All That Remains

 

Last September I discovered a place that epitomizes what this blog is about: remnants of what once was, places nearly forgotten with strong ties to the past.

 

This place sits in a volcanic landscape and looks like the back of the moon. The built environment consists of a tiny church and fenced graveyard, walls of lava stones, and walking trails on the edge of the sea.

Inhabitants are sheep and a few tourists. And the dead.

 

The human community, once a fishing village or fishing station, no longer exists. Only the remnants.

 

 

Wandering around the trails one comes upon a lava-lined den half-buried in the earth. Apparently once used to store stock fish, the structure now provides shelter to the wondering sheep.

 

The wooden church has been rebuilt several times since its founding in 1703. Local women fought to keep the church and parish active. At least one of these early preservationists is buried in the tiny graveyard.

 

Despite my belief in sharing history, it is my fervent wish that this isolated place, with no sounds but the wind and the sea, remaind unspoiled.

 

So please don't visit Búðir, in the shadow of the Snæfellsnes Glacier, in western Iceland.

A Tale of Two Presses: Printing comes to Iceland

A version of this essay first appeared on the blog of the American Bookbinders Museum.

Gutenberg invented the printing press about 1450 in Germany. Although a technological revolution by all counts, it hardly spread like wild fire, even in Europe. The manuscript tradition continued strong for many decades.

In the island territory known as Iceland, the advent of printing was even slower than in most places. The first press arrived in the country about 1530, nearly a century after Gutenberg’s breakthrough. That press, likely built in Sweden, was put to use by the Catholic bishop of North Iceland, at a place called Hólar, printing religious tracts and a few of the Icelandic sagas.

The Bishop Printer

A half century later, another bishop -- now of the Lutheran Church -- had the old press repaired (or perhaps replaced), sent his printer to Copenhagen for supplies and training, and embarked on a big project: printing the Bible in Icelandic.

Bishop Guðbrandur Þorláksson (1541 – 1627) had his work cut out for him. He had to translate the good book into the vernacular (Icelandic, also called Norse), augment his supply of moveable type, obtain paper and appropriate woodcuts with which to illustrate the 600 plus page work, and – perhaps most difficult of all – raise the funds to pay for it all. In the last task, he was assisted by a mandate from the King of Denmark, the ruler of Iceland, that each church in Iceland purchase one copy of the finished book. The cost was set at nine rix dollars, the value of three cows, although a number of sources say that reduced prices were offered to parishes in straitened circumstances.

In his magnum opus, Bishop Þorláksson was aided by his printer, Jón Jónsson, whose name appears on the frontispiece of what is commonly called Gudbrand’s Bible. However, it is said that the good Bishop himself took a turn at printing and may even have cut some woodcuts himself.

Engraving of a wooden printing press of 1568. The print shop at Hólar may well have looked something like this. Image courtesy of Wikipedia.

The Traveler

More than 200 years after the publication of the Icelandic Bible, a Scotsman, the Reverend Ebenezer Henderson, wrote about his travels to Iceland in the early 19^th century. As a member of Bible propagation society, Henderson has a vested interest in all things biblical. He was most interested in the bishop and his print works:

[He] rendered [the press] more complete by the addition of various implements which he had partly obtained from abroad and partly constructed by his own ingenuity and labour; for being a great mechanic, he could imitate almost anything he saw, or which he heard described by others. This aptitude was of great service to him, as it enabled him in no small degree, to accelerate and beautify his typographical productions.

Henderson claims to have seen the bishop’s diary with a full account of the Bible project:

From this MS it appears that he gave away a considerable number of copies gratis; to some parishes ten, to others twenty, accompanying them with the pious wish that they might advance the best interests of the receivers.

Five hundred copies of Gudbrand’s Bible were printed; only a few remain accounted for, including one on display at Iceland’s National Museum in Reykjavik and one in the collection of St. John’s College in Cambridge, England. In 1984 Iceland issued a stamp honoring the 400^th anniversary of this landmark in national literature.

Frontispiece of Gudbrand’s Bible. Above the date it reads in Icelandic “Printed at Hólar by Jón Jónsson.” At The National Museum of Iceland one may listen to an audiotape of “Jón Jónsson” and his daughter detailing their lives in service to the bishopric.

 

Calfskin cover, with blind-stamping, for Gudbrand’s Bible in the collection of St. John’s College, Cambridge. This expensive binding would not have been common to all 500 Bibles printed; it is not known with certainty whether the binding was done in Iceland or perhaps in Germany or Denmark. The traveler Ebenezer Henderson wrote that “one hundred were sent to Hamburgh to be bound, and a bookbinder was brought from that city in order to bind the remainder.”

The Island Printshop

Mirabile dictu, the episcopal press remained the only print shop in Iceland for over 200 years! And, it seems, the same printing press that printed Gudbrand’s Bible can be credited with all locally printed literature during that period!

It was not until 1772 that a man who called himself Olavius received permission from the Danish king to open an independent print shop in Iceland. The next year Olavius arrived at Stykkishólmur, a small community on Iceland’s west coast with a printing press in tow. With financial support from a wealthy farmer he moved the press into a house on a small island called Hrappsey. Legend has it that the dwelling was haunted by a man who had hanged himself in it. Apparently the ghost remained in the structure even when it was moved from one place to another.

For over 20 years Olavius and others printed a number of books and pamphlets in both Danish and Icelandic. The Hrappsey Press is credited with producing the first Icelandic periodical, a publication in Danish called Icelandic Monthly News (Islandske Maaneds-Tidener), which was available by subscription.

In the last year of the 18^th century the episcopal press at Hólar was closed down and the 19^th century began with a purely secular print industry in Iceland.

The harbor at Stykkishólmur today. Photo, Alan Humphrey.

Islands in the fjord visible from Stykkishólmur. The island Hrappsey, which never had more than a couple of dozen inhabitants, is now unoccupied. Photo, Eleanor Boba.

Sources:

Henderson, Ebenezer. Iceland, or the Journal of Residence in that Island, 1818. Accessed via Google Play, September 2014.

Hermannson, Halldar. Icelandic Books of the Sixteenth Century, Islandica, Vol. IX. Ithaca: Cornell University Library, 1916. Accessed via Google Play, September 2014.

­___________________. Literature of Iceland Down to the Year 1874, Islandica, Vol. XI. Ithaca: Cornell University Library, 1918. Accessed via Google Play, September 2014

Making of a Nation: Guide Book of the National Museum of Iceland’s Permanent Exhibition. Reykjavik: National Museum of Iceland, 2011.

Website: Island Hrappsey. http://nat.is/travelguideeng/island_hrappsey.htm.  Accessed September 2014.

Career of a Tugboat: The Anne W.

They called her “Gravel Gertie,” an honorific for the tug that routinely plied the waters between the Steilacoom gravel pit and the home of Pioneer Sand & Gravel Company on Lake Union. The Anne W. was a fixture going through the Hiram M. Chittenden Locks in Ballard for decades. When she was retired in 1967, Bob Dorsey, her chief engineer, told a reporter “We’ve worn a groove in the water.”

The Anne W. was built as a steam tug in 1913 in a Portland shipyard. In 1927 she was converted from steam to diesel. During her half-century working life she survived two sinkings and one grounding, as well as an unexplained disappearance on an early trip up to Cook Inlet in Alaska where the she was hauling barges for the Alaskan Engineering Commission.

Most of the tug’s career was in the service of Pioneer Sand & Gravel whose products were much in demand for building materials: plaster, mortar, and concrete. In fact, she starred in an article about the industry published in the Seattle Daily Times in 1953 entitled “Legacy of the Ice Age.” The accompanying photo of the Anne W. pulling two heavily-laden scows, very similar to the photo in our collection, is credited to renowned photographer Joseph Scaylea.

Her first sinking occurred in 1944 and in the one of the worst possible locations: the “government” locks. The sinking was blamed on an errant log or “deadhead” which pierced her hull during the cycling of the lock. According to the paper:

The Annie (sic) W., a 100-foot funnel stern towboat, sunk so quickly that crew members had barely time to jump from the tug to an adjacent barge before her decks were awash. No feet were wet, but the tug’s cook lost his overcoat in the rush. (Seattle Daily News 2/22/1944)

Needless to say, the tug was also raised from the lock in a huge rush  with the assistance of six divers, two slings, and an Army Transport Service crane barge.

A second sinking took place without warning or explanation at her home moorage on Lake Union in 1963. Two years after that incident came the grounding of the Anne W. and two gravel scows on Vashon Island while on the way to Steilacoom. The explanation: the mate had fallen asleep on watch. Skipper Malcolm Lord, who had himself been asleep below deck, told the Coast Guard examiner “He sleeps like a log, same as I do.”

The last mentions of the Anne W. in the newspaper archives are a series of classified ads in 1978 and 1979 offering the tugboat for sale at the price of “$12,500 or offer.” The ads note that the boat “needs some repair.” No word on any takers.

Thanks to Karl House, PSMHS research guru, for valuable information.

Photo: The Anne W. at the Ballard Locks, date unknown. Puget Sound Maritime Historical Society, Joe Williamson Collection.

Priced to Move: The ships of "Wilson's Wood Row"

This photo from the collection of the Puget Sound Maritime Historical Society is captioned "Wilson's Wood Row,” a somewhat derisive pun meant to mock the fleet of half-finished ships no longer needed for the war effort. It seems that at the end of hostilities of World War I our government was saddled with a large surplus of ships commissioned for the war effort. Thus in 1919 Lake Union was turned into a sort of showroom for a clearance sale of vessels built in Northwest shipyards. The flotilla consisted of at least 40 hulls -- the number fluctuated – of unfinished wooden steamships and barges.

A Bridge of Ships

The United States entered World War I in April of 1917. Almost immediately the country’s Shipping Board created the Emergency Fleet Corporation (EFC) with orders to speed up manufacturing of merchant ships under American flag. A “Bridge of Ships” was called for to connect the US continent with Europe and support the war effort. With federal dollars pumped into the industry a huge shipbuilding effort commenced on both coasts with both private shipyards and purpose-built yards brought into service. For roughly 18 months business boomed, then just as suddenly as it began the war was over, as was the immediate need for ships. The result? The EFC was saddled with hundreds of unfinished ships as well as contracts for hundreds more and precious little demand. A mission to build ships became a mission to dispose of them at the least cost to the government.

So what was the fate of these ships? The answer is not simple.

A review of articles in the Seattle Daily News tells part of the story. Early in 1919 unfinished hulls and barges coming out of northwest shipyards were collected together in Seattle’s Lake Union, a convenient freshwater body of water only recently open to shipping with the completion of a canal linking it to Puget Sound. The local paper reported a number of sales over the next few months and other “deals on.” The tone of the articles was optimistic:

The price of ships, spot delivery, is going up. Last Friday, the U.S. Shipping Board sold a steel vessel at $210 a deadweight ton. It had other offers for ships at the same price on Saturday… The advance in the price of ships is regarded as a good omen for the shipbuilders, as the prices for future deliveries are bound to be affected by the prices for spot deliveries. (The Seattle Daily Times, June 10, 1919)

Unfortunately, the first flurry of buying was quickly over, if it had ever really existed in the first place. By December 1919 the EFC was offering steamship hulls for sale at the bargain price of $75,000 apiece for the Ferris type, a far cry from the $200,000 to $400,000 each one cost to build. At the same time the corporation was defending itself against charges of mismanagement and Northwest ship builders were fighting rumors regarding the seaworthiness of their wooden hulls.

C.H. Hamilton, president of the Washington Wood Shipbuilders’ Association, was quoted in the Times:

When the public looks at the idle fleet in Lake Union it should remember that they represent part of the tremendous war effort of the United States at a time when the whole civilized world, including ourselves, lived under the shadow of the German menace. Many of them went into the water when the British army had its back to the wall to use the term of Field Marshall Haig. The fact is that the ships in Lake Union represent the best efforts of the Washington builders, whose work kept steadily improving right up to end of wood construction. If the completed ships can operate with remarkable success, these other vessels, if completed, should operate with even greater success for they were built when the yards had grown more efficient and experienced.” (Seattle Daily Times, November 2, 1919)

By 1920 the EFC resorted to a series of bid requests for the ships, as well as direct negotiation with prospective customers. In December 1921 a published advertisement invited offers on 32 steamships hulls and 11 converted barge hulls moored in Lake Union, as well as hulls in Portland and Alameda, on the west coast, and Wilson’s Point, Connecticut, and Hog Island, Pennsylvania, on the east. In effect the boats were to be auctioned off to the highest bidder. Two months later, the Seattle Daily Times reported the sale of 75 west coast vessels for a total of $125,000, less than $2,000 per ship, including all the Lake Union ships.

False ending

This would appear to be a convenient way to end the story. Too convenient.

The late Tom Sandry, one of the founders of the Puget Sound Maritime Historical Society, recalled his teen years on Lake Union during the early 1930s in an oral history interview:

The Lake Union streetcar continued around a bend, and looking out on the lake, I remember seeing 40 ships anchored out there, the wooden ships left over from World War I.

So we look a little further into the historical record. In the decade following the purported sale of the 75 boats we find references to more ships coming and going from what was becoming known as the “boneyard” of Lake Union; ships taken back into service for a few years and then returned unwanted; ships sold to Japan for scrap; and one ship briefly considered for use as a floating jail. In more than one case ships were towed out of the lake by their new owners and burned for scrap metal.

In one dramatic instance, 13 hulls, or “hulks” as the paper termed them, allegedly once worth four million dollars, were towed down to Steilacoom and burned.

The four-million dollar bonfire caused considerable excitement in Tacoma and vicinity. Tacoma citizens were soon calling the fire department asking the location of the huge blaze. Hundreds of residents of the Upper Sound district received calls from neighbors, dressed hurriedly, and went down to the shores of the sound to watch a spectacle which far outshown any pyrotechnic display offered on a Fourth of July program. Those who had small boats approached the burning hulls but were driven back by firebrands and the terrific heat. It was the last dramatic episode of the careers of the ships, built in feverish haste in war days at war prices. (Seattle Daily Times, June 11, 1926)

Bit by bit the “Lake Union Fleet” was dispersed to the four winds. An item in the paper from 1939 gives an indication of the demise of the remnants of the flotilla.

In compliance with the order of the City Harbor Department to clear Lake Union of idle ships, the United States Maritime Commission’s freighter Pacific Redwood was moved through the Ballard Locks this forenoon and taken to a new “boneyard” in Port Orchard. The ship had been a familiar part of the Lake Union scene since she was tied up there eight years ago. The Pacific Redwood built for the U.S. Shipping Board in World War days was one of seven vessels formerly in the service of the Dimon Line as lumber carriers between the Puget Sound and the East Coast. (Seattle Daily Times, July 18, 1939)

Things were about to change drastically on the world scene transforming shipping and shipbuilding in the Northwest yet again. But that’s another story.

Courtesy Library of Congress

Customs by the Sea

Port of Call: Monterey. The old Mexican Customhouse, the oldest extant governmental building in that state, stands in Monterey State Historic Park, close by that city's Fisherman's Wharf. For roughly two decades (1827-46) Mexican authorities attempted to constrain foreign merchant ships to stop in Monterey, unload all their goods, and pay duties before going on about their businesses. It must have been hit or miss, relying on word of mouth and veiled threats of repercussions for those who failed to stop. The resident park ranger allowed as how many a wily sea captain unloaded his best goods in the Channel Islands before dropping anchor in Monterey to claim his right of passage.