They had made the three mile boat trip from their home in Desmoines, Washington, to Maury Island a dozen times with their dad. Adventurous Saturdays in 1928 were spent fishing and camping across the passage on the isolated and remote island with Henry watching over them. The boys planned their next adventure weeks in advance.
But the sea and the weather were fickle, and to their mother, making the crossing looked foolhardy. The daughter of Scottish immigrants, Flora was strong, and a no nonsense woman. But like any mother, when it came to the safety of her children, Flora always worried.
“I know we said we’ll let them go alone this time, but I don’t like it, Henry, You should go with them.”
“I’m sure they’ll be fine Flora, it’s only a little over three miles across. We’ll be able to see their camp fire once they get over there.”
A pup tent, a few blankets and other supplies were packed into the row boat and Malcolm, Donald, and John carried it down to the water’s edge. Flora came outside from the kitchen of their small cedar shingled beach house, handed Malcolm a bag of sandwiches, and as she always did, made them promise to be careful. John climbed in first and moved forward to the bow. Malcolm was next as he would be rowing and placed the oars in position. The middle brother Donald pushed the fourteen foot wooden craft out into the waves and hopped into the back. Henry and Flora stood on the beach for a few minutes, then walked back inside the house to watch from the kitchen window.
The red and white craft moved away from shore and twelve-year-old John could feel it surge forward as Malcolm
s powerful arms pulled on the oars. At sixteen, Malcolm was tall and stronger than his brothers. John was amazed at how he moved the vessel with such surprising authority. They headed west in a direction a bit south of the Point Robinson light house at the eastern most tip of Maury island. The morning was cloudy, but cool and crisp and John’s task was to watch for shipping in the area. There were fast, modern diesel electric ferries and steam powered vessels in the area’s “mosquito fleet,” which ran passengers and automobiles from Seattle to Tacoma and to the region's many islands at regular intervals. These ships or ferries varied in length from sixty to over a hundred and eighty feet, and they must be avoided by any small vessel.
The south-westerly wind was steady, and John noticed the bow drifting northward. He yelled at Malcolm to pull to the left and keep their craft heading to the South of Point Robinson. At about the half way point, Donald, who was a year younger than Malcolm, was eager to prove himself and demanded to take over the rowing. Malcolm, now exhausted, capitulated to Donald.
The center of Puget Sound was a dangerous place for small craft, and is where the passenger ferries pass through. After quickly switching stations, Donald began to row with a fervor. The sudden, icy gusts on his face burned and John sensed the wind pushing their vessel north, effortlessly like a small toy. Donald pointed their tiny craft slightly south into the breeze and rowed steadily. The bow climbed and descended in the water, and it seemed the oncoming waves had grown in size and were now almost level with the top edge of the boat. This was of great concern to Donald, and it began to frighten John. Images of the waves coming at him in a quartering sea at almost chest level raised the hair on his neck. This was nothing like the pleasant calm outings experienced in the past with their father.
Malcolm told Donald, “Just keep rowing.” As they drew closer to the island, they were now out of the shipping lane and would be landing a couple miles south of the light house.
The composure and confidence displayed by his two older brothers was reassuring to John. His visions of the boat swamping or flipping in the frigid Puget Sound decreased to some extent. He now concentrated on the job at hand which was finding an ideal spot on the beach where they could come ashore. He noticed a cluster of barrel sized rocks that lay just to their left. The tips of them were visible in the surf as the undulating waves revealed their position, then concealed it once again. John pointed this out to Donald, who turned them slightly starboard aiming for a clear, sandy spot on the shore.
John leaped over the bow and into the surf when it made contact with the sand. He began to pull on the rope that was attached to the prow. As the waves came in, they lifted the keel slightly, thus allowing him to drag the craft a little farther. The two others jumped out and Malcolm promptly slipped and fell into the forty-five degree water soaking his trousers almost to the waist. He pulled himself up, and all three working as a team muscled the loaded row boat out of the breaking waves. They carried the small vessel up to the tree line where they would later build a camp fire with the ample wood and branches lying about. The youngsters stood silent for a moment and collected their thoughts. They said nothing to each other for a full ten seconds, and re-steadied themselves from the unnerving ordeal just experienced on the water. John thought he caught a faint whiff of Douglas fir burning, perhaps in a fireplace or kitchen stove. He looked around, but there were not any beach houses in the immediate vicinity. The nearest people were at the keepers residence two or more miles to the North at the light house.
During all of the previous camping trips to the island, a routine, almost a cadence emerged to how things went. Henry trained them well and the boat was unloaded, wood gathered and so on. The pup tent, stakes, ropes and poles were the first to be collected. The tent only fit two people and the boat was tipped upside down and propped up on a log as a third sleeping shelter. John preferred this spot to the tent, and always volunteered for it. He rounded up his blanket and placed it under the craft with the oars.
Soon they were to build the camp fire that would comfort and transport them into the wee hours of the following morning. A dozen or more football sized beach rocks were brought together and placed in a three foot circle in the sand above the high tide mark. Dry wood was then collected. John walked into the heavily forested tree line gathering small twigs, straw and dead branches for kindling, while the others looked for the bigger long burning pieces.
Malcolm was a serious, highly intelligent and pragmatic young man. For in his pocket were the only matches the boys had. It was almost an afterthought when he placed the half dozen or so wooden stick matches in a piece of wax paper and rolled them into a small bundle before leaving home. Donald, a prankster and a fast moving boy by nature, neglected to do this. So did John in the morning rush to get going. Nevertheless, when Malcolm fell in the surf the salt water found its way into the wax paper and ruined their hopes for a warm evening fire. Malcolm tried to strike one on his pant leg and the red combustible product at the tip smeared off like clay. A deep sense of foreboding set into the three. All had heard about the American Indians and others out West who could start a fire by somehow rubbing two sticks together. The boys tried the technique in the past, but were never able to carry out this feat -- ever.
“What do ya think we should do?” Donald asked Malcolm.
“Well… I guess we’ll hike up the hill a ways and see if anybody lives around here.” They were still getting whiffs of wood burning occasionally and this encouraged them. “ If we can’t find anybody, we’ll go down to the lighthouse … see if they got any matches they’ll spare,” Malcolm continued.
They began walking west up a steep densely forested embankment thick with underbrush. Moving slowly up the hill, the smell of wood burning became stronger. After a hundred foot arduous climb, the terrain finally began to level off. A small unkept house in a clearing came into view. It wasn’t more than a cabin with perhaps two or three rooms and an outhouse fifty feet behind it. Wood smoke was emitting from the chimney and there were several oak barrels stacked along the back wall. In front of the cottage, parked on a dirt driveway was a black
26 Ford panel delivery truck with a ‘Sunnydale Cookies’ sign attached to the side of the box.
“Are they making cookies here?” John asked.
“I don’t know,” Malcolm replied.
“Let’s sneak up and look through the window,” Donald suggested. The three looked at each other and hesitated for a moment, but curiosity clouded their better judgment and they all agreed.
Crouching, they crept up to the cottage as quietly as possible. The curtains inside were little more than filthy rags and only partially masked the interior of the dwelling. There was indeed a fire in the fireplace, but also visible were two men inside busily laboring on something that Malcolm first thought was a boiler, or large steam kettle of some kind located in the center of the room. Consisting of a six foot tall copper vessel or cooker, a copper tubing came from the top of the apparatus and coiled down into an old barrel, then into another. Fifty pound sacks of sugar and corn meal were visible stacked on the floor against the wall.
Malcolm whispered to the others, “I think it’s a still, let’s get outta here.” Turning to leave, they suddenly cast their eyes upon a stocky unshaven fellow with a large revolver in his waist band. They hadn’t noticed him standing behind them.
“You boys get an eye full?” The ruffian said. Donald began shuffling his feet sideways as if he was about to run. “You just hold it right there schoolboy!” Frank, the hooligan barked. He pointed his finger at him and Donald instantly quit moving. One of the other men came out of the cottage.
Slight and balding, Wesley was the brains behind the mobile distillery and had been producing bootleg whiskey since the state wide prohibition began in
16, four full years before it became federal law. “What’s going on out here?” He said.
“Caught these boys peekin’ in the window,” Frank replied.
“Sir, we just wanted to borrow some matches… we’re camping on the beach,” Malcolm injected.
“So ya came up spyin’ in our windows?” Scared, the kids didn’t reply to Frank
s assertion. The front screen door slammed and the third man who appeared to be in charge came out. Tall and slightly better dressed than the other two, Luther had an air of confidence and authority about him.
“Whattaya want to do with them?” Frank said.
“Well … they want matches, we’ll get ‘em some matches. You boys know what we’re doin’ here?” Luther asked.
“Sure, you’re baking cookies,” John said.
“Smart boy …” The three men laughed, and agreed. With the tension easing slightly, Luther reached into his pocket and handed Malcolm eight or ten wooden kitchen matches.
The other two men stood off to the side and began quietly talking among themselves. “We can’t just let ‘em go, they know what we’re doing,” Frank said.
“Well, we’re not gonna kill 'em over a still if that’s what you’re thinking, they’re just boys,” Wesley replied. “We’ll have to load up and skedaddle.”
Meanwhile, Luther discussed things with the three brothers. “You kids live here on the island?”
“No sir, we row boated across from Desmoines,” Malcolm replied.
Luther thought about this, and how it would buy them time to load the still and supplies into the Ford panel. “We’re gonna let you boys get back to your campin’,” Luther said. “But just keep what you saw here between us, okay?”
“Yes sir,” the three boys replied in almost perfect unison.
Frank leaned in and whispered, “Don’t make us come out to Desmoines for a visit,” as his right hand tapped on the revolver in his belt. Malcolm, Donald, and John all took two or three steps backwards before turning and quickly moving towards the woods. Starting down the steep embankment, they could hear Frank taunting them and laughing, “You keep quiet now, or I’m comin’ out to Desmoines!”
John didn’t feel the blackberry vines and tree branches scratching his arms and face, nor did he have any recollection of the passage of time. There wasn’t any memory of the difficult winding, twisting and turning down the steep embankment, back to the camp site on the beach. Frank’s square unshaven face, empty eyes and the pistol in his belt was consuming. Yet like a dream, before him sat the wooden row boat and tent he and his brothers left in position more than an hour and a half earlier.
John looked out over the water towards their home. There were still strong gusts of wind and the grey seas had a menacing chop. With no discussion of what to do next, Donald and Malcolm flipped the boat right side up and packed up the tent while John collected the blankets, canteen, oars and other equipment. They placed the items in the vessel without so much as a peep. John frequently glanced up the embankment to make sure Frank or the others were not on their way down. They carried the craft down to the shore and put the nose out into the Puget Sound. As usual, John climbed in and manned his station in the bow and after pushing off, Donald leaped in. Malcolm grabbed the oars and began rowing quickly and strongly and they slowly watched the beach and surf fall away into the distance.
***
The three men produced their high quality corn whiskey at the abandoned homestead for almost a year. It was an isolated location and in all that time, no other person ever came around. Yeast, malt, sugar and corn meal were trucked over to Maury Island on the ferry boat from West Seattle in the Sunnydale cookie truck. To start the operation, specific amounts of the ingredients and water were placed into a fermenter, usually an old barrel. After a predetermined length of time, the fermented ingredients were transferred to the copper boiler and the distillation process was started. Based on scientific principles and procedures, it netted a high quality whiskey that was “ safe to drink.” The finished one hundred eighty proof white lightning was cut with water to produce a ninety proof drinkable liquor. The hooch, now in one gallon jugs or quart milk bottles, was trucked back to Seattle where it found a welcoming home in one of the many speakeasies, or hundreds of sordid back room gin joints. The more swanky high dollar establishments were getting Canadian whiskey and ale smuggled in by speedboat through the San Juan Islands from Canada. But when this was in short supply, locally made hooch was funneled into the Canadian bottles and sold to unwitting patrons at the higher price. It proved to be a perfect scheme. But now because of the boys' discovery, their money maker and indeed their very freedom was in jeopardy and needed to be quickly picked up and moved back to the mainland.
As long time bootleggers, the men learned a few things about human nature and knew without a doubt the kids would tell all when they arrived home. “By tonight, the police will be looking for us for sure.” Wesley said. It soon occurred to them that they could be trapped on the island and the authorities would eventually hunt them down. Seldom did the three bootleggers move as quickly as they did in the next few minutes.
“Let’s throw the still and the hooch that’s already bottled in the truck, and we’ll get outta here,” Luther said. A few apple crates with dozens of one quart milk bottles and several gallon jugs of liquor went into the back of the delivery truck first. The emptied copper still was next. Frank carefully pushed it in at an angle and jammed it tight against the ceiling of the enclosed truck. Luther and Wesley threw the sacks of sugar and corn meal in last and slammed the back door. They started the truck and headed for the Seattle ferry hoping to get back to the mainland before the children get home and the authorities are notified.
Some have said the Ford Model T truck could reach an optimistic twenty-five miles per hour, but the best they were making was fifteen. Frank drove the narrow dirt and gravel roads, jolting through giant pot holes and mud puddles along the way. The sound of bottles clanking in the apple crates was continuous and telling to any passer-by. They moved north, and crossed the isthmus connecting Maury island to the larger Vashon island. Once on the larger island, the truck rolled along the paved highway at a seemingly break neck eighteen to twenty miles per hour. Occasionally, bottles could still be heard clanking as they hit more bumps in the road. Farmhouses, cattle, strawberry fields and other cars were passed on the eight mile drive to the ferry dock at the northern most tip.
Finally approaching the dock, with the exception of a dozen or more seagulls, the three found it was empty. The Seattle ferry only moments before had picked up its load of cars and passengers and was on its run to West Seattle. They now faced an agonizing one and a half hour wait before driving to freedom on the Seattle side. They considered turning around and dumping the goods in the heavily forested countryside that surrounded them, but decided to hold off and risk the trip.
The torturous wait ended when the Seattle ferry was seen finally making its approach. After docking, the men watched for police as automobiles and passengers disembarked and passed them in the other direction. Soon the ferry was empty. Wesley jumped out of the passenger side of the truck and on Frank’s signal, began to crank the starter handle protruding from below the radiator. But nothing happened. He cranked again faster and still nothing. Impatient, the ferry worker began walking towards their vehicle. Now sweating, Wesley gave the handle a few more desperate turns and the engine reluctantly but finally came to life. Wesley jumped back in slamming the door and with a string of vehicles behind the cookie truck, the dock worker waved them on to the boat. As the Ford’s tires rolled over the uneven steel plates dividing the dock and the ferry
s deck surface, the milk bottles filled with booze in the back made the now familiar echoing clank. The worker gave them a puzzled look momentarily but was busy and went on directing traffic onto the vessel. Frank moved the vehicle to the front of the boat and parked. The minutes ticked away and the eventual sound of the horn blast and heavy marine diesel engine revving eased their nerves. They were finally moving.
Frank, Luther and Wesley scanned the Fauntleroy ferry terminal on the Seattle side for anything suggesting a police presence. Once docked, the truck was signaled off by the ferry worker who smiled and waved at the men as they passed. The bootleggers moved along a row of parked automobiles heading in the other direction and watched for trouble.
The truck labored heavily up the long winding hills, from the Fauntleroy dock to Thirty-fifth avenue, a mile and a half to the East. Once on Thirty-fifth, they turned south intending to unload the still at Luther’s house. Passing Thirty-fifth and Barton, two Seattle police motorcycle officers on the side street turned South and eased in behind the panel truck. Frank removed his forty-five caliber double action Colt from his waist band and placed it under his right thigh. He watched them in his mirror as they traveled down the road.
“Did either of you remember to take the cookie signs off the truck before we left?” Luther inquired. Frank’s face turned ashen, and he suddenly felt sick to his stomach. Getting caught bootlegging meant real prison time. Not the short jail sentences they received in the past for their usual petty crimes and disturbances. “There’s a service station up on the right, let’s pretend we
re going in to get gas.” Luther said. To their relief, the motorcycle patrol passed by without looking over as they turned and moved into the service area. The bootleggers got out and Luther distracted the station attendant while the others removed the signs. Using their bare hands, Frank and Wesley yanked the thin wooden gold and red Sunnydale cookies signs off each side. The shattered pieces separated easily from the truck box in two and three foot sections, leaving only the small mounting bolts in place. Wesley looked around, opened the back and the painted boards were quickly slid in with the hooch and the still. The attendant, now curious about the unusual scene asked why they were breaking the signs off.
“We don’t work for that company no-more,” Frank replied.
The moonshiners pulled back onto Thirty-fifth and turned east on Roxbury Street towards Luther’s home. Once there, Frank parked in the back behind the house and the still was carried into his basement. For now, the men needed to stay out of trouble for a week or two just to be safe.
***
The following Monday afternoon, Henry drove South on 1st Avenue through the heavily industrialized parts of Seattle. He was on his way home from work, but at the last minute decided to pull into an alley between an automotive repair and plumbing supply building. As usual, the dirt parking area in the back was mostly full. He parked, got out of his automobile and knocked on the back door of the unassuming building. When a man answered, Henry gave him the correct new password,“Daisy.” The man looked Henry over for a second and let him in. Henry was having trouble seeing in the crowded darkened room after coming in from the bright sunshine. He sat down at an empty table in the smoky room and ordered his usual cocktail. He didn’t want Flora to get suspicious, so he stayed for just a half hour and payed his bill after having two drinks. “Flora would have a fit if she found out I was drinkin’ again,” He thought.
Luther, the tall well-dressed owner of the establishment came out of the back and approached Henry’s table. “Hi, Henry, been a long time! Sorry about the new prices. The police have been breaking up my stills all over the place … They’re driving my costs through the ceiling.”
Henry listened to him and thought about this. He thought about the ordeal that frightened his three boys during their weekend camping trip, and wondered if the owner knew the men on the island. Henry was in a pickle, and decided to keep quiet about the matter.
This story was first published in Rosebud Literary Magazine.
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