West Seattle

Position: 47°33’40.2″N 122°23’12.6″W

This was to be a light post. A fluffy marshmallow describing our latest housesitting engagement in chichi West Seattle. After 10 minutes of digging around the internet for nuggets of history that might serve as a metaphorical graham cracker for this week’s literary S’more (i.e. some crunchy goodness surrounding a gooey centre), I uncovered a much meatier story. In fact, there is enough historical protein in West Seattle that it could pass for a Beyond Burger.

Alki, not Alchy

After centuries of occupation by Duwamish and Suquamish indigenous peoples, history began on November 13, 1851. On that wet, grey day a shipload of white folks, pioneers from Portland, Oregon, sailed up to Alki Point in the schooner Exact and disembarked. The settlers named their new home “New York Alki”, apparently without irony. Alki is Chinook slang for “by and by”. It should not be confused with a New York wino. To avoid confusion, most people say “al-kye” (rhymes with sky).

After a few weeks of wind, rain, consumption, and general misery, most of the settlers moved across to Elliot Bay to what became Seattle proper. By 1853 only Charles Terry remained. He applied for a plat and swiftly became the sole owner and resident of “Alki”, dropping the “New York” bit in a stroke of marketing genius.

However, months of foul weather hampered economic development and by 1856 Terry had had enough. In one of those historic face slap moments, he swapped his 320 acres on Alki for Doc Maynard’s 260 acres in downtown Seattle. What was Doc thinking? Who knows? But he soon discovered he couldn’t farm his new lands and sold up in 1868. Vision wasn’t Doc’s thing, and he lost two real estate fortunes inside of a generation. His descendants no doubt tell a tale of the billions Doc never handed down to them.

The Long Way Around

For the next 100 years most of West Seattle’s history is taken up with the problem of getting there. Fortunately, its sandy beaches and warm summer sun beckoned holidaymakers. Slowly transportation made its way out to the peninsula. It gained ferry services, and a streetcar connected it to the heart of Seattle. A swing bridge was built at Spokane Street, and it quickly became the central artery for getting to and from town.

Meanwhile, the Duwamish River was dredged for the growing shipping trade. Two bascule bridges (lift bridges) were installed to cope with growing shipping and automobile traffic. Lift bridges are a pain in the arse if you’re in a car. If you get stopped, they open slowly, ships move through them indolently, and then they close glacially. As huge mechanical devices, they need maintenance. If your commute takes you across one you need to plan accordingly and chill out.

That said, bascule bridges are great fun if you’re on a boat. You can hold up traffic in both directions for far longer than people have patience for. As a pleasure boat we are not on the clock. We raised many bridges on the Intracoastal Waterway and in Holland. Given Aleta’s stately progress (six knots), I’m surprised we haven’t been shot at by road raging rednecks. Perhaps her serene beauty quiets their impatience.

The Ship Hits the Span

As West Seattle grew in the 1960s and ‘70s, congestion worsened significantly. Seattle City Council authorized the construction of a new bridge in 1972, but it was delayed for years. First it was concerns about the design and then a series of financial scandals held things up. In the midst of the political morass the freighter Antonio Chavez came to the rescue.

At 550 feet long, the Chavez was humble by modern standards; about the size of freighters plying the Kiel Canal. At the crack of bird fart on the morning of June 11, 1978, the Chavez rammed into the east span of the West Seattle bridge, permanently crippling it. The ship was under the command of its captain, Gojko Gospondnetic, and Rolf Neslund, a Puget Sound Pilot. No one was injured in the accident and presumably the Chavez survived the crash. Captain Gospondnetic was summarily fired, while 80-year-old Neslund retired two weeks later.

The accident finally galvanized Seattle and Washington state politicians into action. Over the next six years a new, high bridge was built. It remains in somewhat tenuous service to this day and keeps maintenance crews busy.

Now this is where things get weird. In the ways only the Pacific Northwest can get weird.

Fishy Tales

Rolf Neslund disappeared in August of 1980, two years after the accident. His body has never been found. Neslund’s wife Ruth was a drunk. When Rolf first disappeared, she claimed he had gone to visit his birthplace in Norway. He never made it. His car was found abandoned at the ferry dock in Anacortes, WA.

Not long afterwards, Ruth’s brother, Paul, told the police his sister had confessed to him that she had murdered her husband. That she had shot him twice in the head and dismembered his body with the help of their other brother Robert. Ruth and Robert then burned Rolf’s remains in a barrel and dumped his ashes on a manure pile.

Police took a backhoe and dug around the grounds of their home without finding anything. Nevertheless, two years later, Ruth was charged and convicted of Rolf’s murder. She later died in prison aged 73, still professing her innocence. The entire sordid tale smells as fishy as a gill net.

In Memoriam

Rolf Neslund is, or was, memorialised by an impromptu statue erected by the Delridge Maritime Historical Society in association with the Center for General Annoyance. The statue first appeared in 2020 and celebrates Rolf’s contribution to maintaining access to West Seattle. Since then, the statue has been moved, vandalized, restored, and rebuilt more than once. For me it echoes Britain’s practice of extolling heroic failures. Long may it stand, say I!

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