Letters From Alcatraz - Michael Esslinger [69]
The Warden Johnston following her maiden launch on June 20, 1945, in the waters of Puget Sound.
For the correctional officers and their families, the only link to mainland society was by boat. Traveling to and from the island proved challenging and during periods of inclement weather, it was frightening to hear the foghorns of larger vessels closing in, and be unable to see them. Each day the families were ferried back and forth, and this routine became an integral part of their daily lives. The residents were at the mercy of the daily boat schedule, which could be problematic at times. If they missed the boat, they would have to wait another hour for the next scheduled run. In stormy weather it could also be challenging to navigate the gangplank onto a rocking deck. Kathryn O’Brien remembers:
I was afraid of the plank falling into the water when the weather was stormy, and I can remember the boat officer grabbing me by the arm and helping me into the boat. The guards always made us feel safe
In a poetic reminiscence of his travels aboard the Warden Johnston, former resident Robert Burrill wrote in a letter:
The countless adventures going to and from the island are what I remember the best. Waiting in the protective staging area near the water’s turbulent edge, we would first hear the bright sound of the Warden’s horn announcing the boat’s arrival. Excited, we would rise from our benches, gather up our travel bags, and button up our coats to begin the short walk to the loading dock. There ahead of us, in the choppy waters that lined the adjacent pier, we would first see the Warden Johnston, turning as she approached the dock. With the red and green running lights turned on, the Warden would slow its speed, which caused it to begin a rocking motion up and down, and then it would carefully choose its approach through tidal conditions that were challenging, and always changing. My eyes would go toward the pilot house, adorned with five wood-framed windows that looked like attentive eyes, wide open and focused on the dangerous task at hand. For an instant, the Warden’s character would be revealed as the boat came to life. It was a bright, handsome, white-faced, wooden boat; a spirit – proud and courageous for all to witness; a bounty, a soul. Then the guard standing above the bow bridges the notion, anticipating and holding the gaffing hook on a pole with which he slowly reaches for, then skillfully mates with the hanging docking line; the second guard at the controls spins the pilot wheel and reverses the throttle, kicking up white water and a stream of smoke from the stack while easing the port side slowly, carefully into contact with the rubber tire bumper, while the first guard walks back to tie off the stern. Then the railing hinge would be swung open, signaling the passengers on board to debark. The conversations were always friendly, because everybody knew each other. Finally it would be our turn to go down the swaying gangplank amid the cold air blowing up from the water's surface, and the odors of the sea splashing up and under the dock pilings that were textured with barnacles, black tar and the occasional starfish. Being helped on board by the strong, warm hands of a guard, following the passengers to the back of the boat, climbing down into the warm main cabin, and sitting on the beautiful wooden benches as the salt water splashed on the windows –these are the memories that stay in my mind. Traveling on board the Warden Johnston was like a trip to Disneyland. The moans and vibrations of the engine below our feet, the rocking motion of the boat as he – or "she" – is put into gear. First she floats away from the pier, often aided by the push of a guard's feet as he hops on board. Then backward away from the dock, a change in direction, and the visual difference of a changing horizon. First away from the adjacent pier, and then the flow of the water, the wake, and a quick view of Alcatraz in the distance, as the Johnston completes its turning maneuvers and departs into the San Francisco