca href=\"https://twitter.com/MindShiftKQED\">@MindShiftKQED\u003c/a> or visit us at \u003ca href=\"/mindshift\">MindShift.KQED.org\u003c/a>",
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"info": "For decades, the process for how police police themselves has been inconsistent – if not opaque. In some states, like California, these proceedings were completely hidden. After a new police transparency law unsealed scores of internal affairs files, our reporters set out to examine these cases and the shadow world of police discipline. On Our Watch brings listeners into the rooms where officers are questioned and witnesses are interrogated to find out who this system is really protecting. Is it the officers, or the public they've sworn to serve?",
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"info": "Political Breakdown is a new series that explores the political intersection of California and the nation. Each week hosts Scott Shafer and Marisa Lagos are joined with a new special guest to unpack politics -- with personality — and offer an insider’s glimpse at how politics happens.",
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"info": "Possible is hosted by entrepreneur Reid Hoffman and writer Aria Finger. Together in Possible, Hoffman and Finger lead enlightening discussions about building a brighter collective future. The show features interviews with visionary guests like Trevor Noah, Sam Altman and Janette Sadik-Khan. Possible paints an optimistic portrait of the world we can create through science, policy, business, art and our shared humanity. It asks: What if everything goes right for once? How can we get there? Each episode also includes a short fiction story generated by advanced AI GPT-4, serving as a thought-provoking springboard to speculate how humanity could leverage technology for good.",
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"radiolab": {
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"reveal": {
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},
"rightnowish": {
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"title": "Rightnowish",
"tagline": "Art is where you find it",
"info": "Rightnowish digs into life in the Bay Area right now… ish. Journalist Pendarvis Harshaw takes us to galleries painted on the sides of liquor stores in West Oakland. We'll dance in warehouses in the Bayview, make smoothies with kids in South Berkeley, and listen to classical music in a 1984 Cutlass Supreme in Richmond. Every week, Pen talks to movers and shakers about how the Bay Area shapes what they create, and how they shape the place we call home.",
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"info": "Science Friday is a weekly science talk show, broadcast live over public radio stations nationwide. Each week, the show focuses on science topics that are in the news and tries to bring an educated, balanced discussion to bear on the scientific issues at hand. Panels of expert guests join host Ira Flatow, a veteran science journalist, to discuss science and to take questions from listeners during the call-in portion of the program.",
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"snap-judgment": {
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