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Editor's Note: This article was by Raymond A. Ruge and originally published in the March 1945 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 these websites: White Wings and Black Ice here. HRIYC here Hudson River Ice Yacht Preservation Trust website here THE FALL of 1943 found me in Edmonton, Alberta, most northerly of Canadian cities (almost 800 miles northeast of Vancouver, BC), which enjoys the same long summer days — and the same cold winter — as does Moscow and the Scandinavian Peninsula. I was there on an assignment for the Army, but we did have one day off each week. Throughout the summer nearly every Sunday was devoted to 14-foot dinghy sailing with the Edmonton Yacht Club, and red hot sailors they were, believe me. But now the dinks were laid away and the nights were clear and frosty. By the end of October, it was freezing every night and early duck hunters reported up to two inches of ice on sloughs a few miles to the north. One day, as if by magic, a thumbnail sketch of an ice boat appeared on my desk pad. It went into an envelope with the brief message: “If this interests you, call me up for lunch” and was dispatched to Dr. T. F. MacDonald, commodore of the Edmonton Y.C., figure skater, twice president of the Alberta Fish & Game Association, a real sporting man. The phone rang next day before noon. The good doctor was not only interested, he was enthusiastic. “But,”said he, “no plywood, no dural, no fittings, no this and no that, how in the world can we build a decent ice boat now?” And the question certainly seemed sensible enough. But there was the lake, ready to freeze; there was the sail boat’s rig, ready to use; there were the tools and the shop to work in. So we just decided to start in and see how far we could get. Within a week, the plans were drawn, with simplification and substitution the keynotes of the design. We settled on a simple type of bow-steering boat, similar in basic construction to Icicle (see YACHTING, December, 1936). For the backbone, we had to revert from the modern built-up box fuselage, involving much aircraft plywood and Sitka spruce, to a simple solid stick; in this case, a 20’ piece of 3” by 10” Douglas fir. This was kept full size at the mast step, tapering to 3” by 5” at the bow and 3” by 6” aft, where it rested on the runner plank. All taper cuts were taken off the top, leaving the bottom perfectly straight. This stick was so stiff that no bobstay was rigged and no deflection could be observed even when sailing in a stiff breeze. The design called for a 24’ backbone, so we pieced out our 20’ stick with a ‘‘boomkin” made of two pieces of 34” by 6” screwed to the sides of the main timber and cocked upward at the proper angle to receive the after ends of the shaped side rails. These side rails were two pieces of 3/4’’ by 10” by 14’ spruce; they started from the backbone at the mast step, swung out 17” on each side at the seat, and met again at the extreme after end of the boomkin (or extended backbone). A floor of 14” pine boards was screwed to the under side of the center timber and the rails for 48” from the seat back to the forward spreader which also served as a footrail when sailing. To cut out what might have been a most uncomfortable cold breeze through the cockpit, we floored the rest of it forward of this spreader with the only plywood -available— 3/16” poplar, supposed to be for drawer bottoms, etc. If it doesn’t stand up, it can always be replaced since it is entirely non-structural and serves only as a wind-stopper. The seat back, framed of ¾” stuff, was shaped to a smooth curve from railtop to railtop and was carefully reinforced to take the pull of the sheet. A strip of 1⅛” by 2” maple was securely anchored to the seat back at the center of its upper edge and ran back to the tip of the boomkin, where it formed the center filler of a five-ply ‘‘squeeze”’ consisting of itself, the two pieces of the boomkin and the two side rails. This strip of hardwood acted as a ridgepole for the after deck covering but its main function was to serve as a secure anchorage for the sheet blocks. The “dashboard” (for lack of a better name) was cut from a wide birch board of 1” stock. At each end, it was screwed to a filler block which in turn was securely fastened to the side rail by screws and waterproof glue. From the center of this curving member another ridgepole, this time of pine, ran forward to the mast step block. This served only to carry the forward deck and hence didn’t have to be of hardwood. The mast step was simply a birch block, slotted for the heel of the spar, and screwed to the top of the backbone timber. With the curved seatback and dashboard and their two ridgepoles (running aft and forward respectively) as its only support, 6-ounce canvas was stretched and tacked to the above members and to the top outside edge of the side rails. A small hardwood molding covered the tacks in the rails, and those on the ridgepoles were hidden by arranging the cloth as shown in the sketch. The two-way stretch possible only with fabric enabled this canvas “deck” to take a most pleasing trumpet-shaped curve as it swept up to the dashboard. With no finish whatever, this canvas gave perfect satisfaction for one entire season, and should last for many years. It is easily renewable at any time. The steering gear had started life in a small car of predepression vintage and was obtained from a local auto wrecker for a small consideration. It was mounted directly on the side of the backbone by a couple of 3/8” bolts running through that member. The gear was hung so that the pitman arm swung in a horizontal arc directly under the backbone. A similar arm, complete with ball fitting, was welded to the rudder post just above the fork, and the two were connected by the car’s original drag link, lengthened by cutting and welding in a piece of 3/4” pipe. The steering column was clamped to the underside of the curving dashboard in true automobile style and the entire assembly gave fingertip control and perfect service. Cutting away one section of the steering wheel’s rim gave a bit more room when getting in or out of the cockpit but we decided it wasn’t a good idea after all, because the sheet tended to get fouled in the cutaway wheel when sailing. Incidentally, to get a left turn by moving the top of the wheel to the left — as in a car — it was necessary for the pitman arm on the gear and that on the rudder post to project on opposite sides of the backbone. This meant that the long drag link crossed under the backbone from starboard to port when the rudder was set straight, and that it went through a peculiar twisting motion when in action, but it worked perfectly — so don’t worry if it happens to you! The rudder post bearings were simply two pieces of 3" steel channel let into the top and bottom of the backbone and drilled for a good fit on the rudder post. They were held in place by 1/4" bolts passing horizontally through their flanges and the backbone. They were used in place of the more usual flat plates because of the unusually narrow backbone timber. The rudder post was a short length of 3/4" shaft with a simple steel fork and the above-mentioned pitman arm welded on. A pair of heavy truck valve springs were slipped over the shaft between the pitman arm and the under bearing plate on the backbone; they gave a little shock-absorbing action that seemed to work well. All this miscellaneous ironwork was dug out of the scrap pile at a local junk yard. We had a lucky break on the runner plank, finding two clear spruce boards 1 1/2” by 12” and 16’ long at a local lumber yard. These were glued together with about 6” crown when the clamps were set. After removal of clamps, the crown came back to about 4". The two boards were tapered to 1” thick at the ends before gluing, giving the plank a built-in taper which looked quite professional. The sections between side rails and runner chocks were then shaped out to a streamlined profile. Runner chocks were simply 11” pieces of 3” by 5” by 3/8” angle bolted to the plank. Because structural steel angles are not exactly true right angles, the under side of the plank was carefully planed so that the standing sides (the 5” ones) of the chocks would be parallel and give a good fit to the runners. These angles, too, came from the junk pile. The plank was attached to the backbone by a single U-iron or gammon strap, of ⅝” rod threaded on both ends and bent into a U that just slipped over the after end of the backbone timber and passed through two holes in the plank. There was no attachment of the side rails of the hull to the runner plank. For runner blades, we dug around some more in the junk yard until we unearthed some old T-section steel which looked as if it might have been a rolling door track in better days. It was about 1 1/2” by 2” by 5/16” in cross section. We had the top drilled and countersunk on 4” centers for No. 10 flat head wood screws, and the edge was rough-ground on a wheel to a 90° V. Later dressing with a file was tedious but proved to be feasible in spite of much advice to the contrary. The runner tops were made of oak, 1 3/4” by 4 1/2” in cross section, 53” long for main runners which had 48” shoes, and 41” long for the 36” rudder blade. The tops were doweled with machine bolts spaced 9” apart, running right through the oak from bottom, where the heads were countersunk, to top, where the nuts (with washers) were drawn up tight. These bolts prevent peeling off the runner shoes in a bad skid, and should be tightened up before each season, as the wood dries out and shrinks during the warm summer months. The blades were then screwed on, using 1 1/2” No. 10 steel screws. The sharp section of the blade was kept down to a mere 10” or so directly under the riding bolt. From there, running both forward and aft, the edge was made more and more dull, which served to put a slight rocker into it and also to give an easy entrance and exit, vital for speed. A blade without rocker can’t be turned and one that is sharp for any great distance forward of the riding bolt will grip and cut down speed a lot. All runners rode on 5/8” machine bolts, which were drilled for cotter pins. The hollow sail boat mast had no shrouds below the forestay, and the unsupported spar between the step and this point was too long to be trusted. Accordingly, a simple spar band with three projecting tangs was cut from 1/8” metal and held in place by a single 1/4” bolt running straight through the mast. The extra set of shrouds was made from odds and ends such as are usually at hand in any sailor’s slop chest, and ran from a point half-way between forestay and mast step. All stays terminated in rope lanyards, led to big 3” diameter iron rings attached to plank and backbone by eyebolts. Rope lanyards are not only a cheap and foolproof substitute for turnbuckles, they are also an easy way to piece out the sail boat rigging for the extra length that will be needed on the ice boat. Blocks, like spars, were borrowed from the sail boat but we decided against light summer canvas and had a sail made. A local tent and awning maker undertook the job and did a surprisingly good piece of work. By designing the sail as a flat surface, with a roach on the luff and another on the foot, as well as the usual one on the leach, we succeeded in getting a fine-setting sail which was not too difficult to make. Full-length batten pockets were run parallel to the boom, and track slides were borrowed for the winter from the regular sail boat mainsail. Battens were ripped from a flat-grained two-inch oak plank at a local mill. This gave us edge grain in the battens, which were a full 1/4” thick at the after end, and were planed down to about 1/8” thick at the mast. Since most broken battens are caused by the whipping of the sail when coming about, we taped the three lower ones thoroughly from 1 foot to about 4 feet from the leach. The upper battens don’t get the whipping, and rarely break. Throughout the first winter of use, the sail boat mast stood up beautifully until sundown of the last day of the season, when it somehow contrived to come unstepped and broke when it struck the ice. A new spar was built for the sail boat and a letter received the other day informs me that the doctor has built a typical streamlined ice boat spar for the winter sailing. This stick has a groove plowed in its after edge to recess the sail track and improve the airflow, and it will be stepped on a trailer ball and hardwood socket to permit proper pivoting. The sketches show a typical cross section of the new spar and also the arrangement of the ball-and-socket step. Several factors combine to give an ice boat mast far heavier punishment than is met by a sail boat spar carrying the same area of canvas. In the first place, the speed of the airflow over the ice boat’s sail may easily run from two to four times as fast with the same wind velocity, simply because the boat is able to move so much faster. This means development by the sail of four to sixteen times as much-power and, as a result, four to sixteen times as much induced compression in the mast. Practically. every ice boat mast that “goes” (from causes other than capsizes), buckles and “explodes” from excessive compression. Secondly, the boat cannot heel to every puff; it takes a really hard one to make her hike and, even then, the relief afforded the spar by the heeling action is negligible. Both shrouds and spar should be sized for stresses that may run a good ten times higher than those in a sail boat of comparable sail area. By the same token, the sail should, if possible, be made of heavier canvas and headboard and clew should be most thoroughly reinforced. The entire pull of the sheet, which is nearly always sweated in taut, is transmitted through these two corners of the sail. This is one advantage of the train of single--sheave blocks now standard equipment on ice boats, the sheet pull is spread along the boom and not concentrated at one point. The raked mast with tunnel or “Swedish track” contrives to spread the pull along the mast a bit instead of leaving it all to the headboard, as is the case with a vertical spar and sail track. In addition, raking the mast shortens the length of the leach, thus making it possible to keep the leach taut. The advantage when turning to windward is tremendous. To return to our Canadian boat from this brief digression into ice boat design: In setting up the boat, backbone and runner plank were placed in position and joined by the U-iron (“gammon strap”). The two whisker stays running from bow to runner plank were then set up snug, using a steel tape to check the distance from bow to runner chock on each side until we were sure the plank was square with the backbone. The whisker stays should not be drawn more than snug taut, for they will bend the runner plank and cause the runners to toe in if set up too much. Next, the mast was stepped and the ‘shrouds’ set in approximately the proper position, with just one turn of the rope lanyards. Then the sail was bent and hoisted and the headstays adjusted until the boom had just a slight rise from mast to clew when the sheet was sweated in taut. Shrouds were then set up, but not more than just enough to take the excess slack out of them. Tight-set shrouds simply bend the runner plank, throw constant stress into stays, plank and mast, and may actually cause a broken spar in action on a puffy day. Ice boat rigging always looks sloppy to the racing sail boat man but rest assured, it isn’t that way by accident or from carelessness. That’s the way it should be. The lee shrouds are always very slack when sailing and here is another place where rope lanyards are superior to turnbuckles. The lanyards won’t kink when they go slack, as a turnbuckle or shackle will, and it shouldn’t be necessary to point out that they won’t strip threads or crystallize no matter how far the thermometer drops. Final clincher in these days, is the fact that you can always get some sort of line for lanyards but try to buy a turnbuckle! Thanks to an exceptionally snowless winter, we had a fine lot of sailing with this boat, starting on November 21st and continuing, off and on, until Easter, April 9th. We wound up the season on the last day by sailing the entire twelve-mile length of the lake and back in a fine southwest breeze with the thermometer in the forties. One night of sailing by the illumination of a really exceptional display of Northern Lights was a thrill I shall never forget. Based on our experience, it seems a safe bet that, given some assorted rigging, a lumber yard, a well-stocked junk yard and a little determination, War Babies like this one are entirely feasible. They sure are a lot of fun! 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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Editor's Note: This article was by P.S. Wood and originally published in the US AIR magazine January 1985. 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 these websites: White Wings and Black Ice here. HRIYC here Hudson River Ice Yacht Preservation Trust website here For thousands of enthusiasts, the high-speed excitement of iceboating is a habit that no one wants to break. Oh, you could always think of something - like running triathlons or climbing Mount Everest without oxygen. But of all the self-flagellating activities pursued in the name of sport, few can be more baffling to outsiders, and more compelling to those who are hooked—6,000 at latest count—than iceboating. Some miscreant once likened it to "driving a truck at 90 miles an hour in sub-zero weather down a steep, rutted hill without brakes and with bits of broken windshield flying in your face.” Get one alone, in a reflective moment, preferably in the fall when anticipation is high, and he may tell you what it's really like - or try to: The adrenaline is flowing and there is no cold; with the ice racing past you just inches away, the sense of speed is incredible; on smooth, black ice there is a silence given depth by the whoosh of the wind through the rigging and over the hull. So simple, so pure, so fast, one feels he must be approaching the outer edge, where the worldly crosses the boundary to the intergalactic. What else could bring Charles Edward (Rock) Hildreth at the age of 48 to lay down his hammer and saw (he builds houses in the Hamptons, on eastern Long Island, where his family has lived for ten generations) a little early last Friday - or next Friday, or the Friday after - and hurry home to load up his 1977 Chevy station wagon? On a roof rack go the spars, planks, and hulls of two identical 12-foot DN iceboats. Sails, riggings, runners, sharpening equipment, other tools, and extra clothing are piled inside, until there is just room enough in the front seat for Hildreth and his similarly afflicted buddy, Tom Halsey. Halsey, like his brother John, whose whole family sails, is a potato farmer with 11 generations on the land. (Potato farmers with names like Hildreth, Halsey, and Topping still are well represented in the membership of the local Mecox Bay Ice Yacht Club, but besides the present Commodore, David Lee Brown, who is a sculptor, there are also painters, bank executives, test pilots, doctors, and writers. ABC anchorman Peter Jennings just bought a boat last year and joined the club.) His car loaded, Hildreth then calls a special number and listens to a recording telling him where the action is that weekend—to wit: what lakes have ice and no snow (like as not somewhere deep in New Jersey). Then it's rising at 3:00 a.m., driving for five or six hours, unloading the station wagon, setting up their boats, racing all day, piling into a motel room somewhere for Saturday night, racing all day Sunday, and then driving home. And doing it, often, under arctic conditions that keep the saner segment of the population home by the fire. An affliction. In North America the true ice belt is no more than 150 miles wide. The sport has no true center. It hangs in a shallow arc from Cape Cod on the Eastern Seaboard out to the Great Lakes. On its way it passes through southern New York, New Jersey, and Pennsylvania, the major eastern areas. Midwesterners congregate on the wide-open lakes of Michigan and Wisconsin, where winds sweeping off the plains are relied upon as much as winter thaws to keep the ice open. Europe's ice belt begins in Sweden, and reaches through Germany, Poland, and into the USSR. Four out of the past seven years, Poles and Latvians have won the World Championship - the Worlds, as they are known, sailed in alternate years in North America and Europe in the same DN design boat that Hildreth and Halsey race. With iceboating, as with icebergs, there is a lot below the surface. A great deal, for instance, goes on in Hildreth's basement. It is almost axiomatic that an enthusiast like Hildreth built his own boat. And along about Christmastime it was in his cellar that he set it up for this season - sharpening and aligning the runners (to a tolerance of a few thousandths of an inch), checking all the fastenings, touching up the varnish. In fact, like most ardent iceboaters who have pursued the sport for a decade or more, Hildreth has built a series of boats (six DNs in his case, and he is already planning a seventh, because there's a slight weight refinement he would like to make). Although it is possible to buy a ready-made DN (cost with mast and sail runs about $2,500, but $1,000 should buy a serviceable second-hand boat), a large part of the challenge and pleasure of the sport is in the building, whether it be within the strict limits of the DN design (more on this later) or some imaginative aberration. Hildreth actually started when he was 12 - not just with the traditional bed sheet, broom handle, boards, and old ice skates, but with hand-me-down parts from his older brothers' and their friends' boats. Today there are dirt bikes and snowmobiles and weekend trips to ski country to sate a young boy's appetite for thrills, but when Hildreth was starting out, just after World War II, there wasn't much a kid could do outdoors in winter on the flat eastern end of Long Island except take an iceboat out on Mecox Bay when it froze. The boats Hildreth and his confreres sailed then - they called them A boats - were larger than DNs. They were gaff-rigged, usually carried a couple of passengers, and by today's standards were clumsy. But when wind and ice were just right, they went like the blazes and produced enough excitement to hook a kid for life. Editor’s Note: Wikipedia has an illustration of Gaff sail parts labeled. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gaff_rig The A boats are pretty much gone now, relegated like horse-drawn carriages to the backs of barns. Their progeny have developed along two distinct lines, skeeters and DNs. Skeeters are to iceboating what formula one racing cars are to the automotive world. The sole design specification is sail area, 75 square feet. Beyond that they represent the cutting edge of iceboat development. Anything goes, so that a skeeter regatta may produce an assemblage as varied and colorful as the Westminster Dog Show. And the boats really fly, reaching speeds of up to five times that of the wind, which translates to a top speed of 80 or 90 mph. The smaller DNs (62 square feet of sail), on the other hand, belong to a strictly regulated class. Weight, materials, and configuration are all specified to knife-edge limits. And still there is enough difference between boats to make the building and tuning of them as important as - or perhaps more important than - how well their skippers handle them out on the ice. 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. Then, in 1933, a design breakthrough occurred as important to ice-boating as rocketry was to the aeronautical industry. Walter Beauvois from William Bay, Wisconsin, built what was, by the standards of the day, a mere toy. It had a 13-foot hull and a single, stiffly battened sail measuring 75 square feet. But the significant difference was that Beauvois sailed her backwards. That is, he turned the sail and runners 180 degrees so that now the steering runner was out front. The harder she was driven the more firmly her front runner held the ice. No flicker, though like any iceboat she still might hike a windward runner. And though far smaller than other iceboats of the day (and thus less expensive, more easily transported, and able to be sailed singlehandedly), Beau Skeeter, as he named his creation, outraced all comers. Here was a boat - the skeeter, as it would universally become known - that any man might aspire to own. Four years later, at the height of the Depression, this democratization of a hitherto rich man's sport was completed with the appearance of the "DN." The letters stand for Detroit News, the newspaper that published the plans, following a contest for an easy-to-build, inexpensive iceboat of minimum size. The design - 12 feet long, 62 square feet of sail, single-handed - has become the world standard for racing. The only significant inhibiting factor that keeps an iceboat from accelerating steadily until it reaches the speed of light and disappears into a time warp is what aeronautical engineers call drag. Drag builds with speed through a liquid or gaseous medium. It is the negative force that acts on the trailing edge of any surface, be it a car or a falling rock. Streamlining reduces drag. Even the most perfect airfoil, however, is subject to drag. When drag builds to the point that it equals the forward thrust, the iceboat has reached terminal velocity. It can't go any faster. What is intriguing to soft-water sailors is that on ice this natural speed limit is so much higher than in water. Even for a little DN, this may be as high as 80 or 90 mph, which, when one is skimming along on one's back only inches over the ice, gives an illusion of speed that transcends the supersonic, many times the six-mile distance. But the speed is real. Races, which begin with a running start, are three times up and down a mile-long course, set by a single leeward and windward mark. That is six miles by the tape, but a race may be over in minutes, even though the boats, dashing out on wide tacks, upwind and down, will cover many times the six-mile distance. 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 excerpts are from the January 3, 1875 issue of the "New York Times". Thank you to Contributing Scholar George A. Thompson for finding and cataloging this article. The language, spelling and grammar of the article reflects the time period when it was written. Loading Her Up. Scenes on the Docks. The Shipping Clerk – The Freight – The Canal-Boat Children. I am seeking information in regard to the late 'longshoremen's strike, and am directed to a certain stevedore. I walk down one of the longest piers on the East River. The wind comes tearing up the river, cold and piercing, and the laboring hands, especially the colored people, who have nothing to do for the nonce, get behind boxes of goods, to keep off the blast, and shiver there. It was damp and foggy a day or so ago, and careful skippers this afternoon have loosened all their light sails, and the canvas flaps and snaps aloft from many a mast-head. I find my stevedore engaged in loading a three-masted schooner, bound for Florida. He imparts to me very little information, and that scarcely of a novel character. "It's busted is the strike," he says. "It was a dreadful stupid business. Men are working now at thirty cents, and glad to get it. It ain't wrong to get all the money you kin for a job, but it's dumb to try putting on the screws at the wrong time. If they had struck in the Spring, when things was being shoved, when the wharves was chock full of sugar and molasses a coming in, and cotton a going out, then there might have been some sense in it. Now the men won't never have a chance of bettering themselves for years. It never was a full-hearted kind of thing at the best. The boys hadn't their souls in it. 'Longshoremen hadn't like factory hands have, any grudge agin their bosses, the stevedore, like bricklayers or masons have on their builders or contractors. Some of the wiser of the hands got to understand that standing off and refusing to load ships was a telling on the trade of the City, and a hurting of the shipping firms along South street. The men was disappointed in course, but they have got over it much more cheerfuller than I thought they would. I never could tell you, Sir, what number of 'longshoremen is natives or aint natives, but I should say nine in ten comes from the old country. I don't want it to happen again, for it cost me a matter of $75, which I aint going to pick up again for many a month." I have gone below in the schooner's hold to have my talk with the stevedore, and now I get on deck again. A young gentleman is acting as receiving clerk, and I watch his movements, and get interested in the cargo of the schooner, which is coming in quite rapidly. The young man, if not surly, is at least uncommunicative. Perhaps it is his nature to be reticent when the thermometer is very low down. I am sure if I was to stay all day on the dock, with that bitter wind blowing, I would snap off the head of anybody who asked me a question which was not pure business. I manager, however, to get along without him. Though the weather is bitter cold, and I am chilled to the marrow, and I notice the young clerk's fingers are so stiff he can hardly sign for his freight, I quaff in my imagination a full beaker of iced soda, for I see discharged before me from numerous drays carboys of vitriol, barrels of soda, casks of bottles, a complicated apparatus for generating carbonic-acid gas – in fact, the whole plant of a soda-water factory. I do not quite as fully appreciate the usefulness of the next load which is dumped on the wharf – eight cases clothes-pins, three boxes wash-boards, one box clothes-wringers. Five crates of stoneware are unloaded, various barrels of mess beef and of coal-oil, and kegs of nails, cases of matches, and barrels of onions. At last there is a real hubbub as some four vans, drawn by lusty horses, drive up laden with brass boiler tubes for some Government steamer under repairs in a Southern navy-yard. The 'longshoremen loading the schooner chaff the drivers of the vans as Uncle Sam's men, and banter them, telling them "to lay hold with a will." The United States employees seem very little desirous of "laying hold with a will," and are superbly haughty and defiantly pompous, and do just as little toward unloading the vans as they possibly can thus standing on their dignity, and assuming a lofty demeanor, the boxes full of heavy brass tubes will not move of their own accord. All of a sudden a dapper little official, fully assuming the dash and elan of the navy, by himself seizes hold of a box with a loading-hook; but having assert himself, and represented his arm of the service, having too scratched his hand slightly with a splinter on one of the boxes, he suddenly subsides and looks on quite composedly while the stevedore and 'longshoreman do all the work. Now I am interested in a wonderful-looking man, in a fur cap, who stalks majestically along the wharf. Certainly he owns, in his own right the half-dozen craft moored alongside of the slip. He has a solemn look, as he lifts one leg over the bulwark of a schooner just in from South America, and gets on board of her. He produces, from a capacious pockets, a canvas bag, with U.S. on it, and draws from it numerous padlocks and a bunch of keys. He is a Custom-house officer. He singles out a padlock, inserts it into a hasp on the end of an iron bar, which secures the after-hatch, snaps it to, gives a long breath which steams in the frosty air, and then proceeds, with solemn mein, to perform the same operation on the forward hatch. Unfortunately, the Government padlock will not fit, and, being a corpulent man, he gets very red in the face as he fumbles and bothers over it. Evidently he does not know what to do. He seems very woebegone and wretched about it, as the cold metal of the iron fastening makes it uncomfortable to handle. Evidently there is some block in the routine, on account of that padlock, furnished by the United States, not adapting itself to the iron fastenings of all hatches. He goes away at last, with a wearied and disconsolate look, evidently agitating in his mind the feasibility of addressing a paper to the Collector of the Port, who is to recommend to Congress the urgency of passing measures enforcing, under due pains and penalties, certain regulations prescribing the exact size of hatch-fastenings on vessels sailing under the United States flag. "Canal Boats on the North River, New York" by Wade, "Gleason's Pictorial Drawing-Room Companion," December 25, 1852. Note the sail-like signs for various towing lines and destinations, as well as the jumble of lumber and cargo boxes on the pier at left, waiting to be loaded onto the canal boats (or vice versa). I return to my schooner. By this time the wharf is littered with bales of hay, all going to Florida. I wonder whether it is true, as has been asserted, that the hay crop is worth more to the United States than cotton? I think, though, if cotton is king, hay is queen. Now comes an immense case, readily recognized as a piano. I do not sympathize with this instrument. Its destination is somewhere on the St. John's River. Now, evidently the hard mechanical notes of a Steinway or a Chickering must be out of place if resounding through orange groves. A better appreciation of music fitting the locality would have made shipments of mandolins, rechecks, and guitars. Freight drops off now, and comes scattering in with boxes of catsup, canned fruits, and starch. Right on the other side of the dock there is a canal-boat. She has probably brought in her last cargo. And will go over to Brooklyn, where she will stay until navigation opens in the Spring. There is a little curl of smoke coming from the cabin, and presently I see two tiny children – a boy and a girl – look through the minute window of the boat, and they nod their heads and clap their hands in the direction of the shipping clerk. The boy looks lusty and full of health, but the little girl is evidently ailing, for she has her little head bound up in a handkerchief, and she holds her face on one side, as if in pain. The little girl has a pair of scissors, and she cuts in paper a continuous row of gentlemen and ladies, all joining hands in the happiest way, and she sticks them up in the window. This ornamentation, though not lavish, extends quite across the two windows, the cabin is so small. Having a decided fancy, a latent talent, for making cut-paper figures myself, I am quite interested, as is the receiving clerk. I twist up, as well as my very cold fingers will allow, a rooster and a cock-boat out of a piece of paper, and I place them on a post, ballasting my productions with little stones, so that they should not blow away. The children are instantly attracted, and the little boy, a mere baby, stretches out his hands. My attention is called to a dray full of boxes, which are deposited on the wharf for our schooner. Somehow or other the receiving clerk, without my asking him, tells me of his own accord what they contain – camp-stools. I can understand the use of camp-stools in Florida: how the feeble steps of the invalid must be watched, and how, with the first inhalation of the sweet balmy air, bringing life once more to those dear to us, some loving hand must be nigh, to offer promptly rest after fatigue. I return to my post, but alas my rooster and cock-boat have been blown overboard; the wind was too much for them. I kiss my hand to the little girl, who smiles with only one-half of her face; the stiff neck on the other side prevents it. The little boy points to the post and makes signs for more cock-boats. Snow there happens to come along on that wharf an ambulant dealer with a basket containing an immense variety of the most useless articles. He has some of the commonest toys imaginable, selected probably for the meagre purses of those who raise up children on shipboard. There are wooden soldiers, with very round heads but generally irate expressions, and small horses, blood-red, with tow tails and wooden flower-post, with a tuft of blue moss, from which one extraordinary rose blossoms, without a leaf or a thorn on the stem. On that post for ten cents that ambulant toy man put five distinct object of happiness, when the shipping clerk interfered. "It's a swindle, Jacob," he said. That young man was certainly posted in the toy market along the wharves. "You ain't going to sell those things two cents a piece, when they are only a penny? You must be wanting to retire after first of the year. Bring out five more of them things. Three more flower-pots and two more horses. The little girl takes the odd one. What's this doll worth? Ten cents! Give you five. Hand it over. Now clear out. I see you, Sir, watching them children. Poor little mites. No mother, Sir. Father decent kind of fellow; says their ma died this Spring. Has to bring 'em up himself, and is forced to leave them most all day. He is only a deck-hand and will be the boat-keeper during Winter. Been noticing them babies ever since I have been loading the schooner – most a week – and been a wanting to do something for their New-Year's. A case of mixed candies busted yesterday, and they got some. They have been at the window ever since, expecting more; but nothing busted. You can't get in; the cabin is locked, but I can manage it through the window." So my young friend climbed on board, with the toys in his pocket, lifted up the sash, and passed through the toys one by one, the especial rights of proprietorship having been carefully enjoined. Presently all the soldiers and the follower-pots were stuck in the window, and the little girl was hugging the doll. "Loading her up; taking in freight for a vessel of a Winter's day on a wharf isn't fun," said the young gentlemen sententiously. "I shouldn't think it was," I replied. "In fact, there ain't much of anything to see or do on a wharf which is interesting to a stranger." "You are from the country, ain't you?" asked the young man with a smile. "Never seen New-York before? Wish you a happy New Year, anyhow." I did not exactly how there could be any reservation as to wishing me a happy New Year whether I was from the country or not, but supposing that this singularity of expression arose from the general character of the young man, or because he was uncomfortable from the frosty weather, I returned the compliment, inquiring "whether a stiff neck was not very hard on children," and not being a family man, added, "They all get it sometimes, and get over it, don't they ?" "It ain't a stiff neck, it's mumps. Mother sent me a bottle of stuff for the child three days ago, and her father has been rubbing it on, and she's most over it now. When I was a little boy," added the clerk reflectively, "toys cured most everything as was the matter with me." "Just my case," I replied, as we shook hands and I left the wharf. 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 written by George W. Murdock, for the Kingston (NY) Daily Freeman newspaper in the 1930s. Murdock, a veteran marine engineer, wrote a regular column. Articles transcribed by HRMM volunteer Adam Kaplan. Oseola The steamboat “Oseola” was one of the Hudson river vessels which were in service in the early days of steam navigation on the river and were then taken to other rivers, passing from the pages of Hudson river steamboats. Records of river-craft contain little information about the “Oseola,” but one fact that is evident throughout the sparse recordings of this vessel was her ability to sail up and down the river at a faster pace than most of the other steamboats of her size at that particular time in the river’s history. The wooden hull of the steamboat “Oseola” was constructed by William Brown at New York in the year 1838. She was built for the celebrated Alfred DeGroot, at that period a brilliant figure in the activities of the Hudson river, and was scheduled for service on the waters discovered by Henry Hudson in his quest for a short route to India. Known to rivermen as one of the “clippers of her day,” the “Oseola” was placed in service between New York and Fishkill- running as a dayboat and making landings at intermediate points along the river. The only indication as to the size of the “Oseola” comes from a recorded observation that she was “one of the fastest small boats on the river,” but her actual dimensions have been lost in the maze of steamboat histories that have come down through the years of steamboat navigation. After making numerous trips on the New York-Fishkill route, the “Oseola” established a name for herself as a fast vessel, and her trips were extended up the river to Poughkeepsie. She plied the waters between New York and Poughkeepsie for the balance of her first season. In the spring of 1839 the “Oseola” was placed in service between the city of Hudson and New York, under the command of Captain Robert Mitchell. She left New York at the foot of Chambers street every Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday at four o’clock for Hudson, and made landings at Caldwell’s, West Point, Fishkill, New Hamburgh, Milton, Poughkeepsie, Hyde Park, Thompson’s Dock, Kingston, Red Hook, Bristol and Catskill. On her trip down the river the “Oseola” left Hudson every Monday, Wednesday and Friday morning at 6 o’clock, and made the same landings on her return trip. At Hudson she landed at the old State Prison wharf at the foot of Amos street where both freight and passengers were discharged or taken aboard. The steamboat “Oseola” plied the waters of the Hudson river for several years and was then taken to the Delaware river. The length of her service on the Hudson river, or how long her career continued. after she appeared on the Delaware river, is unknown, as the record of her service closes with her transfer to the Delaware river. AuthorGeorge W. Murdock, (b. 1853-d. 1940) was a veteran marine engineer who served on the steamboats "Utica", "Sunnyside", "City of Troy", and "Mary Powell". He also helped dismantle engines in scrapped steamboats in the winter months and later in his career worked as an engineer at the brickyards in Port Ewen. In 1883 he moved to Brooklyn, NY and operated several private yachts. He ended his career working in power houses in the outer boroughs of New York City. His mother Catherine Murdock was the keeper of the Rondout Lighthouse for 50 years. 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 excerpts are from the "Jamestown (NY) Journal" 1858-1859.. Thank you to Contributing Scholar George A. Thompson for finding, cataloging and transcribing this article. The language, spelling and grammar of the article reflects the time period when it was written. How we smile now at the bungling expedient for rapid traveling that prevailed twenty years ago. By canal boats from Troy through the nine locks at a cent and a half a mile, and board yourself. By packet from Schenectady west, drawn by three horses, on a slow trot, and three days to Buffalo. And up and down yonder hill crept the first railroad, with cars hung on thoroughbraces, and seats for nine inside, and some outside, which were dragged up an inclined place one hundred and eight feet to the half mile, by a stationary engine, and then over the sand plains to the head of State street in Albany. And this was then such a triumph of engineering. What a change! where our fathers crept we fly. The mountains they climb, we tunnel. The hills they toiled up, we level, or divide by a deep cut, thrown arches over ravines at them impassible. . . . Jamestown Journal (Jamestown, N. Y.), July 16, 1858, p. 2 Correspondence of the Journal. VACATION LETTERS, . . . NO. 4. To New York over the Erie Rail Road -- Sleeping Cars -- New York to New Haven . . . . *** On arriving at Dunkirk, we boarded the Night Express, and took our seats in the luxuriously furnished sleeping car, determining to try the virtue of this boasted institution. Lodgings were furnished at 50 cents a man. My little girl who accompanied me was stowed in without extra charge. There were 40 berths in the car, four in each tier, one double birth at the bottom and two above. The upper berths were cane seated frames, the ends of which were fixed into sockets, while the bottoms of the lower were of wood. All were covered with nice hair mattresses, and pillows enclosed by damask curtains, making a very handsome appearance. About nine o'clock the chambermaid who was a buxom, round faced laddie [sic], made up the berths and we turned in. There were about thirty sleepers in the car. *** Think of sleeping in a car, rushing at the rate of thirty miles an hour, along the brink of lofty precipices, leaping black ravines, threading deep cuts, mounting lofty viaducts, and careering through some of the most splendid scenery in the world. ** Jamestown Journal (Jamestown, N. Y.), September 2, 1859, p. 2 [Editor's Note: He remembers the Green Mountains of his childhood] Yet when I visit that place it is all changed. The old forest is gone, the speckled trout have forsaken the pools; the streams are dried up, or flow in straight spade-cut channels, the roaring branch is trained through sluices, or broken over water-wheels. *** Jamestown Journal (Jamestown, N. Y.), July 16, 1858, p. 2 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 are excerpts from NY Herald, September 7, 1857, p. 1, cols. 1-5 -- The New York Ferries. Thank you to Contributing Scholar George A. Thompson for finding, cataloging and transcribing this article. The language, spelling and grammar of the article reflects the time period when it was written. THE NEW YORK FERRIES. Visit of Inspection of One of the Herald Reporters to each Boat and Ferry Landing, and what he saw there -- Condition of Boats, and Means taken for Life Saving *** EAST RIVER. EIGHTY-SIXTH STREET OR HELL GATE FERRY. This ferry has but two boats, the Astoria, of 119 tons, built in 1840, and the Sunswick, of 129 tons, built in 1848. They are both built after the same primitive style of the Hoboken ferry boats. . . . *** Wednesday of every week this ferry is almost entirely converted into a cattle ferry, a large number crossing on almost every boat, which renders it anything but pleasant or agreeable for foot passengers. *** GREENPOINT, TENTH AND TWENTY-THIRD STREET FERRIES. THE TRIPS. The Tenth street ferry has two boats on from four o'clock in the morning until nine o'clock at night, so that one boat leaves the slip on either side of the river every ten minutes during those hours. From nine o';clock until quarter past one at night there is but one boat on, making twenty minute trips, after that hour, up to four o'clock in the morning, no boat runs. On the Twenty-third street ferry there is but one boat running from six o';clock in the morning up to ten o'clock at night, making fifteen minute trips. . . . THE LIGHTS. This company have set an example worthy of following by some of the other companies in respect to lighting their ferry slips, bridges and passenger ways at night, there being ten large gas lights inside of the ferry gates, two of them being at the end of each bridge. The boats all present a neat and clean appearance, the ladies cabins all being well cushioned. . . . *** Most of the business done by the ferry . . . is by the crossing of country wagons. . . . A very large number of funerals, also cross this ferry daily on their way to Calvary Cemetery. The foot passing over these ferries is as yet quite insignificant, owing in great measure to the fact that there is no shipbuilding or other mechanical business of any account going on at Greenpoint at present, and the fact that fever and ague abounds in the village of Greenpoint to a greater or less extent during the warm weather. HOUSTON STREET FERRY. *** The boats are usually kept in cleanly and comfortable condition, with the exception of lights in the cabins at night, which are very deficient, they being scarcely sufficient for passengers, sitting opposite each other to discern the precise complexion of their neighbor's countenance, much less to read by. . . . Two boats are kept running from five o'clock in the morning until ten o';clock at night. . . . After ten o'clock at night there is but one boat running until five in the morning. . . . *** PECK SLIP, DIVISION AVENUE AND GRAND STREET FERRIES. [Editor's Note: long discussion of the lack of accommodations] THE JAMES SLIP AND SOUTH TENTH STREET FERRY. [began running last May] The boats of this ferry are the "George Law", of 400 tons, one year old, and "George Washington", 400 tons, the same age, both of which are double decked, clean, commodious and well cushioned. *** The bridges on each side of the river are forty feet long, and thirty feet wide, on floats. The houses each have two fine sitting rooms for ladies and gentlemen, the seats in all of which are handsomely cushioned, the same as the ladies; cabins on the boats. *** The pilots employed on the boats of this company are quite too careless and reckless of human life. . . . *** UNION FERRY COMPANY. [Fulton Ferry: 4 boats; Wall street Ferry: 2 boats; Atlantic, or South street Ferry, 3 boats; Hamilton Avenue Ferry, 4 boats; Roosevelt street Ferry, 2 boats; Catherine street Ferry, 2 boats] *** South ferry run three boats every five minutes from 5 in the morning until 10 o'clock at night, and two up to 12 o';clock, after which there is one untill 5 in the morning. The Hamilton avenue ferry runs four boats during the day and one all night, as fast as they can be run. The Fulton ferry has four boats on all day and two on all night. The Catherine and Roosevelt street ferries have two boats on all day, and one all night at the Catherine ferry, and one on up to nine o'clock on the Roosevelt street ferry. The Wall street ferry has two boats on during the day, and one on from six in the evening until twelve at night, when both are drawn off until four o'clock in the morning. [a new boat is being built, that will have gas lights in the cabins] JERSEY CITY FERRY. *** [among the boats on this ferry is the] "John S. Darcy", built in 1857, tonnage 700, and one hundred horse poser engine. . . . This boat has just been put on the ferry, and is a perfect floating palace. She is lit up with gas, which is introduced in tanks . . . ; these tanks being filled and taken on board as often as necessary. *** Three boats are run on the Jersey city ferry from 4 o'clock in the morning until half-past 10 o'clock, making about ten minute trips. From half-past ten at night until four in the morning two boats are run, making half hour trips. THE HOBOKEN FERRIES. This ferry being the principal breathing outlet to the city, especially for women and children, who desire to take a sail during the warm weather, and the thousands who daily visit Hoboken, of all sexes and ages for pleasure, it is something to be regretted that the present owner of the several ferries, Edwin A. Stevens, Esq., does not take more active means to provide against any accident of emergency which is so liable to arise at any moment, especially on boats so continually crowded as those are with females and children. *** The following are the names and ages of the boats owned on these ferries: -- BARCLAY STREET FERRY James Watts, built in 1851, tonnage 312 31-95. Patterson, built in 1854; tonnage 360 62-95. CANAL STREET FERRY John Fitch, built in 1845, tonnage 125 75-95. CHRISTOPHER STREET FERRY Phoenix, registered in the custom house as Fairy Queen, built in 1826, and subsequently cut in two, and about 70 feet added to her middle. She is 141 81-95 tons burden. SPARE BOATS. Chancellor Livingston, built in 1852; tonnage 457 61-95. Newark, built in 1827; tonnage 175 17-95. Hoboken, built in 1822; tonnage 322 20-95 These boats are all built in the primitive style, with but one carriage way, and no separate passage for foot passengers. [their life boats] The John Fitch has a metallic life boat the proper length. The Hoboken, which issued on the Christopher street ferry as a cattle boat, is without any boat, corks, boat hooks, ladders, floats, or any conveniences whatever for saving life, with the exception of one old cork life preserver, hung on the upper deck. The boats on the Newark and Phoenix are miserable concerns and unfit for use. . . . Those on the other four boats are better, but not such as should be provided, with the single exception of the metallic boat. Each of the six boats, are otherwise supplied with from five to six cork buoys, only one of which on either boat is supplied with a lanyard, and one pike pole, all of which are kept tied to braces on the upper decks of the boat, and consequently would be of . . . little purpose . . . in the event of an unlooked for accident. . . . The Phoenix is said by those who should know to be unsafe, and entirely unfit for use as a ferry boat. *** The ferry bridges are for the most part swing bridges, the only suitable ferry house being that at the foot of Barclay street. On the Hoboken side carts and wagons are driven in every direction at hap hazard, inside of the gates promiscuously among the passengers, rendering it anything but agreeable or safe for foot passengers, especially during the busy portions of the day. 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!
MORE than 100 years ago, people regularly congregated at the Hudson River for winter entertainment and recreation. It was not uncommon to see thousands of people gather on the frozen river for carnivals of music, dancing, food, skating and, most thrilling, ice yacht races. The enthusiasm for the sport a century ago is not surprising, given that the boats could reach speeds well above that of the trains running along the river. The sepia-toned era of winter sports on the Hudson is largely dead, not because of advances in home entertainment or newer extreme sports, but mainly because of a pattern of warmer winters, the river simply doesn't freeze over as often or as deeply as it once did. The long seasons of yesteryear, with dozens of ice yachts and large crowds of onlookers, has turned into the occasional weekend outing, with a small but dedicated group of enthusiasts keeping history alive. Nathaniel Brooks for The New York Times. February 12, 2009. For information about current ice boating on the Hudson River go to these websites: White Wings and Black Ice here. HRIYC here Hudson River Ice Yacht Preservation Trust website here The following photos were taken at Barrytown, NY, near the Rokeby Estate on March 2, 2014. Photos by Joan F. Mayer. Tugboat and Barge Traffic in the channel on the west side of the Hudson River. Photos by Joan F. Mayer. The following photos were taken of the Hudson River near Barrytown, NY on February 8, 2003. Photos by Joan F Mayer The video below is from the YouTube channel of Hudson River Ice Yacht Club member Glen Burger at:: https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCqStQRB0uvQ53M2a0XKQrCw 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!
1909 Canal tow upriver from "Canal Boatman: My Life on Upstate Waterways" by Richard Garrity"1/19/2024 Editor's Note: These are excerpts taken from pages 58-64 of "Canal Boatman: My Life on Upstate Waterways" by Richard Garrity, published by Syracuse University Press, 1977. "Toward evening a harbor tug towed us up the North River, where we were placed in the Cornell tow being made up opposite 52nd street. The tow was tied to what was called the 'stake boat,' anchored in the middle of the river. The anchored boats would swing around with the tide when it ran in or out. Tie-up lines stayed tight as the anchored boats rose and fell with the tide. The boatmen now had to stay aboard their boats until the two reached its destination. Early the next morning we started for Albany. Soon after we were underway we were passing by Riverside Park, where the well-known landmark, Grant's Tomb could be seen close to the shoreline. Next we passed Spuyten Duyvil Creek, which separates the northern end of Manhattan Island from the mainland. The creek was named 'Spitting Devil' by the early Dutch settlers because of the violent cross-currents and eddies which occurred when the tide was running in or out. Twelve miles or so from New York we came to the beginning of the Palisades, a series of rocky cliffs that extend for miles along the New Jersey shore on the west side of the river. Resembling tall columns or pillars, they are from 350 to 500 feet in height, an imposing and majestic sight to view while moving slowly up the Hudson. The Palisades ended in Rockland County, New York, but on the way we had passed Yonkers, Dobbs Ferry, Tarrytown, and the village of Rockland Lake. One of my earliest recollections of the Hudson River was the time we were put in a Hudson tow and dropped off at Rockland Lake, soon after we had unloaded lumber in Brooklyn. The village is on the west shore of the Hudson about twenty-eight miles from New York. Here we loaded crushed stone for an upstate road-building job. The crushed stone from Rockland Lake was highly valued as a base for good roads. Canal boats carried the stone to many places in the state. Some of it went as far west as Seneca Falls, where it was used for a road-building job between that won and Waterloo., While waiting to load on that earlier trip, I remember a warm evening we all went swimming in the Hudson. The bathing party included our family and a young woman named Clara, a guest and friend of my mother from Tonawanda, who had come along for a pleasure trip. While we were all swimming, it was mentioned how much easier it was to swim and float in salt water. What I remember best was my Dad paddling around with me on his back, as i had not yet learned to swim. When slowly passing up the Hudson in a river tow it was always a pleasing sight to see the large passenger boats that ran between New York and Albany. When they met or passed tows on the river, you could see the spray and foam rising from the side wheels and hear the noise of the paddles as they slapped the water. On the top deck, one could see the walking beam that connected the boat's engines to the paddle wheels, constantly rising up and down, driving the boat forward and creating a huge swell as it neared the tow. These swells always brought forth a few cuss words from the canal and bargemen, because they made the tow heave and surge, sometimes breaking the towlines. When passing a tow, the passenger boats always slowed down some, but never enough to suit the men in charge of the tow. When we reached Kingston, we were no longer in salt water. The natural current in the Hudson River kept the tide from carrying the salt water any farther upstream. From Kingston almost to Albany, the shores of the river were dotted with wooden ice houses, which were filled each winter when the river had frozen over. During the season of navigation the ice was shipped by special barges to New York City. Electric refrigeration was a long way off when these ice houses were built. The ice barges were picked up and dropped off at the various ice houses by the same large tows that handled the canal boats on the river. The ice houses and barges belonged to the Knickerbocker Ice. Co. The deck house and cabin of the barges were painted bright yellow, and the hull of the lower part was light gray color. Each barge had a windmill mounted on top of the cabin, which powered a bilge pump that kept the barge free of melting ice and bilge water. Not many barge captains would stay on a boat where they had to strain their backs, working a hand pump every spare moment. The company's name and the windmill mounted on a ten-foot-high tower atop the covered ice barge's after cabin always made me think of Holland. After passing the city of Hudson on the north shore of the river, the valley widened and the river narrowed, becoming low marshland as we approached Albany and Rensselaer, which were on opposite sides of the Hudson. This was the destination of the large tow which had consisted of many types of barges and canal boats when it had left New York City forty-eight hours earlier. By the time we arrived at Albany, the tow consisted mostly of canal boats. Along the river we had dropped off ice and sand barges, brick, stone, and cement barges, and some barges to be repaired at the Rondout and Kingston boatyards. At that time many of the industries along the river used different types of barges to ship their products to New York City." 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Editor's Note: These are excerpts taken from pages 55-58 of "Canal Boatman: My Life on Upstate Waterways" by Richard Garrity, published by Syracuse University Press, 1977. "Departing from Tonawanda in midsummer, with two boat loads of lumber consigned to the Steinway piano factory in Brooklyn, we made a trip over the Erie Canal and down the Hudson River to New York City that I recall with much pleasure. It was 1909. I was six in August and was then old enough to be a wide-eyed and interested observer of everything, from the time we were put in the Hudson River tow at Albany, until we returned there eight days later. The steersman had been laid off when we arrived at Albany. My Uncle Charles, mother's younger brother who was driving our mules that summer, was put in charge of the head boat. My father and mother, and my older brother Jim, myself, a younger sister, and a baby brother were on the second boat, the "Sol Goldsmith". Before the start of a tow down the Hudson it was necessary to assemble and make up the tow as the canal boats arrived at Albany. I was told by older boatmen that in the early days when canal shipping was very busy, the tows were made up on the Albany and Rensselaer side of the river, but in my day they were made up only on the Rensselaer side of the river below the bridges. This eliminated the risk of the large two striking the Albany-Rensselaer bridge piers when starting down the river. Nor did it interfere with the Albany harbor traffic while being assembled. Once the tow was underway it was a period of relaxation for the boatmen. No steersmen were needed, since the tugs guided the boats. There would be no locks to pass through or time spent caring for animals as the teams were let out to pasture in the Albany vicinity until the boats returned from New York. Only the lines holding the boats together were to be inspected and kept tight. The boats would be kept pumped out, and that was it until the tow reached New York. This would take about 48 hours. Many of the boatmen did odd jobs, such as splicing lines, caulking, painting decks and cabin tops, and handling other small repair jobs. They also visited back and forth. I enjoyed going with Father when he visited other boatmen in tow, because I liked to hear them talk of other canal men they knew, and to hear them tell of things that had happened to them while going up and down the canal. My first visit with him aboard a "Bum Boat" that came out to the two opposite Kingston was a very satisfying event, for I never expected to be eating fresh ice cream, purchased going down the middle of the Hudson River. The Bum Boats sold – at regular retail prices to the boatmen – fresh meats, baked goods, eggs, soft drinks, candy, ice cream, and other such commodities. Coming alongside, it hooked onto our tow while the boatmen when aboard and bought what they wanted, including cold bottled beer. The small canopied Bum Boats were steam powered. They stayed alongside until we met another river tow going in the opposite direction. Leaving us, they tied onto the other two and returned to their starting point. They "bummed" a tow from a fleet going down the river and up the river; hence the name Bum Boat. When our tow arrived at New York I was amazed at the never-ending flow of harbor traffic. … After unloading the lumber for the Steinway piano factory in Brooklyn, we were towed to the canal piers on South Street at the foot of Manhattan Island. Here we waited a few days for orders from an agent who was to secure loads for our boats for the return trip to Tonawanda. My brother Jim, who was almost two years older than I, was entrusted to take me sightseeing along the busy streets bordering the waterfront. We visited the nearby Fulton Street fish market, a very busy place, and strolled by the stalls amazing by all the different kinds of saltwater fish brought in by the fishing fleet. We walked back along bustling South Street, which was always a beehive of activity due to the arrival and departure of the many tugs, barges, and other kinds of vessel traffic. Most of the business places along here catered to waterfront customers. In this area there were many push-carts selling all kinds of merchandise and food. We bought fresh oysters and clams on the half shell for a penny apiece. Hot dogs were a nickel (they were called Coney Island red hots), and many other items of ready-to-eat food and candy could be found at prices only to be had along the waterfront. That evening we were told that two loads of fine white sea gravel consigned to the Ayrault Roofing Company in Tonawanda had been secured for the return trip west. Early the next morning, a small steam tug hooked on to our two empty boats and towed us up the East River, though through the Hell Gate. After a few hours' tow on Long Island Sound we arrived at Oyster Bay and were moored at the gravel dock, ready to load. Two days later we were back at the South Street piers waiting to be placed in the next westbound Hudson River tow." 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 "Brooklyn Standard-Union" newspaper August 21, 1891. Thank you to Contributing Scholar George A. Thompson for finding and cataloging this article. The language, spelling and grammar of the article reflects the time period when it was written. On a Canal Boat. How Men, Women and Children Live Down in the Cabin – Babies Born and Die on Board – In Season and Out of Season the Cabin in the Family Home – The Hard Lot of the Women. She was a small-featured woman, with very light blue eyes and her fair skin bronzed by the water. We were sitting on the roof of the cabin of her husband's canal boat, at the foot of Coenties Slip. "Yes, miss," she replied to my question, "I live and my husband and children live down stairs in that cabin, year in and year out. Two of my children, one boy and one girl, were born downstairs. One of them, the girl, died there two years ago, while the boat laid up for the winter at the foot of Canal Street." Here the poor woman's voice faltered, as she took an end of her gingham apron to wipe the tears. "We thought the world of that little girl, Miss. She was as pretty as a picture, and gentle as a little lamb. I blame the doctor to this day for her death, that I do. The minute she was took sick my husband went for to bring him, and sez he, 'Oh, it's nothing, only the measles, so don't cher be alarmed." "I believe in me heart that the poor little thing was a-dying then. She died the next mornin', an' – an –' we buried her in the cemetery along with his father (her husband's) and mother. There was a hammock swinging between two poles on top of the cabin, near where we sat. In it lay a beautiful little golden-haired boy, fast asleep. It was the woman's baby, and whenever it was asleep up there she sat by his side, sewing or knitting, and keeping a close watch. It was a dangerous place for baby, for should he tumble out he would roll into the water. "Jimmie, Jimmie," suddenly called the woman, "come up here and watch your little brother, as I wants to go downstairs." Jimmie, who was evidently an obedient boy, … rushed upstairs from the cabin, banging the mosquito net doors after him as he came out. "This is my big boy," said the woman, looking up fondly at Jimmie. Boy-like, Jimmie barely glanced at me, contracted his brow and pulled the old straw hat down over his eyes as he took the seat his mother had vacated. "Come now, miss," said the woman, "I will show you how we live downstairs." We went down six steps covered with bright oilcloth and brass tips, all as clean and shiny as could be. The cabin was divided into three apartments – bedroom, kitchen and sitting room, in which there was an extra bunk for the grown-up daughter, who was away at the time. The kitchen was a mere hole, a stove and a few cooking utensils occupying the entire space. The bedroom was a little larger. It contained a three-quarter bed covered with linen of snowy whiteness, and one chair on which lay folded a number of quits and one pillow, doubtless to be spread on the floor for the big boy that night. The sitting or living room was about ten feet long and eight feet wide. The floor was covered with the same kind of oilcloth as that on the stairs; the furniture consisted of a bureau, two chairs, one rocking chair, of a green painted cottage bedroom suit, a round walnut table, a machine, and one extra brown chair. The woodwork was grained, and the ceiling and walls painted white. Two long closets, one for dishes and one for clothes, were built in one side of the wall; also a half dozen drawers. The walls were plentifully decorated with highly colored chromos, and these two texts: "Give us this day our daily bread." "Thou shalt not kill." In that crowded abode, a man, a woman, a girl of fourteen, a boy of twelve and a baby two years old lived, as the woman said, "year in and year out." I took the extra brown chair the woman offered me, which I presume they reserve for company. "Yes, mam, sometimes we do feel a bit crowded, but I reckon it's no worse than many of the folks who live in them awful tenement houses." "Do you know, mam, I could never feel contented in one of them places? We lives by ourselves here with no neighbors to pry into our business." "Oh, yes, some of us go to church whenever we are ashore on Sunday." "There is a Mr. McGuire that comes down here every Lord's day and preaches on the dock. He is 'Piscopal, I think, but he is a fine man all the same." "We are Catholic, but we believe in letting everybody enjoy their own religion. My husband and me ain't no ways bigoted." "Oh, certainly, my children goes to school in winter. We always spend the winter in New York, and it is there that we send them to the public school." "The children in New York are very rude. They have a way of teasing mine for living on a boat. 'And do yez eat off the floor?' they say to Mamie sometimes. Yes, them children behave very badly." While the woman was talking the screen door opened with a jerk, and a girl dressed in a deep green woolen frock and a black straw sailor hat came down the cabin stairs. "This is my daughter," said the woman. "She has been visiting in Brooklyn." The girl, who had a rather pleasant face, smiled at me without bowing, and then sat down and stared. The woman, addressing the girl, said: "This lady wanted to see how people lived on a canal boat, so I brought her down. We like to have company once in a while," she went on, "for it's lonely enough at times, the dear knows." The girl continued to stare, as she kept playing with the elastic on her hat. The boat we were on ran between New York and Canada, [editor's note: via the Champlain Canal] and the woman, who was of a descriptive turn of mind, told me just how the trips were made. It took forty-eight hours for a tug to tow them to Albany; from Albany they went to Troy, and then for sixty-eight miles the horses pulled the boat up the canal. On the other end of the canal a Canadian tug brought them to their destination. After telling me all this we went up on deck again, and there the woman explained how she managed her washing. I saw a wash-board lying on the floor of a small rowboat that stood alongside of the hammock in which the clothes were washed. The "men folks," the woman said, usually carried the water, and she did the rest. Then clothes were dried underneath the canvas. I next asked the woman what her husband carried on his boat. "He carries different things," said she. "This time he carries what they calls 'merchandise.'" Just then a wagonload of rosin came to be packed on board. I left the family standing by the side of the baby, as I went farther up the deck, where I engaged in conversation with the captain of another canal boat. I found him just as accommodating and as obliging as the woman I had talked with. "Certainly, mam, you can go down in the cabin. You will find my wife there, and she'll talk to you." This man and wife were not so cramped as some of their neighbors, for they had no children. I found the man's wife a clever woman, but not nearly so philosophical about living on a canal boat as her neighbor. She told me that this was her third summer on the water, and that it was going to be her last. She spent most of her time making fancy work for her friends. Her apartments were clean as wax, and judging from the arrangement of the furniture, curtains and pictures, she was a woman of some refinement. She was a great sight-seer, too. She always made it a point to visit the places of interest in all cities where they stopped. She had been to a great many downs between Albany and Philadelphia. She had been married to the captain fifteen years, but she could never accustom herself to life on a canal boat. She would be happier on land. On either side of the two boats were a dozen other boats, some loading and some unloading their freight, and on all of them were women and on most of them children. But the thought of human beings spending most of their time penned up as the women and children on these boats are obliged to be, recalls once more that timely question: "Does one-half of the world know or care how the other half lives?" That more of these canal boat children are not drowned is a wonder, and that more of the women do not lose their times is equally surprising. It is sad to reflect on the emptiness and monotony of their lives. – [original article written by Emma Trapper, in Brooklyn Standard-Union.] (Editor's note: Canalboat families worked hard but some found life aboard these boats wholesome and at times pleasurable. While difficult to measure and compare, the standard of living among boat families on the canals was likely higher than that of many urban laborers.) 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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