History Blog
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Editor’s Note: The following text is a verbatim transcription of an article featuring stories by Captain William O. Benson (1911-1986). Beginning in 1971, Benson, a retired tugboat captain, reminisced about his 40 years on the Hudson River in a regular column for the Kingston (NY) Freeman’s Sunday Tempo magazine. Captain Benson's articles were compiled and transcribed by HRMM Contributing Scholar Carl Mayer. This article was originally published February 13, 1972. Back in 1929 when I was a deckhand on the steamer “Albany” of the Hudson River Day Line, I thought maybe I’d like to go quartermaster on one of the boats of the Saugerties Evening Line. I walked from the 42nd Street Pier of the Day Line down to Pier 43, North River, at the foot of Christopher Street—where the Saugerties boat would be tied up during the day. I wanted to talk to an old friend of my brother’s from their days on the “Onteora.’’ He was pilot on the steamer ‘‘Robert A. Snyder” and his name was Harry Grough. As we sat in the Snyder’s pilot house talking and looking out over the harbor, we could hear all kinds of steam whistles from all sorts of floating equipment— including tugboats, ferries, ocean liners and sidewheel steamboats. I told him I thought I would like a quartermaster’s position if one was open. Captain Absent He said I would have to see, the captain, Richard Heffernan. The captain, however, was not aboard that afternoon as he had gone downtown to get the boat’s papers renewed, and would not be back until just before sailing time. Harry said to me, “If I were young like you, Bill, I would go over to Jersey and get a job on the railroad tugs. That’s where the business is. This business is dying out every day.” Then, we went down on the freight deck. Harry said, “Look, here it is almost 3:30 p.m. and we only have a few boxes and bags on board. A few years ago at this time, this deck would have been piled right up to the carlings with all kinds of freight.” Harry continued, “Tonight, we’ll be lucky if we have a half dozen passengers. The passengers used to start to come on board at 2 p.m. and, by now, the staterooms would be sold out. Tonight, you could take your pick of almost anyone you’d want. This Line can’t go on like this very long. When the company doesn’t make a dollar, then we don’t have a job either. No, Bill, you will be better off going on the tugboats.” He Was Right Over the years, I found out for myself Harry was right. The Saugerties Evening Line boats were the ‘‘Robert A. Snyder’’ and the ‘‘Ida.” Every night, one would leave Saugerties, sail out Saugerties Creek and make landings at Tivoli, Barrytown, Rhinecliff and Hyde Park on its sail to New York. When the “Snyder” and “Ida” were operating back in those long ago days, every night at about 7:30 of 8 p. m. one would hear one or the other blow three long whistles for the Rhinecliff landing to take on freight and passengers. Between 1 and 2 a.m. in the lonely morning hours the up boat would be heard blowing her whistle for Jim Conroy, the dock master at Rhinecliff, to take its lines. To the tugboatmen, the night boats were like old friends. During the long night and early morning hours, it was indeed pleasant to see the night boats approaching in the distance and hear the slap, slap of their paddle wheels in the stillness of the night. A Glittering Crown Then, as they passed by, they would often blow a low salute on their whistle. As they faded into the night, their deck and cabin lights would blend into a glittering crown of light reflecting on the water. I remember on several occasions Dan McDonald, the pilot on the “Osceola,” telling me how he would be coming down river with a large tow off Germantown, and on a clear night look down the river at about 3 a.m. and see one of the Saugerties boats coming up off Crugers Island; then turn and show her green starboard light as she went into Saugerties Creek. He would remark how nice it must have been at that hour to get tied up and go to your room in the pilot house block and sleep until you felt like getting up and then look out on the quiet and peaceful dock at the fine little village of Saugerties. No worries about morning fog, how the tow was going to follow, or old leaky brick or stone scows in the tow. The “Robert A. Snyder” was layed up for good in 1931 at her dock on Saugerties Creek. As there was only enough business for one boat, the “Ida,’’ since she had a steel hull and was the younger boat, continued for one more year. Then in 1932 she was quietly layed up. Strangely, the Saugerties Evening Line, serving Saugerties and small villages on the upper Hudson, outlasted all the other night lines on the river except the big night boats to Albany. The Central Hudson Line, serving Kingston, Poughkeepsie and Newburgh went out in 1929 and the last boat of the Catskill Evening Line stopped for good in 1931. Finally, in 1932, the automobile and the Great Depression took their tolls of the last night boat from Saugerties. AuthorCaptain William Odell Benson was a life-long resident of Sleightsburgh, N.Y., where he was born on March 17, 1911, the son of the late Albert and Ida Olson Benson. He served as captain of Callanan Company tugs including Peter Callanan, and Callanan No. 1 and was an early member of the Hudson River Maritime Museum. He retained, and shared, lifelong memories of incidents and anecdotes along the Hudson River. 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Editor's Note: This article was by Raymond A. Ruge and originally published in the January 1943 issue of "Yachting". magazine. The language, spelling and grammar of the article reflects the time period when it was written. For information about current ice boating on the Hudson River go to White Wings and Black Ice here. Let us now turn our attention to the hull, to see how to give our rig the best possible vehicle. Speaking in the broadest of generalities, the ideal hull would be strong enough to take all the stresses that may come to bear on it; light enough to be easily handled and yet not so light as to sacrifice momentum; easily and surely steered; comfortable enough to allow the driver to devote his attention to driving and none to hanging on, and shod with the fastest and most maneuverable runners for the conditions prevailing. The principal hull member, running fore and aft, is variously called ‘‘keelson,” ‘‘backbone,” ‘‘body,” or ‘‘fuselage,” depending on its design and the word most common in local usage. Its functions are many; in fact, it is the boat. The rig drives it, and the runner plank and runners carry it. It must carry the crew with reasonable safety and comfort; it must contain the control elements — steering gear and sheet blocks. Finally, it must carry the mast step (except in the case of the lateen rig). The mast step is subject to terrific stresses which may easily be underestimated. The backbone of the bow-steerer is fundamentally a simple beam, supported at its two extremities. This beam carries two loads — the weight and sailing pressure of the rig, at the mast step; and the weight of the crew, close to the rear point of support (runner plank). The mast load is highly variable, reaching a maximum whenever a strong puff strikes the sails. Since the mast step in a bow-steerer is usually located almost at the mid-point of the span between supports, the backbone must be carefully designed to take all the mast pressure without danger of failure. The weight of the crew is carried so close to the runner plank that it hardly stresses the backbone, and it is safe to assume that a backbone strong enough to withstand mast pressures will carry the crew without extra strengthening. The single-stick backbone has been almost entirely abandoned by bow-steerer designers, and has been supplanted by the ‘‘box” or "fuselage" backbone. This consists of two side pieces, on edge, meeting at bow and stern, and spread apart enough to permit the crew to ride between them. They are spaced and braced by transverse bulkheads of plywood, and a plywood deck and bottom. This construction is rigid and non-twisting, a great improvement over the crazily twisting solid backbones which often used to toss the crew overboard. In addition, it affords the driver a safe, sitting-up position which increases his comfort and efficiency. Resistance to bending in such a structure comes from every element in it, for it is “welded” into a unit by waterproof glue at every joint. Nevertheless, the side pieces contribute practically all the resistance or ‘‘stiffness,’’ with some help from the crowned plywood deck. The deck would contribute far more than it does if the openings for the cockpits were not taken out of it but, after all, the skipper has some rights! A good many fuselage boats are now equipped with windshields, exactly like those mounted on open airplane fuselages. It is significant, however, that not one championship winner in the Eastern Association and, to the best of my knowledge, in the Northwestern Association either, has carried a windshield. The answer is not that these boats are manned by supermen, who sail gaily on, oblivious of the biting wind in their faces. It is simply a matter of preference; the best skippers seem unanimous in believing that a windshield prevents them from ‘‘feeling” the wind properly. Goggles or face masks are often worn when the temperature is too low and freezing of noses seems to threaten. They are discarded the moment they can be spared in favor of the unimpaired chance to feel the wind. In hull streamlining, the tiniest bit helps. It is better to paint the name of the boat on the side rails than to mount two projecting mahogany name boards! It is just this sort of ‘“ridiculous” extreme in streamlining which makes that unaccountable difference in speed, especially to windward. And so we come to the steering gear. Here, again, tradition has hindered design tremendously. Because sail boats — even big ones — are steered with a tiller, ice boats were rigged the same way. No sail boat answers her helm as fast as the poorest ice boat; a sudden small jerk of the helm will probably not alter the course of the boat at all. In an ice boat, this can be fatal. The sharp steering runner provides absolutely instantaneous answering of the slightest twitch of the helm, and at a speed commonly ranging from 25 to 60 miles an hour. Imagine trying to steer your automobile at 25 to 60 miles per hour with a direct-connected tiller! You wouldn’t dare try it. And what have the automobile designers provided, to give safe, sure control of a fast vehicle? A neat, foolproof, worm-geared outfit, ideal for your ice boat. No need to get a gear from a big, heavy car; those used on Model “A” Fords of the early ’30’s are perfect for the purpose. Rig the gear so that it turns an arm or sheave connected by airplane cable to a similar one on the rudder post. There is one bad practice in bow-steering design which has caused some mean spills. This is the inboard tiller, entirely inside the cockpit, running up between the driver’s legs. The fact that such a set-up prevents sufficient turning of the rudder is adequately attested by the battered cockpit rails of every boat so rigged — mute evidence of the skipper’s desire to turn the rudder more than he could. It is a highly dangerous arrangement, because it prevents the quick turn to windward or to leeward which is the best way to “set her down” in a sudden hike. Many a boat so rigged has come to grief upside down; more than anything else, the limited throw of the tiller was directly responsible. In the days of old, before waterproof glue and lamination, the runner plank was often the most difficult part of the boat to obtain. Great pains were taken by the old-timers to cut just the right tree, to have the sawing done just so, to encourage natural warping and obtain a crown in the plank. Basswood, spruce and yellow poplar were used in various localities, and I have seen planks of ash, over 20’ long, and a full 6” by 16” at the center, along the Hudson River. Those were the days of tremendous boats, tremendous weight, and — tremendous inefficiency. Granted that these colossal old boats must have been awe inspiring, to say the least, their speed, except in a half-gale, was nothing to brag about. Here and there along the river one or two of them still appear when there is ice and, though it is a thrill to sit in the cockpit and see all that oak and iron out in front of you, it is no joke to have to push one of them through a six-inch snowdrift. Good planks, capable of carrying these boats and their tremendous spreads of canvas, were almost literally jewels of great price. The modern plank is far different. Almost invariably laminated, it consists of two or more boards — again Sitka spruce is tops — glued together and given the desired curvature before the glue sets. Once the glue has set, the crown is there for keeps. Proper length of plank is vital to the success of the boat, as it has much to do with both stability and speed. Greater length of runner-plank gives: (1) Greater resiliency and spring for the same cross section; (2) a “stiffer’’ boat, less apt to hike; (3) a less favorable hiking-angle, making a bow-steerer stand on her nose or a stern-steerer rear over backward in a hike. The final qualification for our ideal hull was that it should be “shod with the fastest and most maneuverable runners possible.” Materials used run from the tried and true cast iron shoe with oak tops to shoes of T-iron, angle iron, stainless steel and even bronze alloys. Cast iron, though prone to nick and hard to sharpen, still takes the finest polish and, in my experience, makes the fastest runner of all. All runners are mounted on single through bolts, permitting up-and-down rocking as they pass over bumps. The proper position of this bolt in the length of the runner has a great deal to do with performance, and many runners are provided with two or more bolt holes, for use on various types of ice surface. The working principle is this: A riding bolt abaft (behind) the center of the runner will put more blade ahead of the weight, and hence will provide a longer lever arm for lifting that weight over each little bump. On smooth, hard ice (the kind we dream about and rarely see), this advantage may not be needed. Runners deserve good care. Their edges should be protected from nicking by canvas bags or wooden scabbards when not in use, and they should be removed from the boat, thoroughly cleaned, dried and the edges wiped down with oil whenever the boat is laid up for more than overnight. Remember to use light machine oil and to wipe it off before using the runners again. Heavy oil, when cold, is just so much sticky jelly; many a sluggish performance on snowy ice has resulted from the skipper’s neglect of this one point. Contrary to popular belief, runners treated and used with reasonable care require little sharpening during a season. Naturally, letting them accumulate rust, dragging them up on stony beaches and sailing them over stones and pieces of wire is going to make work at the filing bench — but don’t blame the runners! Filing runners is an art but, in brief, the basic “don’ts’’ are these: Don’t file across the blade; always run the file with the runner. Don’t work with a bad file or a bad vice. Use a good, steady vice or, preferably, a set of blocks with notches for the runner tops at such an angle that the blade faces will lie exactly horizontal. Don’t file one side down more than the other; keep them even, to keep the edge on center. Don’t use too coarse a file, and don’t fail to knock the filings out of it after every stroke. Don’t be afraid to work; runner-filing is tough. Don’t expect the same care in a hired job as in one you do yourself. The runner tops require little or no special care, beyond varnish or paint to keep the weather out. The stud bolts that hold the runner shoes to the tops should be taken up every fall, to offset any shrinkage of the wooden tops which may have occurred during the summer. And so we have worked out a modern ice boat, from rig to hull to runners. She is about as fast and sensitive a machine as the average man can build for himself and, like anything fast and sensitive, she can be handled or mishandled with equal ease. THE END If you enjoyed this post and would like to support more history blog content, please make a donation to the Hudson River Maritime Museum or become a member today!
Solid or hollow? Again a compromise, between lightness and stiffness on one hand and ease of construction, added strength and resilience on the other. Granted that the solid spar weighs a bit more, it is far easier to build if you are going to make your own, and it is far stronger in case your boat is a bow-steerer, and capsizes some windy day. A mast that will stay up there and prop up the boat after the spill may not only save boat, sail and rigging, but may also save you. As in all questions of weight, the ice boat does not pay anything like the penalty for added weight that the sail boat or the airplane does. The sail boat sinks deeper into the water for every pound added; hence a penalty in added resistance. The airplane must use a higher lift airfoil to carry added weight; hence a penalty in speed and fuel consumption. The ice boat, on the contrary, unless sailing in deep slush, adds practically nothing to resistance or to required draft of sail by the addition of a few pounds of weight. Where the gain is on the side of safety, there should be no question, particularly now that heavier-than-average boats have proved themselves faster in competition.. Sitka spruce is, by all odds, the best material for spars (masts). Glue should be the best waterproof casein (aircraft type) or phenolic resin. Be sure to mix these glues in accordance with the manufacturer’s instructions, regardless of “expert” advice by local carpenters, unless you want the pleasure of watching — and, perhaps, feeling — your handiwork disintegrate before your eyes. And use plenty of clamps! This means plenty — so many that it seems ridiculous.
First, when the boat started out, moving slowly, her full-cut sail, with plenty of draft, was just what she wanted — the high-lift, low-speed wing, if you will. Soon she was up to real speed. Another interesting result of this method of staying the spar is that the lower portion, below the stays, was bent to leeward but the upper portion was deflected to windward because of the stiffness of the mast and the small sail area up there. The two bends had transformed a straight stick into a beautifully curved and amazingly efficient wing edge. Stay attachment to a rotating mast presents another problem - that of proper attachment to allow, or even encourage, the pivoting action. The best method is ridiculously simple. Attach the headstay to a single tang or to the bar of a small but strong boom-type plate fitting. Attach both shrouds to a single bolt passing through the mast, from side to side, and cross these wires over one another so that the port shroud leads up, across the front of the mast and around to the starboard end of the bolt, and vice versa. The pull on the weather shroud rotates the mast exactly as we want it to rotate. Wear and fatigue in the stiff rigging wire can be avoided by fitting the upper ends of the shrouds with short pennants of flexible wire. Sheathing the mast with thin copper or brass, and grooving it for the under shroud, are refinements which will help further to reduce chafing. The great advantage, aside from the help to rotation, is the absence of any special fitting, and the clean, uninterrupted wind flow around the spar. A saving in expense and a gain in power and efficiency at the same time should be convincing arguments. A word about the rotating mast step before we go on to the boom. The simplest and best is the ball and socket type, usually a metal socket set into the heel of the mast, riding on a metal ball mounted on deck. One word of caution about this type of fitting: The socket should be a good inch or more in depth, to prevent possible unstepping of the mast while coming about on rough ice. Adjustable mast steps of this type have the ball casting arranged to slide fore and aft in a piece of dural channel mounted on deck. Several holes in the sides of the channel permit corresponding positions of the ball casting, which is held in place by pins through the holes. A satisfactory home-made version is a trailer hitch ball, mounted either on deck or in the heel of the mast, working in a metal-lined socket. No lubricant seems necessary in these fittings. The boom (horizontal portion of a boat’s rig) is far simpler than the mast, both in function and design. Early plank booms were rigged with bulky wooden jaws, which were a loose fit on the mast so that some rotation was possible. A neater solution is to use a regular roller reefing gooseneck. This is a neat bronze jaw which hugs the mast and carries a rotating boom jaw on its after side. It is satisfactory in operation and accident-proof. The gooseneck fittings designed for Class E boats, consisting of a track on the mast carrying a universal-joint boom fitting, seem satisfactory for Class E and Class D rigs but are not recommended for anything larger. Now that we have our spars and standing rigging, the rest of our power plant is the sail, with its accessories, the battens, and the control elements, sheets and sheet blocks. Heretofore, sails have been cut ‘full,’ so that the wind would blow them out into the desired curve. Naturally, such sails hang limp and useless until the breeze strikes them. By contrast, the modern ice boat sail, rigidly set to the desired curve, wind or no wind, is a great deal more efficient. No time is lost when the breeze strikes; power is instantly generated without the wait for the sail to fill. The canvas should be much heavier than that used on a sail boat. The pressure of the battens (long, flat strips of squared wood or metal used to hold fabric in place) will soon ruin the shape of a sail made of light material, and the use of the battens makes light cloth unnecessary. The speed of ice boats and the vicious drive of the winter wind all call for good stout cloth. When the breeze is lighter, the sheet (line attached to the lower sail) may be belayed (secured), and the skipper can loll in the cockpit and enjoy a fine afternoon’s sail — if he is that kind of a skipper. I have never seen one in an ice boat. No matter how light the air, the typical ice-boater is doing his best to get every bit of speed possible, whether racing or just sailing around. For this, playing the sheet constantly is essential. There is no “feel" of the boat through the rudder, such as that which the sail boat skipper uses to such good advantage. The steering runner has no grip in the ice equivalent to the grip of the sail boat’s rudder, and cannot possibly transmit any messages to the helmsman as to whether he is carrying a weather or lee helm. But “feel’’ via the sheet is another matter. The power and pull of the sail is directly transmitted to the skipper’s hand through the sheet and, through this instantaneous telegraph, he can tell when a shift of course has increased or decreased the power of his rig long before an appreciable change in boat speed is evident, and without any apparent difference in the set of the sail. The power of a violent puff, apt to cause a high hike or even a capsize, can be felt instantly and in ample time to ease the sheet a trifle. In fact, the whole business of getting the most out of your boat depends on a keen coordination of hand and eye to keep giving her the maximum possible drive without getting into trouble—and this makes constant sheet-trimming mandatory. This completes discussion of the rig, or power plant. The principles outlined apply equally to bow-steerers and to stern-steerers. If you enjoyed this post and would like to support more history blog content, please make a donation to the Hudson River Maritime Museum or become a member today!
I would like to open this discussion in true amateur fashion by stating flatly that the ice boat is a ridiculously simple affair, and that, in nine races out of ten, the only significant difference between the first boat and the last is either better runners, better sails, better controls or, most common of all, a better skipper. I would add that excellence in all these four essentials is relatively easy to attain — with the possible exception of excellence in the matter of sails. Sailmaking is a fine art, and ice boat sailmaking is a specialty within that art. Nevertheless, an understanding of what a sail really is, and of how it works, will enable you to do wonders for the sail you have without having to dent the budget for a new one. One of the grand things about any kind of sailing is that the ability to write fat checks never made a sailor, and the wise old ‘horny-handed’s boys who build their own and patch their sails can still bring ’em home in front — because they know what makes ’em tick. To start with the broadest of generalities, every ice boat is essentially a framework mounted on runners and propelled by sails. Her speed, unhampered by any appreciable resistance, is more like that of a small airplane than that of a sail boat. Hence, it is reasonable to suspect that there is more food for thought in the airplane field than in that of the sail boat when we get into matters of design.
By and large, the general conclusion ran pretty close to the most obvious one: that, somehow or other, the reversed hull, with rudder forward and runner plank aft, was the key to the situation. Pinned down to paper and pencil, some of these theories were a bit weird. Here and there amid the tumult and the shouting was heard a still, small voice saying: ‘Forget about the d—- bow rudder for a while and take a good, long look at the rig.” … The Europeans insisted that the secret of the new boats’ amazing speed lay in their modern, efficient and powerful rigs. They pointed out that tiny little sails of only 75 square feet area on these boats were generating enough power to carry two men as well as the boat at speeds far above those of the older and far bigger boats. They also pointed out that heretofore no boat with less than 125 square feet of sail had ever been more than an impractical toy, with no performance rating whatsoever. That this raised a storm of dissension is putting it mildly, for not only did these newcomers run rings around us and make us feel distinctly old-fashioned and helpless, but they all sported that shameless and unscientific cat rig! Let us here continue to delve into the problem of designing a proper rig for our ice boat in the light of the fast, off-the-bow, air current that seems to be what she normally has to work with. On the ice, courses are seldom held for more than a few seconds; wind direction and velocity are constantly shifting. There is no time for delicate sheet trimming. With a one-sail rig, it is possible, by hard work and a quick hand, to keep all the canvas constantly drawing. But with a sloop rig, the wind in the jib is going to do just one of three possible things: (a) help to drive the boat; (b) backwind the mainsail because trimmed too flat (killing the drive in the big sail); (c) luff because not trimmed flat enough, upsetting the air flow to the mainsail and surely doing nothing to increase progress. It is interesting to note here that the generally unsatisfactory behavior of ice boat jibs was well known to the pioneers of the sport along the Hudson River in the seventies and eighties of the last century. They tried the cat rig, complete with enormous mast and heavy gaff, all stepped on the backbone, well forward of the runner plank so as to bring the C.E. (Center of Effort) up by the main runners and away from the rudder. The results are not hard to imagine: One after another of these juggernauts took a quick run to windward, all very fine, turned gracefully around the weather mark, caught the breeze from the quarter, lifted her rear end off the ice and went berserk. The final wind-up was sometimes a quick spin in mid-river, with the crew sliding off gaily over the ice. But more often than not it was a sickening crash as the whole works tried vainly to rearrange the solid rock ballast of the Hudson River Railroad. In the early 1880’s, Charles and William Merritt, of the little village of Chelsea, on the Hudson River, designed and built the first successful lateen-rigged ice boat. Her single sail, triangular in shape, was bent to two long slender spars, called “boom” and “gaff,” respectively, from their relative positions when hoisted. The C.E. was well forward, away from the rudder, and yet there was no heavy mast out on the nose of the boat to overbalance her and lift the rudder off the ice — the bugbear of the cat rigs of that day. Results were as they should have been — highly successful. After one season of scaring the daylights out of far bigger sloop-rigged boats, she was bought by Commodore John E. Roosevelt, uncle of President Roosevelt, and one of the greatest of all ice boat fans. He named her Eugene and for many years she sailed with the Hyde Park fleet. Later, she was sold and renamed Vixen, under which rakish title she still races regularly as the flagship of the Orange Lake Ice Yacht Club. Other lateens followed immediately but the sloop rig was still in favor with the famous builder and designer, Jacob Buckhout, of Poughkeepsie, who, with his son George, built most of this country’s successful ice yachts until quite recent years. The Buckhouts turned the ice boat into the ice yacht, refined and perfected their basic sloop-rigged design until their products completely swept the field. In so doing, they swept the lateen rig, which had benefited from no such refinement, into the discard. Had the Buckhouts worked on either the cat or the lateen with similar persistence, they would, without a doubt, have arrived at the highly successful cat-rigged type now almost universal in Europe; an extremely light, hollow mast and Marconi rig to cut down nose-weight, and an exceptionally long backbone, extending several feet abaft the main boom, to keep the rudder on the ice and minimize spinning. But they stuck to the sloop, which thereafter remained the accepted rig until that fatal day when some “crazy Westerner" stuck a cat rig onto a reverse-English hull that steered from the front like Sister Susie’s tricycle — and, zowie! the apple cart was not only upside down — it was demolished. When the wind is light, the larger boats carry enough sail to get them going, and speeds are not so great that skin friction and form resistance on hull and spars are major retarding factors. Hence, the big ones should — and do — win the races when the breeze is light. But, when it breezes up, the smallest racing class of all can — and does — show a clean pair of heels (and a taut, unflapping sail) to her bigger sisters handicapped by too much canvas. Even if they don smaller sails, they cannot hide their larger and bulkier hulls, or their taller masts, with resultant greater resistance, and the little ones gaily zip around and pass them with maddening consistency. A most interesting case in point was this year’s Open Championship of the Eastern Ice Yachting Association. (This race is a contest between the winning boats from each of six sail area classes, ranging from the 75-square feet “Skeeters” up to the 350-square feet Class A boats.) It started in a medium light breeze, which turned out to be only a temporary lull in a howling northwester. The big boat skippers started off in fine style, the three largest boats immediately walking away from the little fellows. And then the gale came back! All the boats started to go faster but the big ones were immediately in trouble; too much canvas. The only recourse was to luff, which they did, with a will, and managed to stay right side up. But what of the “BE” boat? No luffing there! She started out after the leaders like a shot out of a gun. She caught and passed all but one — and the skipper of that one can speak with feeling when he says that it was a steadily losing fight. And so we come to the end of this first powwow on ice boats, with a picture of the ice boat of the future gradually forming in our minds: Rig: Cat (until someone works out a narrow, rigid jib that can be controlled by a mechanical device like a greenhouse window rig). Type: Bow-steering (until the built-in contradictory forces of the stern-steerer can be eliminated by improved design or until the four-runner boat comes into her own). Backbone: Long and relatively heavy. Size: As small as possible, for strong winds — probably not over 175 square feet (Class C) in any case. Shape of sail: Tall, narrow (2 to 1), and as smooth of surface texture as can possibly be obtained. Also, rigidly and stiffly arched into the proper airfoil curvature, either by full length battens in cloth sails, or by properties of the sail itself if we can get to metal or plywood sails. (To Be Continued) Ray Ruge If you enjoyed this post and would like to support more history blog content, please make a donation to the Hudson River Maritime Museum or become a member today!
An Up-To-Date Ice Yacht Using A Sail Boat Rig by Raymond A. Ruge Yachting magazine December 193612/1/2023 Editor's Note: This article by Raymond A. Ruge is reproduced from the December 1936 issue of Yachting magazine. The language, spelling and grammar of the article reflects the time period when it was written. For information about current ice boating on the Hudson River go to White Wings and Black Ice here.
In spite of all the progress toward efficiency and speed made in sailing yachts, the ice boat, the fastest non-motorized vehicle known to man, has remained until very recently the slave of convention and tradition. Improvements in materials, sails, runners, rigging and construction details followed one another in steady progression, but in her fundamental design, the ice boat of 1930 was the ice boat of 1870 — and she still retained the devilish habit of spinning. There was no escaping the tendency to depress the bow and lift the stern whenever a hard puff struck the sails. This inevitable result of the action of the forces driving her is familiar to all small boat sailors. In a sail boat, with her rudder buried deep in the water, it is not particularly annoying. But let an ice boat's rudder be lifted the slightest fraction of an inch and it loses its already precarious grip on the glassy surface, and away she goes, in a cloud of ice slivers and a roar of grinding runners, around and around in a double or even triple spin, completely out of control. At a speed of sixty to seventy miles an hour, which is common enough, and with a competitor driving hard only a few feet astern, the possibility of a nasty crack-up is not hard to imagine.
Once the simplicity of this, and the beautiful self-compensating relation of wind pressure to rudder-on-ice pressure, dawns on you, it seems too good to be true. While it is difficult to assign the exact credit for this brilliant solution of the ice boat's one great fault, it is safe to attribute the development and perfection of the bow-steerer to the famous Meyer Brothers, of Wisconsin. They built and raced the renowned Paula series of ice yachts, all champions but all experimental, each one eliminating certain faults found in her predecessor. Editor’s Note: This article is found in "Time" magazine, Monday, Feb. 08, 1937 As a result, the bow-steerer is now as safe as she is fast, and ice yachting is coming into its own all over the northern part of the country. For the bow-steerer won't spin. Her pilot need not ease her through the puffs — he can hold his sheets and let her go — and the fact that bow-steerers everywhere are consistently defeating older boats of far greater sail area is sufficient proof that she can go. Convinced by the logic of this analysis of spinning, and of the bow-steerer as the solution, during the fall of 1925 I constructed Icicle. She carried the rig of my 18-foot one-design sail boat - about 190 square feet, in a conventional jib and mainsail. A club was added to the foot of the jib, both to keep it flat and to simplify the jib sheet. By using a club, a single sheet working on a traveler makes the jib practically self-tending, a necessary feature where the main sheet and steering wheel require constant attention. The rig of almost any small sloop can be used on an ice boat if provision is made for the heavier wind stresses involved. Wintry blasts are heavier, faster and harder-hitting than summer breezes. Sails which have been discarded because they have stretched and lost their precious draft are just the ones to use on your ice boat for, contrary to sail boat practice, the rule here is ”the flatter, the faster.” Icicle has a fuselage, or body, made of light frames and ribs, covered with unbleached muslin to which was applied airplane "dope™ and aluminum paint. This superstructure serves merely as a shield from the biting wind and is built around the traditional central backbone timber, made of an 18-foot 4" x 6" to which was bolted a 16-foot 4" × 4", over- hanging 6 feet aft. This composite timber rides on edge, with the 4" x6" below and toward the bow. The runner plank crosses under the extreme after end of the 18-foot lower member. The mast is stepped directly on the backbone, passing through a hole in the cloth deck which also admits the main and jib sheets to the cockpit, where they are controlled by jam cleats. The backbone also carries the steering gear and all fastenings for frame guys, so that the cloth super-structure is subjected to no stresses except those caused by wind pressure. This permits a comfortable, protected riding position, automobile steering, and a side-by-side arrangement of the two seats, all of which tend to increase the pleasure and reduce the discomfort of a day's fast sailing.
The runner plank shown embodies the latest improvements in design. First of all, those familiar with past practice will note the unusual length of the plank for the sail area carried. This serves two purposes; it prevents excessive hiking and makes for easy riding, both of which are aids to speed. By using waterproof casein glue, a laminated arched plank, light in weight and springy in action, is easy to make. The second departure from older practice lies in the extra foot of plank projecting beyond the runners. This carries on its underside a smooth, rounded oak sliding block which comes in contact with the ice when the boat hikes very high and allows her to slip sideways and come down right side up rather than capsize. A good runner plank is essentially a broad, flat wooden spring. A stiff plank means a slower boat. The runner plank is fastened to the backbone by two pieces of 2-1/2" x 2-1/2" angle iron, drilled for bolts through the side rails and plank. A block of rubber under the bearing surfaces will absorb some of the shock when passing over rough ice. The most vital parts of any ice boat, where the right thing is the only thing, are the runners. There are many types of runners in use, but the oldest is still one of the most satisfactory and may be sometimes acquired in good condition second, third, and even fourth-hand. This type of runner consists of an oak top piece to which is bolted a cast iron or steel shoe, sharpened to a "V" edge. It is in the subtle but all important rocker of the shoe and the correct angle of the ice faces, or the two sides of the "V," that the fast runner differs from the slow one. For an all-purpose runner, which will carry the boat through soft ice and slush as well as over hard, black ice, the faces of the shoe, called "ice faces." should meet at about 90° and be from ½" to ¾" wide. The rudder is a shorter edition of the main runners but has little rocker. The rudder must be kept sharp for, if it skids, control of the fast-moving craft is, at best, sketchy. After the runners are mounted, oil the inside faces of the chocks, next to the runners. This is one spot that must not be varnished or painted. Graphite is often smeared over these faces to help the runner rock freely. Keep the runner shoes greased to prevent rusting; when leaving the boat for a protracted interval, it is well to remove the runners entirely and keep them at home, along with the sails, where they will be dry and safe from inquisitive skaters. Allowing $40.00 for new runners, and the same amount for a fair suit of sails, the materials for this boat should total about $120. The yachtsman who has a sail boat with a suitable rig and the usual assortment of odd rigging, turnbuckles, blocks, etc., can cut the necessary outlay down to $75. Clear spruce is the lightest and best material for the spars, runner plank and back-bone; fir is second choice. Fir is easier to get and is cheaper but is apt to be heavy. Runner tops, chocks and knees are of quartered white oak. Plywood 3/8" thick is ideal for deck and bottom of back-bone. A few oak slats passing under the plywood floor from rail to rail will stiffen it sufficiently under the cockpit. A boat of this type can be transported easily by trailer, and two men can set her up in an hour, provided that this has been already completely done at home before taking the boat to the ice. It is hoped that the success of the adapted sail boat rig may encourage other yachtsmen to build ice boats to carry the rigs of their sail boats. The most active ice boating centers in the East are all within fifty miles of New York and can be reached by car in a couple of hours. I know I can speak for the ice boating fraternity in assuring all of you a most cordial welcome to this king of winter sports. Editor’s Note: During the fall of 1925, Ray Ruge, at age 17, constructed the Icicle. If you enjoyed this post and would like to support more history blog content, please make a donation to the Hudson River Maritime Museum or become a member today!
itle: Concrete Barge # 442 Description: (U.S. Navy Barge, 1918) In port, probably at the time she was inspected by the Third Naval District on 4 December 1918. Built by Louis L. Brown at Verplank, New York, this barge was built for the Navy and became Coal Barge # 442, later being renamed YC-442. She was stricken from the Navy Register on 11 September 1923, after having been lost by sinking. U.S. Naval History and Heritage Command Photograph. Hiding away in Rondout Creek, New York at 41.91245, -73.98639 is the last known surviving example of a World War I Navy ‘Oil & Coal’ Barge. It is less than a kilometer up the Rondout Creek from the Hudson River Maritime Museum. Based on a lot of ‘Googling’, it seems probable this is the first time that the provenance and history of this particular relic of concrete shipbuilding in the United States during the World War I era has been recognized. [Editor's Note: The concrete barge is featured on the Solaris tours of Rondout Creek.] The hulk is, in fact, the initial prototype of a ‘Navy Department Coal Barge’, concrete barges that were commissioned by the Navy Department : Bureau of Construction and Repair. This was the department of the U.S. Navy that was responsible for supervising the design, construction, conversion, procurement, maintenance, and repair of ships and other craft for the Navy. Launched on 1st June 1918, the ‘Directory of Vessels chartered by Naval Districts’ lists ‘Concrete Barge No.1’, Registration number 2531, as being chartered by the Navy from Louis L. Brown at $360 per month from 11th September 1918. In Spring 1918, the Navy Department had commissioned twelve, 500 Gross Registered Tonnage barges from three separate constructors in Spring 1918 to be used in New York harbour. Navy Barge #516 which was the first prototype. It is believed that the barge at Rondout Creek is this particular barge based on the subtly different lines of her bow. Possibly photographed when inspected by the Third Naval District on 5 April 1918. She was assigned registry ID # 2531. This barge, chartered by the Navy in September 1918, was returned to her owner on 28 October 1919. While in Navy service she was known as Coal Barge # 516. U.S. Naval Historical Center Photograph. AuthorsRichard Lewis and Erlend Bonderud have been researching concrete ships worldwide for many years. They have identified over 1800 concrete ships, spanning the globe, of which many survive. If you enjoyed this post and would like to support more history blog content, please make a donation to the Hudson River Maritime Museum or become a member today!
Editor's note: The following text is from the February 1937 issue of "The Open Road for Boys" magazine. The language, spelling and grammar of the article reflects the time period when it was written. With cramped fingers, Tim Grayson shifted the tiller of the Snow Queen a fraction of an inch. Instantly the iceboat responded, veering across the hard black ice toward Lighthouse Point. Tim allowed himself one backward glance. Raleigh Bryan in the Penguin was close behind, with one leg of the race still to go. As the two ice yachts neared the southern side of the lighthouse, Tim prepared to make an extra tack to avoid a line of soft ice behind a small red marker. For a moment he was tempted not to go about. It was so cold that day that he didn’t see how there could be any soft ice left. The red marker had nothing to do with the race course; it was just a danger warning, Tim knew, and the extra tack would cost several seconds of precious time. But Tim’s conscience won, and in another minute he put his rudder hard alee to make the tack. When he came back on his original course he found the Penguin twenty yards ahead of him. Raleigh Bryan hadn't bothered about the red marker! In spite of the cold, little drops of sweat ran down Tim’s back as he shifted his position in the stern of the boat. He knew that his safety tack had cost him the race; but, as he saw it, there was nothing else to do. It wasn’t the risk to himself that had influenced Tim. He could swim in any water, and from the crowd on shore watching the race, many friends would have rushed instantly to haul him out. It was the Snow Queen that would have suffered had they gone through. Staved-in framework, warped rudder, ruined varnish —all threatened an iceboat that broke through the surface, and the Snow Queen belonged to Greg, Tim’s older brother. With all the skill at his command, Tim fought to regain the distance lost, but the Penguin held most of her lead. Tim realized that his last chance to win had vanished; and with this race went the opportunity to pilot the Snow Queen in the Navesink Yacht Club Regatta. Greg had told him he could sail in the Navesink contest if he took first place in one of the Shrewsbury (NJ) skeeter races. And this was the last race of the season. In another minute Raleigh had cut expertly across the line amid cheers from the crowd. “Nice work, Raleigh!” Tim shouted across the icy basin. Raleigh smiled his slow, confident smile. “You all would have trimmed me if you hadn’t been so scary about gettin’ your feet wet,” he drawled, as he led the way into the boat house, Tim never forgot the next half hour. Slowly came the amazing realization that the majority of the crowd thought him a coward. He found himself floundering in the knowledge of their contempt. “What’s the matter, Tim? Afraid of a cold bath?” Red Harris blurted out. “You'd have won that race if you hadn’t been such a, sissy about that soft-ice marker.” Tim’s mouth was still open when he heard Greg beside him. “There’s no use explaining,” Greg said quietly. “People either understand or they don’t. Everybody doesn’t feel the same way about a boat.” Tim looked up at his brother gratefully. At least Greg knew that he hadn’t been afraid of getting wet. “What I didn’t like,” Greg went on, “was the way you made the tack and then your attempts to shift your weight on the last leg.” In his slow, deliberate voice Greg analyzed every inch of the race until Tim fully understood his mistakes. Next day came a sudden thaw. Tim decided that it would be warm enough to work on the Snow Queen out of doors. Greg had suggested a few adjustments in the rigging, and his brother was anxious to carry them out. The thought of meeting people at the boat house so soon after losing the race was unpleasant, but Tim was glad to have something that forced him to get the ordeal over with. The boat house belonged to the township of Shrewsbury and served as a clubhouse for anyone interested in sailing. Usually a crowd collected early, but today the only person in sight was Red Harris. “Hello,” said Red. “Going out?” Tim shook his head. “Nope. Just got some repairs to make.” “This thaw may weaken the ice a bit, but even so I guess you'd be safe,” Red remarked significantly. “Raleigh’s out sailing.” He was just about to ask Red to help him carry in the Snow Queen when Red pointed to the spot where the Navesink River joined the Shrewsbury. “Look at that bird go!” he said, “Doesn’t care a whoop what he does!” Tim looked and could hardly believe his eyes. Raleigh Bryan’s Penguin was tearing ahead toward the place where the fishing lights had been. “It isn’t safe!” Tim gasped. “They were fishing through the ice up there last night, and it won't be properly frozen over.” “Don’t worry, Grandma,” Red’s voice was sarcastic. “Raleigh can take care of himself. He’ll probably jibe.” Tim watched the Penguin skudding along before the wind and a frown came between his eyes. “Listen, Raleigh hasn’t been up north very long and I’ll bet he’s never seen ice like that before. He probably doesn’t know how dangerous it is.” Red laughed and for a minute Tim hesitated. If he went after Raleigh, and the newcomer realized all the time what he was doing, he would be thought more of a mollycoddle than ever. But if he held back and Raleigh did not recognize the circles of thin ice, what then? As the Penguin kept straight on for the spotted ice, Tim grabbed a boat hook and flung it on board the Snow Queen. “You can laugh all you like,” he shouted back at Red Harris. “I’m going to stand by.” Hardly had his little boat got under way when the bow of the Penguin faltered in one of the thinly covered holes. In another instant came the sound of ripping ice and wood. The Penguin’s mast crumpled; her sail flapped and fell; half of her frame disappeared under water. Tim now could see Raleigh’s terrified face just above the water. He was fighting wildly against the current, handicapped by a tangle of rope and canvas. Working fast, Tim drew as near to the Penguin as he dared and spun her head into the wind. With a rattle of gear and rigging he dropped his sail. The Snow Queen still coasted forward and Tim frantically used one leg and the boat hook to check her speed. When she finally slithered to a standstill he was within thirty feet of Raleigh and the black pool of open water. Hurriedly casting off the painter, Tim threw one end of it to within a few inches of Raleigh’s shoulder. “Grab it!” he shouted, but Raleigh shook his head desperately. “I can’t!” he gasped. “My feet are caught and I’ve done something to my left arm. The current’s too strong. I tell you, I can’t let go.” Tim was already overboard, carrying the boat hook in one hand. “I’m coming,” he called reassuringly. But as he spoke the ice creaked threateningly beneath him. Dropping on his stomach, he began inching his way forward. When he came within a few feet of Raleigh the ice dipped under his weight, letting water ooze out over the surface to drench his chest and legs. Every second he expected the groaning ice would give way and throw him into the driving current. He could hear the rush of the water and could see that it was pushing the Penguin further under the ice. In another minute Raleigh would have to let go of her stern or be dragged under with it. In spite of wet hands, clumsy with cold, he fastened the painter around the end of the boat hook and thrust it toward Raleigh. “Stay just as you are,” he ordered, “I think I can get the rope round you. If I come any nearer, I'll break through.” “R-right,” Raleigh muttered from between blue lips. Maneuvering carefully with the boat hook, Tim finally looped the rope around Raleigh’s body. Once, as he drew it back, it slipped and started sliding snake-like toward the water. Tim reached for it with the hook and retrieved it just in time. “All set,” he shouted to Raleigh and began pulling on the rope; but instead of extricating the other pilot, he felt himself being drawn forward toward the open water. Unable to get a grip on the ice with his feet, Tim knew that continued pulling would only send him into the water. Casting about desperately for a solution of his difficulty, Tim thought of the Snow Queen. “Hold on,” he yelled, scrambling backward, “I’ll have you out pronto!” But he felt little of the confidence his words implied, for he could see that Raleigh was weakening fast and might be drawn under at any minute. Furiously Tim worked himself toward the ice boat. Trembling in his haste, he made the painter fast to a cleat at the stern. He knew he would now need every ounce of the skill Greg had tried to teach him. “Hang on to the rope with your good hand,” he shouted to Raleigh, “and when we begin to move try to kick clear.” Swiftly he shoved the Snow Queen’s bow in the direction he wanted to go and hoisted her sail. Then, hands grasping the boat, he ran alongside, pushing her forward. As he wind filled her sail, he jumped aboard. Would she start with Raleigh’s weight acting as an anchor? Would the drowning boy be able to kick himself free? Was the painter long enough to give them a chance? Tim looked back breathlessly. He moved the rudder lightly. “Go to it, Snow Queen!” he said under his breath. As if the little boat understood, she strained forward and Raleigh came sprawling across the ice like a gigantic fish. Just how he got him on board, Tim was never sure, but somehow he stopped the boat long enough to haul the half-frozen boy beside him. “How did—” Raleigh began, as Tim shoved him close to the center rail in the middle of the boat. “Don’t try to talk,” Tim snapped, his whole attention concentrated on getting the boat to shore, “Just hang to that safety rail with your good arm.” When they reached the basin in front of the boat house Greg was standing on the ice beside Red Harris, a pile of sails in his arms. “We—we—were just coming after you,” Red sputtered but Greg said nothing. Dropping the sailcloth, he reached a helping hand to Raleigh and half carried him toward the house. “Hurry up, Tim,” he ordered, “you've got to get on some dry clothes yourself.” “How about the Queen?” Tim began, but Red hastily interrupted. “l’ll put her up for you, Timmy,” he said. Relieved, Tim raced after Greg into the stuffy warmth of the boat house. In a few minutes Greg had Raleigh dressed in some old dungarees, a torn sweat shirt, and a heavy blanket that he’d found lying about. Around Raleigh’s bruised wrist he had fashioned a temporary bandage. In spite of the heat, Raleigh’s teeth were still chattering; but the color had come back to his lips and his cheeks no longer looked green. As he stuttered and stumbled through his story, Tim realized that it was exactly as he had surmised. Raleigh was practically on top of the newly frozen over fishing holes before he recognized the danger. Once in the water, his feet caught in the ropes and it was impossible for him to do more than keep himself afloat. “I still don’t see how you got across that ice,” he declared, turning to Tim, “It was the bravest thing I ever have seen!” “Tim’s never been accustomed to shy from danger,” Greg said dryly, as Red Harris poked his flaming head around the door to tell them that two men from the Navesink Yacht Club had succeeded in pulling the battered Penguin ashore. In about half an hour, the blood was coursing warmly through Raleigh’s veins and Greg thought it was safe to take him home. When they left him at his door he was still praising Tim’s bravery. “Well,” said Greg, as they drove off, “I guess that squelches any rumor about your losing yesterday’s race because you were afraid of a ducking. But what pleases me most, Timmy boy, is the way you handled the boat just now. You sailed her like a veteran! If you do anything like as well in the Navesink Yacht Club Race you ought to win it hands down!” Editor's Note: As mentioned in the 6/30/2023 blog, “Ice Yachting Winter Sailboats Hit More Than 100 m.p.h. by John A. Carroll, The Detroit Ice Yachting Club has fostered one of the more exclusive organizations in the world - the Hell Divers. To be eligible, a yachtsman merely has to take the plunge and survive to tell the story.” It appears that Raleigh became a Hell Diver by his harrowing experience. To learn more about the fishermen who created the circles on the ice, go to New York Heritage HRMM Commercial Fishermen oral histories here. Author"Circles on the Ice" by L. R. Davis and Illustrated by R. B. Pullen; "The Open Road for Boys" magazine February 1937. From the Ray Ruge Collection, Hudson River Maritime Museum. If you enjoyed this post and would like to support more history blog content, please make a donation to the Hudson River Maritime Museum or become a member today!
Editor's note: The following text is from articles printed in the New York City area newspapers in 1895 and 1920.. Thank you to Contributing Scholar Carl Mayer for finding, cataloging and transcribing this article. The language, spelling and grammar of the article reflects the time period when it was written. SPOONING PARTIES. How These Commendable Aids to Matrimony Should Be Conducted. “Spooning” parties are popular in some quarters. They take their name from a good old English word which was intended to ridicule the alleged fantastic actions of a young man or a young woman who is in love. For some reason, which no one ever could explain, everybody pokes fun at the lover. In fact, that unhappy character is never heroic in real life, no matter what great gobs of heroism are piled about him on the stage, and in all the romantic story books. The girl in love and the boy in love are said to be “spoony.” When a “spooning" party is given, the committee in charge of the event receives a spoon from each person who attends, or else presents each guest with a spoon. These spoons are fancifully dressed in male and female attire, and are mated either by the similarity of costume or by a distinguishing ribbon. The girls and boys whose spoons are mates are expected to take care of each other during the continuance of the social gathering. Of course the distribution of the spoons is made with the greatest possible carefulness, the aim being to so place them as to properly fit the case of the young people to whom they are presented. The parties are usually given by the young people of some neighborhood where the personal preference of each spoony is well known, and they are the source of no end of fun. It is possible also that they serve as aids to matrimony as well, and are therefore commendable, since an avowal is made more easy to a diffident swain after he feels that his passion is not a secret, but that his weakness for a ‘‘spoony'’ maiden is known to his friends and enemies on the committee which dispenses the spoons. It may be mentioned that after the spoons have been distributed among the guests, each couple retires for consultation regarding the reasons which caused the award of mated spoons in their case. This consultation is known by the name of "spooning.’’--St. Louis Republic .via The Yonkers Herald, June 24, 1895 High Cost of Living leads to loss of the Courting Parlor “Don't love in Gotham-- You've got no place to go; You can't hide in the subway Or on the roofs, you know! The cop that's on the corner Has got his eye on you-- Don't love in Gotham-- You'll be ‘pinched’ if you do!" SO sang Tom Masson—or, in words to that effect—some ten years ago, but the tragi-comic warning is just ten times as true this summer. For one of the problems of 1920 in merry old Manhattan is the H. C. of L., which in this connection should be translated the High Cost of Loving! Cupid knows it always has been a dilemma for New Yorkers. In all the side streets, east or west, there isn’t a piazza with rambler roses curtaining it and a hammock swung across one comer, there isn't a circular seat built around a drooping elm or broad spreading maple, there isn't a lovers' lane or a Ben Bolt “nook by a cool running brook.” No got. No can do. But now courting must be conducted between the devil of the profiteering landlord and the deep sea of propriety. For the simple truth is that almost no New Yorker can afford have a parlor for his daughter's beaux, that daughter herself can't find a house with a parlor in it, if she ls boarding. The rent laws passed at Albany do not prevent anybody from ejecting Cupid. And he is quite literally put out on the sidewalk—or into the park. The easiest way for the “new poor” —the thousands with stationary salaries—to pay their rent is simply to let an outsider pay rent for that extra room, once the courting parlor. The tenements long ago learned to use the “roomer" to cope with the landlord. The flats and apartments are profiting by the lesson. As for the boarding-house landladies, who can blame those harassed women for filing every room under their roofs to help pay the butcher and the baker? President Hibben of Princeton was complaining recently about the frankness and lack of reserve between the young men and women of to-day, but even these candid souls have not reached the point where they'll do their courting in the bosom of their families. If the parlor and solitude a deux is not for them, then neither is the family living room! Hence it is that there never were so many spooners in Central Park as there are to-day—I mean to-night. Every bench is a kissing bench. And the rush is such that two loving couples often are forced to seek accommodations on the same bench! Not even the rain drives them off. When it pours too hard they simply seek refuge in the tunnels. The Park cops are being worn out by their job as civic chaperones [sic]; the Park squirrels, from being interested, and then shocked, are now merely bored. And the deep sea of propriety is much vexed. “How can nice girls make love so publicly!” indignantly exclaim the old maids of either sex. "Nothing like that goes with us," declares the Hudson River Day Line, or, to quote exactly its recent announcement, “All spooning is tabooed from the decks of the boats. We request that the conduct of the young people shall be above criticism. The young women can help largely to control the situation.” Maybe they can—if they take Mr. Masson's advice and "don't love in Gotham.” But if a nice young clerk is so ill advised as to fall in love with a nice young stenographer, will you tell me just how they can do their courting? He can't “say it with flowers.” Theatre tickets, candy—nice candy. There articles are in the luxury class, nowadays, even for ardent lovers. She has no parlor in which she can receive him. They can't afford to go to a decent restaurant and buy enough lemonades, after dinner, to give them the privilege of spending the evening there. There remain the park, the seat on top of the bus, the Coney Island boat —public enough, heaven knows, but at least populated by strangers and not by a too observant family. There is also the sapient scheme of the rookie who took his girl to the Pennsylvania Station, rushed to the gate with her when a train was announced, bade her a fond, an osculatory farewell—then sneaked back to the waiting room and encored the performance when the gates were opened for the next departing train and the next and the next! Who knows but the much criticized cheek-to-check dancing is not merely a pathetic attempt to make love in the face of a cold and hostile world? “Romance is dead, but all unseen romance jazzed up at nine-fifteen, to paraphrase Mr. Kipling. But don't let anybody think he has solved the housing problem until he brings back the beau parlor or gives us a just-as-good substitute. From the New York Evening World, July 14, 1920 DAY LINE TABOOS SPOONING - Hudson Boats to Have Community Song Services. Beginning yesterday, “spooning" was tabooed on the boats of the Hudson River Day Line. Thousands of circulars will be distributed today setting forth the new "directions" of Ebon E. Olcott, the President. "We have said many times that some share of the comfort and enjoyment of the Sunday boat rides rests with each and every one on board.” says the circular. "Will you help us make the memory of these trips wholesome and full of enjoyment? We request that the conduct of the young people shall be above criticism. ... ." There will be a "community service" on the boats each Sunday and a religious service at Pavilion No. 2, at Bear Mountain. From The New York Times, June 13, 1920. Find a summary of this topic here. If you enjoyed this post and would like to support more history blog content, please make a donation to the Hudson River Maritime Museum or become a member today!
Editor’s Note: The following text is a verbatim transcription of an article featuring stories by Captain William O. Benson (1911-1986). Beginning in 1971, Benson, a retired tugboat captain, reminisced about his 40 years on the Hudson River in a regular column for the Kingston (NY) Freeman’s Sunday Tempo magazine. Captain Benson's articles were compiled and transcribed by HRMM volunteer Carl Mayer. This article was originally published December 30, 1973. Fog, that natural phenomenon so prevalent on the river in the fall and spring when the seasons change, has constantly been a problem to boatmen. Obviously, there is always the danger of collision or grounding. Today, the electronic marvel of radar has done much to lessen the danger of the boatmen’s old foe. Prior to World War II, however, there was no radar. Then, the boatmen had nothing to rely upon except their boat’s compass, the echo of their boat’s whistle off the river bank, and their own knowledge of the river with all its tricks of tide, wind and twisting-channels. Few people on shore, unless they at one time had worked on the river, ever realized how extensive and uncanny this knowledge was. Years ago, probably the best men on the river in fog were the captains and pilots of the Cornell Steamboat Company’s big tugboats - the tugs that pulled the big tows of that era, sometimes with as many as 50 or 60 barges and scows in a tow. They had to be good. A steamboat pilot could almost always anchor. But on the big tugs, when the fog would close in with the tide underfoot with a big tow strung out astern and no room to round up and head into the tide, they had no choice but to keep going. One time, back around 1930, there was a company in New York harbor that specialized in the towing of oil barges. Their tugs would push oil barges up the Hudson River and through the New York Barge Canal to cities like Utica, Syracuse and Buffalo. One day one of their tugboats was pushing an oil barge up the river, destined for Buffalo, when off Tarrytown it began to get very foggy. At the time they were overtaking a big Cornell tow in charge of the tug "J. C. Hartt.” As the fog was getting thicker, the captain of the small tug pushing the oil barge went up to the tail end of the Cornell tow and put a line from the oil barge on to the last barge in the ‘‘Hartt’s” tow. He held on until the fog cleared up near Bear Mountain and then let go and went on his way. About two weeks later, when the canal tug and its oil barge got back to New York, the tug captain’s boss came down to the dock and said, “Cap, were you holding on a Cornell tow about two weeks ago?” The tug captain was sort of flustered and sputtered, "Why, why when?” “Well,” replied the boss, “we've got a bill from Cornell here for $65 for towing from Tarrytown to Bear Mountain,” and he then mentioned the times and the date. The oil barge tug’s captain knew his boss had the goods on him, so all he could say was, “Yes, that’s right. I was caught in fog off Tarrytown when they were going by. And you know those Cornell men know the river in fog better than anybody. I knew I'd be safe hanging on and sailing along with them. The boss said, “Well, I guess we'll have to pay it, but don't do it again.” I am sure many other canal tugs did the same thing, some getting away with it and some not. As they used to say along the river, the men on Cornell's steady pullers were the best compasses on the river. Now, those able boatmen, men like Ira Cooper, Al Hamilton, Ben Hoff, Sr., Jim Monahan, John Sheehan, Jim Dee, Albert Van Woert, John Cullen, Dan McDonald, Barney McGooey, Larry Gibbons, Howard Palmatier and a host of others, have long since steered their last tugboat through a fog. And those big, powerful steady pullers, tugboats like the “J. C. Hartt,” “Geo. W. Washburn,” "John H. Cordts,” “Edwin H. Mead,” “Pocahontas,” “Osceola” and “Perseverance” have all towed their final flotilla of scows and barges. Gone forever are the big tugboats with their red and yellow paneled deck houses and towering black smokestacks with their chrome yellow bases. The only thing that remains constant is the River with its changing tides. And the fogs of spring and autumn. AuthorCaptain William Odell Benson was a life-long resident of Sleightsburgh, N.Y., where he was born on March 17, 1911, the son of the late Albert and Ida Olson Benson. He served as captain of Callanan Company tugs including Peter Callanan, and Callanan No. 1 and was an early member of the Hudson River Maritime Museum. He retained, and shared, lifelong memories of incidents and anecdotes along the Hudson River. If you enjoyed this post and would like to support more history blog content, please make a donation to the Hudson River Maritime Museum or become a member today!
Editor's Note: This article, "'Companionship and a Little Fun': Investigating Working Women’s Leisure Aboard a Hudson River Steamboat, July 1919," written by Austin Gallas and published in Lateral 11.2 (2022). https://csalateral.org/issue/11-2/companionship-and-a-little-fun-investigating-working-women-leisure-hudson-river-steamboat-1919-gallas/#:~:text=The%20investigator's%20written%20account%20offers,Hudson%2C%20and%20how%20Progressive%20reformers Article Abstract: This article provides an in-depth consideration of a single report penned on the night of July 27, 1919 by a private detective employed by New York City's Committee of Fourteen (1905-1932), an influential anti-vice and police reform organization. A close reading of the undercover sleuth's account, which details his experiences, subjective judgments, and general observations regarding moral and social conditions while aboard the "Benjamin B. Odell", a palatial Hudson River steamboat enables us to enrich our grasp of the courtship and pleasure-seeking practices popular among working women and men active in New York City's heterosocial and largely segregated amusement landscape during the so-called "Red Summer". Specifically, the report reveals how wage-earning women articulated femininity and sought individual freedoms, companionship, pleasure and romance via Hudson River steamboat excursions. AuthorAustin Gallas recently earned a PhD in Cultural Studies from George Mason University, where he currently teaches in the Department of Communication. His dissertation is titled "Value of Surveillance: Private Policing, Bourgeois Reform, and Sexual Commerce in Turn-of-the-Century New York." Austin's current research interests include undercover surveillance in New York City history, Progressive Era urban police reform, American literary journalism during prohibition, and the sexual and gender politics of the American minimum wage debate of the 1910s. If you enjoyed this post and would like to support more history blog content, please make a donation to the Hudson River Maritime Museum or become a member today!
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