Features

Thirty-five years ago, to an artist captivated by old boats and maritime dereliction, the Oakland Estuary—described on the AAA map as the Inner Harbor—was a paradise of waterscapes. Employed by the city’s Planning Department, I was left gloriously alone for months to pursue a photo-survey of the whole terrain. The old semi-derelict water-edge was far and away my preferred haunt. 

Not much of it at that time was public domain. Jack London Square at the bottom end of Broadway was mostly a collection of popular restaurants and bars. There were a couple of similar destinations on the Alameda side, and that was it. The rest of the seven-mile waterway was lined largely with military installations, the remains of a WWII shipyard, and acres of scrap metal destined for Asia. A few still-functioning docks—the Ninth Avenue Terminal, and the Encinal Terminals in Alameda—guaranteed the occasional passing of large ships, with tugs, fishing vessels, Coast Guard cutters and yachts forming the rest of the nautical parade. 

In those pre-container-port years, along the whole unglamorous stretch, policing and “security” were almost non-existent. One could cruise unchallenged along Middle Harbor Road, and head off anywhere driveable, past old machinery and giant crushers, to an edge of ancient wood pilings. Here was Norwalk Yacht Harbor, a still-functioning dock full of old sailboats, run-down motor cruisers and an occasional tug, a true haven for the non-yuppie sailor. My black pentel on-the-spot drawing of an old ship being cut up for scrap was done in 1971 at the Grove Street Pier, now the cleaned-up unexciting end of Martin Luther King, Jr. Way. 

Immediately east of Jack London Square, a long derelict edge stretched as far as the Lake Merritt Channel. Look across the water from this edge today—now an elegantly landscaped portion of the new Bay Path—and you will notice two grand pieces of “industrial archeology” left over from WWII. They are the huge concrete launch ramps of the Bethlehem Shipyard, looking for all the world like some abandoned utopian project by Le Corbusier. 

Still on the Oakland side, between the channel and the city’s Ninth Avenue Terminal, lies a strange enclave of industrial and marine activity hardly changed from my 1960s explorations. South of the elevated freeway, the unpaved alleys of Fifth and Sixth avenues are the busy heart of the J.W. Silveira Co., a little private realm that would make the perfect movie set for a hippie live-work paradise! Welding shops, graphic designers, engine repair and even psychic readings are housed in a bizarre “village” of plywood, ancient boards and metal siding, with here and there a small garden crowded with oddly assorted plants in cans. 

The climax of all this picturesque disorder is the Fifth Avenue Marina, a maze of tippy wood walkways, big antique motorcruisers well-used yachts and a couple of houseboats, enclosed on one side of the barges and tugs of a sand and gravel company, and on the other by a derelict edge of upturned boats. There’s even a lived-steel barge domesticated by a lone tree. If you have any interest whatever in the gutsy remains of the pre-computer age, go visit the Fifth Avenue Marina. 

Brooklyn Basin, east of this disreputable paradise, is now a long curve of power boat sales and bland motels, missing the one drawable activity—Pacific Drydock, where, for decades, one could watch seagoing tugs, bay ferries, and even FDR’s Potomac, being worked on high above dry land. The uninspiring stretch finally becomes eventful in the vicinity of Quinn’s Lighthouse, a romantic tower of restaurants and bars worth visiting for its panoramic views of nearby Coastguard Island and the distant towers of downtown. Immediately west of Quinn’s is a cluster of handsome “Victorians” set in a waterside garden and occupied by law firms. East of it, beyond a small marina, is Livingstone Street Pier, which in my earlier roamings was a busy fishdock surrounded by classic, wood-hulled commercial fishing boats, as captured in my painting from the late ‘70s. 

Now the fishing fleet has gone elsewhere, replaced by “Vortex,” a diving and salvage operation, less paintable, but at least maritime. The dockside cafe, an affordable “1950s” diner, has also gone. 

Just beyond the Coastguard station, the spacious Inner Harbor turns into the Tidal Canal, created in the early 20th Century to connect the Estuary with San Leandro Bay, and incidentally turn Alameda into an island. Here, the dominant features are two steel bascule bridges, a green-painted one at Park Street and a silver one at High. Besides carrying traffic, they open upwards like huge toys to let through an occasional yacht or tall boat. 

For the urban explorer, both are worth walking across to see the lively mix of activities along the shores—old, gutsy ship repair from the one, and the backs of a sedate 1940s subdivision complete with private docks from the other. My painting of old ships seen from the High Street Bridge typifies the changing maritime scene that still prevails along this odd canal. 

Oakland’s water-edge grows simultaneously less derelict and more tidy. It also grows less visually intriguing and more like everywhere else. “Mediterranean” view apartments are not drawable. Old drydocks and derelict marinas are, but for better or worse they can’t be duplicated, even for artists! However, as the old gutsy “blue-collar” scene disappears, it can at least be replaced by imaginative design and inspired uses. The parklike edge of the new Bay Path, the Jack London Aquatic Center, the Potomac—presidential yacht—cruises and the San Francisco commuter ferry are all vivid examples of enlightened change.›