From John Vonderlin
Email John (benloudman@sbcglobal.net)
The cartoon, below, appeared in the San Francisco Call, 1912. On a more serious note, me, June, wants to remind you that the “Call” was a progressive newspaper, often drawing attention to finding solutions and help for the poor and helpless. When you laugh out loud, that’s the context. Not that funny, huh?
When facing an unknown future, it’s okay to have a glass of pink champagne. And this glassful was delicious.
That’s Christian, the bartender, btw.
(Image: Fish in the aquarium at the Crab Landing Restaurant.)
On the spur of the moment, Burt and I walked over to Princeton and enjoyed a delightful lunch at the new Crab Landing Restaurant. We sat at the bar and ordered oysters (really fresh, really good). We also shared a warm crab.
Crab Landing is a beautiful place. You’ll feel pampered, you’ll feel like you’re on vacation. We sure did.
Nearby, the popular, unpretentious Mezza Luna Restaurant is opening a cafe. Looks like it will be a take-out with outdoor
seating. I could imagine evenings by the picturesque harbor, the warmth of friendship and a good meal.
After a half-century- long nap, Princeton-by-the-Sea is wide awake and the funky fishing village is “hot.”
Someday, when the economy is better, these exciting new places will be booming.
Instead, we decided a survey of the Fitzgerald Marine Reserve and an attempt to check out the northern side of Pillar Point would be safer, if not as exciting.
First we tried the parking lot near the Moss Beach Distillery, but decided that although the steep, and obviously well used trail leading to the beach was possible, the TRAIL CLOSED sign and a bunch of words like EXTREMELY DANGEROUS on it made that route a poor choice.
So it was back in the car, and with a “maze-like” drive through the residential area along the bluff, we arrived at the newly rehabilitated P.O.S.T. Trail along the bluffs just north of Pillar Point. It was very civilized, but had boring views, given how far safety and erosional concerns have placed the trail from the blufftop in many places. But, I’m spoiled and most people would be satisfied with the endless ocean views. When you were close to the edge, thanks to the low tide, the complex structure of the reef that is Fitzgerald Marine Reserve is laid out before you.
That intensity of focus on where the next safe and “murder-free” step was, left us unaware of what was coming next. Until having reached rocks not heavily covered with slimy growth, we looked up and there it was. An awesome walk-through arch. A huge arch, whose hole was the only path through the promontory blocking our way to the next cove.
(The Pacific Coast rum runner Coal Harbor. Photo: National Archives)
Top & Below From: Rum War at Sea: by Malcolm Willoughby, Commander USCGR (T)
“The markets for liquor at San Francisco, Los Angeles and San Diego attracted rum running in those areas. Contact boats operated there much as they did off New York. Large rum vessels would load at Vancouver for a run south, and after delivering their wares, would return to Vancuver for a new load. Monterey Bay, about 70 miles south of San Francisco, and Half Moon Bay, somewhat nearer, were excellent for clandestine operations because of the many landing places, proximity of good roads, relatively sparse population. Therefore, a patrol was maintained over an extensive coast line between Point Arquello and Point Arena. Weather permitting, this patrol was carried out chiefly by cutters Shawnee and Cahokia, each vessel relieving the other. These were large steel steam tugs of 151- and 158-foot lengths, respectively, with cruising speeds of about 10 knots and top speeds of about 12. These were usually rugged patrols which lasted from 5 to 7 days.
“Shawnee was based at San Francisco, Cahokia at Eureka, 80 miles south of the Oregon line, and a third, similar cutter, Tamaroa, at San Pedro, south of Los Angeles. Some 75-footers operated out of the San Pedro and Alameda bases. The Pacific coast is extensive, however, and the rummies were driven to isolated spots away from these areas for landing their cargoes.
“Some large rum running “mother ships” of the Pacific became quite famous. One was the British steamer Ardenza. Sailing from Leith, Scotland, she passed through the Panama Canal with 25,000 cases of Scotch Whiskey, and steamed up the coast to Half Moon Bay. There she remained for 7 months in 1924. Contact boats from San Francisco took 18,000 cases, and carried provisions and supplies to her on return trips. It is incredible to suppose that her presence and business were not known. It was said that contact boats passed through the Golden Gate [ed. this is pre-bridge] at certain hours when a particular official on duty found it profitable to be unobserving. Finally, Ardenza disposed of all her cargo and steamed on to Victoria, British Columbia, where she was seized for debt, sold to new owners, and taken back to Leith.
“For a time, notably in 1923, several rum ships from British Columbia were lying 30 miles off San Francisco, threatening to become the nucleus of a Pacific “Rum Row.” This was the closest to a “row,” which nevertheless, was never really established.”
(Typical “contact boat.” National Archives.)
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Note: The Half Moon Bay Yacht Club was home to the Coast Guart during the years of Prohibition. What a wonderful history Princeton-by-the-Sea has.
Get ready to surf the Big-Wave
Grand Opening of Maverick’s Exhibit
Sunday, December 14, 2008
Join us 10am – 2 pm
San Mateo Couny History Museum
Redwood City Courthouse
650.299.0104
Princeton’s Soup & Sandwich Thief
Story by Tom Andersen
Email Tom:(tomandersen@biz.com)
When I owned the Princeton Market & Deli in the 1970s, the Princeton Inn (PI)–then owned by Ed Tonini– was padlocked by the California State Board of Equalization for non-payment of sales taxes.
Ed hired “Crazy Ron”, a local, to caretake the place while it was “in closure.” Ron was a great guy as long as he took his required meds.
My first clue that the PI was shut down came when, overnight, Ron became the best customer at my deli in the Princeton Market. I sold sandwiches, potato & macaroni salad, and beverages, and the business was profitable.
Well, all of a sudden, Ron materialized with large orders for multiple sandwiches, beverages, and salads—and he paid cash, much to my pleasure. After a couple of days of this, a customer asked if I was aware that the PI had re-opened, to which I replied,
“No, the state has shut them down for not paying sales taxes.”
Turns out, Crazy Ron, the Princeton Inn’s temporary caretaker, felt that part of his job was to help keep the PI open even though it was legally closed. I came to that conclusion when I learned that the PI now had a “menu” identical to what I was serving in my own deli! Ron took the orders, dashed across the street to my market, and delivered the goods, no doubt at a profit, all AOK with me, I was glad for the extra sales.
Couple of days later, Leah, from the Crab Cottage, wandered in to my deli and complained:
“Somebody stole our soup of the day!!!”
Apparently, a midnight soup thief ran off with the hot pot. had slipped in the Crab Cottage’s back kitchen door, and made off with a three- gallon tureen of clam chowder.
“Leah, what’s the ‘soup of the day’ at the PI?”
“The PI is closed for back taxes”, she said.
After a day or two, the state officials returned to the scene, this time with bigger padlocks…
“Half Moon Bay Drag Races, 1955″
Story by Erich von Neff
Rich Bruckman stood on the seat of the Model A Ford Roadster. He could see planes, their engines warming up, their propellers whirling and whirling. It seemed as if they had been there, indefinitely, grounded. For they, like him, were waiting for the tule fog to life. It was eleven o’clock and still the fog hung like a blanket on the airfield and the Half Moon Bay dragstrip. His mechanic, John McKenna, lay slumped in the passenger seat, an empty bottle of Lucky Lager beer in his hand, as if he were going to take it in for a refill.
of the
Rich noticed a blank spot in the fog: The asphalt of the airfield. At first he thought he’d imagined it. But no–slowly, slowly–but then rather quickly it widened and widened revealing more and more black asphalt until finally a biplane rolled down the runway, wobbled its wings, and took off. Other planes followed: a piper cub, another biplane, a cropduster, and finally a P40 Warhawk from World War II, with grinning shark’s teeth. God knows why it was here, but Rich guessed that its owner enjoying restoring it and flying it in much the same way he enjoyed restoring and racing the Ford Roadster. Not that it was stock or anywhere near the way it had rolled off Henry Ford’s assembly line.
Rich warmed up the Ford’s flathead. In the distance he heard a motorcyle. Shortly a man dressed like a cowboy rode up on a Harley. He unlocked the gate, unwrapped the chain, then raced off toward the far end of the airfield.
Gravel kicked up as the tires of the roadster spun til they passed the gate and grabbed onto the asphalt of the airfield.
Rich drove up to the pit area, where he and John began adjusting the carburator. Other drivers and mechanics were also bent intensely over their engines…tools were in disarray on the asphalt. They were borrowed and reborrowed. Usually they came back to their original owners, but sometimes they did not.
The grandstands began to fill up. Women in T-shirts without criss-cross straps and other “support groups” seemed to favor the lower benches; frequently they bent over, retying their tennis shoes.
“Beer, beer, beer.” A fat man carrying a case of Lucky Lager yelled.
John left to get a couple. Chevys and Fords parked. More people climbed up into the grandstands.
“Beer, beer, beer,” the fat man kept yelling.
Time trails began. John made final adjustments on the carburetor. Rich revved the engine. That would have to do for now.
Class B street roadsters paired off beneath the timing tower. Rich looked across at a channeled Chevy with red flames painted in the hood. Rows of louvers were on the top and sides of it. The driver was wisecracking with a brunette.
Both drivers looked up–the green flag dropped–the bullshit stopped–tires peeled and off they roared toward the timing lights, one quarter of a mile away.
Now the “Green Monster” and others took their turn at the startling line. E.T.s were posted in the Class B. Street Roadster and other classes. Meanwhile Rich and John had been dialing in their engines.
Typically there were few surprises. Familiar names were now on the board: “Jay Cheatham, Andy Brizzio, Ted Gotelli, Jm McClellan and others that are still remembered to this day.
The fat man oured more Lucky Lagers. The crowd yelled for their favorites. “Cheatham, Cheatham.” “Brizzio, Brizzio.” Women in tight Levis cast alluring eyes and leaned forard to get a better view.
Luck held for the flathead. Other engines had blown up, transmission gears were stripped and broken, and tires had been torn to shreds.
Finally, it came down to a run off against Jack Dunn in “The Bumble Bee.” The green flag dropped. The cyclinders of the flathead hammering, hammering; and for a split second “The Bumble Bee” lingered on the line. That was enough, opportunity must be seized even in a fraction of a second.
The tires dug into the asphalt and a lead was taken that was never overcome.
The crop duster biplanes took off and landed oblivious to the events that were taking place.
“Beer, beer, beer,” the fat man kept yelling.
Rich and the other winners of their classes took their places in the wnner’s circle. Jay Cheatham, Andy Brizzio, Ted Gotelli, Jim McClellan and Mike Mitchell received their trophies and lipstick stains from the trophy queen.
The fat man stopped yelling, and cars filed slowly out of the gate. Crop dusters continued to spray.
The benches were now empty; occupied by beer bottles in various arrays.
Although today a couple of lesser knowns had gotten lucky–and men in greasy T-shirts would still tinker in their basements–with few exceptions sponsored teams such as: “The Champion Speed Shop,” “The Pacers of Petaluman,” and “The Gotelli Spped Shop” were soon to diminate the scene.
More and more the crowd would shout for “Jay Cheatham, Jay Cheatham” in “The Glass Slipper.”
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About the author:
Erich von Neff is a San Francisco Longshoreman. He received his masters degree in philosophy from San Francisco State University and was a graduate research students at the University of Dundee, Scotland. Erich von Neff is well known on the French avant-garde and mainstream literary scenes. he is a member of the Poetes Francais and La Societe des Poetes et Artistes de France.
Story by Tom Andersen
Email Tom (tomandersen@biz.com)
“Mavericks Underground”
t is hard to visualize the profile at Pillar Point without the silhouettes of the tracking facility, but this was the view when I moved to the Coastside in 1958. There are underground bunkers with seaside openings in the cliffs which my Father and I explored. The missile tracking facility was built in the early sixties for observing test firings from Vandenburg Air Force Base near Lompoc. Later, it tracked the space shuttles. It was first announced and long referred to as a “temporary facility”. Of course, Cosmo in “Moonstruck” says “everything’s temporary”.
It is a misappropriation of the most visually dramatic geological feature to blight its look with this installation. Now that the surf break “Mavericks” has come out as the most famous of surf spots, the veritable Mount Everest of surfing, Pillar Point has become a natural mecca for watching surfers ride some of the largest waves ever ridden. While the former pinnacle of the surfing world breaks only occasionally, Mavericks is huge and ridden over fifty days a year. Meanwhile, as the television and radio announces to everyone that this is going on, parking areas are packed, and huge crowds make the sketchy climb up the south face of Pillar Point, only to be met by a barbed wire security fence just as they reach level ground. The climb is dangerous enough in dry weather, but since Mavericks is a winter wave, often it is slick with rainfall, making it extremely difficult to negotiate, and ever more treacherous. Cars are tagged for illegal parking, walks of a mile or more are common, and every business in Princeton has no parking signs posted.
Mildly put, this is crazy. There is a better way. Bodega Bay has a similar sandstone bluff. It has a road to the level plateau, and parking. It has a well maintained grassy area with numerous picnic tables. It is enjoyed by hikers, bicyclists, picnicers, kite flyers, and those that just want to come up to higher ground for the view or sunset. Visually, there are no structures to interrupt the appearance of the area’s most prominent land feature.
Above Frenchman’s Creek is a radar facility for San Francisco International aircraft traffic. It is reached by a private drive past a locked gate. It is secluded and secure, and few have seen it as it is a remote and inconspicuous location.
The Pillar Point Tracking Station should be moved to this or another “sight.” Pillar Point should become a national park. A fence such as that at Lighthouse Point and Steamer Lane in Santa Cruz should be built at the cliff’s edge. A large parking lot should be built at Half Moon Bay Airport with shuttle bus service available for $1. The only structures on the bluff top should be a rain pavilion near the ocean side with picnic tables and shelter from northwest and southwest wind. Bicycles should be allowed, with parking facilities so they could be locked up. The underground bunker should be expanded for a restaurant and bar, along with extensive bathroom and internet facilities. The restaurant and bar should have windowed views of the surfing waves, along with an outside deck and stairway down to the beach. Surfers should be provided with changing rooms, lockers and showers for $1. Photography areas should be provided, with the only requirement for access be possession of a camera.
It’s time to recognize what is happening and provide accommodations for what exists.