History That Doesn't Suck - 179: Bridging the Bay: San Francisco’s Golden Gate and Bay Bridges (Infrastructure pt. 2)

Episode Date: May 19, 2025

“Everybody says it can’t be done.” This is the story of San Francisco’s two great bridges.  The bustling cities of Oakland and San Francisco are separated by less than ten miles of water, but for early twentieth-century Bay Area residents, it may as well be thirty—that’s the distance traveling around the Bay. Meanwhile, the mile of water across the Golden Gate Strait makes communities directly north of San Francisco likewise inaccessible. Bridges across both stretches of water would change the game entirely, but between harsh winds, thick fog, strong currents, and over 300 feet deep water—to say nothing of earthquakes—crowded ferries seem to be the only even-if-imperfect answer.  Or so they did.  From deep-sea divers to catwalking “bridge monkeys,” from deeply-driven caissons to high rising towers, miles of cables, and deadly accidents–this is the tale of the unyielding dreamers and doers who pushed the bounds of engineering in the midst of the Great Depression to bridge the San Francisco’s Golden Gate Strait and Bay.   ____ Connect with us on HTDSpodcast.com and go deep into episode bibliographies and book recommendations join discussions in our Facebook community get news and discounts from The HTDS Gazette  come see a live show get HTDS merch or become an HTDS premium member for bonus episodes and other perks. HTDS is part of Audacy media network. Interested in advertising on the History That Doesn't Suck? Contact Audacyinc.com To learn more about listener data and our privacy practices visit: https://www.audacyinc.com/privacy-policy Learn more about your ad choices. Visit https://podcastchoices.com/adchoices

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and that completely craveable hot honey sauce, it's a sweet heat repeat you don't wanna miss. Get your Hot Honey McCrispy today. Available for a limited time only at McDonald's. Welcome to History That Doesn't Suck. I'm your professor Greg Jackson and as in the classroom, my goal here is to make rigorously researched history come to life as your storyteller. Each episode is the result of laborious research with no agenda other than making the past come to life as you learn. If you'd like to help support this work,

receive ad-free episodes, bonus content, and other exclusive perks, I invite you to join the HTDS membership program. Sign up for a seven-day free trial today at HTDSpodcast.com slash membership, or click the link in the episode notes. ["The Star-Spangled Banner"] It's a cool Thursday morning, December 14th, 1933, and Lloyd Evans is on a barge almost exactly 1,160 feet southwest of Yerba Buena Island, where he's putting on what's known

as a hardhat diving suit, preparatory to going 112 feet below the surface. This is no small thing. The thick, heavy, airtight getup includes a copper helmet that attaches with bolts to a corselet around the neck. It also has a hose that will feed him air from the surface. You know what? It's a little complicated.

So let's leave Lloyd and his team, aka his tenders, to this detailed task while I explain why he's making this dive. Lloyd is a professional deep sea diver, and currently one of the nearly 1,000 men building what will soon be the longest bridge in the world, the San Francisco-Oakland Bay Bridge. Measuring 12.5 miles with its approaches and 8.4 miles without, this soon-to-be bridge, or the Bay Bridge as it's known for short, will also pass over 4.5 miles of water with a little stop midway through on Yerba Buena Island. The western side of this project, which is where we currently are, consists of a set of two continuous suspension bridges functioning as one bridge that will connect San Francisco

to Yerba Buena Island. But the bay's cold, brackish waters are so deep here that four of the six bridge piers on this side will need to be built on caissons. Now what is a caisson? You might remember these from episode 92's story of the Brooklyn Bridge, but if not, caissons are like upside down boxes intended to create an air pocket within as they go underwater. These particular bay bridge caissons are rectangular building-sized structures built of wood and steel with airtight cylinders inside them. The plan is to weigh these caissons down with concrete and when they hit the bay floor,

the airtight cylinders inside them will enable workers to remove mud and muck as each caisson goes deeper until it hits firm ground. Once that happens, the individual caisson will serve as the foundation for its respective bridge pier. And what does all of that have to do with Lloyd? Well, this caisson, which is descending in the water to become Pier 6 on the bridge's west side, or just Pier W6, has been towed into place and is now reaching the bay's muddy floor. It's ready to dig, and that means someone has to dive down and remove the cables holding

it in place. That someone is Lloyd. Lloyd's descent is dangerous in and of itself. As he goes lower, the water pressure pressing on his body increases. While the normal atmospheric pressure that we feel on the surface is about 14.7 pounds per square inch, our intrepidid divers depth today of 112 feet means his entire body is getting pressed a little over three times harder. About 45 PSI, or roughly the same PSI as the tires on your car. Sounds horrific, I know, but let me add to that what's happening to the air he's breathing through the tube running from the surface to his suit. The air must be compressed

as he descends, ultimately to that same 45 psi to equalize the pressure. Why? Because if it isn't compressed enough to equalize, the differential pressure will painfully crush Lloyd, or as divers put it, he'll feel the squeeze. Go deep enough with too much of a differential and pressure, and that squeeze can cause severe injuries. It can even squish an aquatic adventurer's entire body into the metal helmet. Yeah, now that's horrific. Reaching the bottom of the caisson, Lloyd faces other dangers. For one thing, he's swimming blind. There's no artificial light,

and what little natural light might reach such a depth from the surface is choked off by the bay's much disturbed floor, sending muck and mud swirling all around our brave diver. And so, in the dark cold waters, Lloyd feels about for a cable and detaches it, then continues along the rectangular 74.5 foot by 127 foot caisson, fighting swirling water and navigating around junk littered on the bay's floor, all without the aid of sight. With the last cable disconnected, Lloyd braves one last danger, the ascent. As with his descent, the compressed air he's breathing must stay equalized to the water pressure, meaning its compression comes down as he goes up. But a second concern also harkens back to episode 92's Brooklyn Bridge. Lloyd doesn't want

to get the bends. See, after breathing all of this compressed air, his body has absorbed more oxygen and nitrogen than normal, and it's the nitrogen that's really the problem. With that unhelpful gas in his blood, Lloyd must rise slowly so that his body can get rid of it slowly. Otherwise nitrogen bubbles will form in his body's tissue, and that is the bends. Those bubbles are nasty business. Let me put it this way, right now nitrogen filled Lloyd's body is like a shaken up soda bottle. If the cap is taken off slowly, everything will be fine.

But if that cap is taken off quickly, the bottle's carbonated contents will fizz explosively. Yeah, I think you get the picture. A slow ascent with a visit to a decompression chamber afterward it is. Finally back on the surface, Boyd's congratulated on a dangerous job well done as his tenders unbolt his helmet and otherwise help him out of the suit. But as they do, Boyd mentions that his legs are hurting. Oh no, that means nitrogen bubbles have formed. Worse, Lloyd falls unconscious. He's rushed to Pier 21's decompression chamber, where the famous diver and great war hero Bill Reed

carefully watches the pressure level as Dr. Jade Minton-Maharon does everything he can. The afternoon passes. Lloyd rallies. But he fades again under the dark of night. Yes, the bends has him. And at 10.25pm, the courageous diver draws his last breath. Lloyd Evans has just become the first life sacrificed to build the Bay Bridge. 23 more will follow. Welcome to History That Doesn't Suck.

I'm your professor, Greg Jackson, and I'd like to tell you a story. I hope those of you that are claustrophobic are still with us. I promise we won't be going back inside the scuba suit again in this episode. But I hope you're okay with heights because today after we pour an ungodly amount of concrete we're raising towers, driving rivets, tromping about with so-called bridge monkeys, and running seemingly endless galvanized wires as we build the engineering marvels that are the San Francisco-Oakland Bay Bridge and the Golden Gate Bridge. We'll start with some geography and early Bay history

to better understand why San Franciscans didn't bridge either of these spans before the 1930s. We'll meet the Bay's local emperor while we're at it, and once we've done that, we'll build these simultaneously rising yet very different bridges. We'll begin with the long multi-sectioned Hoover administration loved and funded Bay Bridge, overseen by the highly capable chief engineer Charles H. Purcell. And after that tale, we'll rewind the timeline to get the story of San Francisco's far shorter yet far more beautiful and iconic crossing over the Golden Gate Strait. A bridge whose construction is overseen by the highly driven, ambitious, and colorful

chief engineer Joe Strauss. Yes, as much as these bridges contrast in design, aesthetics, and funding, their chief engineers likewise contrast in personality. You'll see what I mean. From caissons in the depths to cables in the sky, and one particularly tragic accident, we have much to do in this tale of two bridges. So let's get to it. Rewind. Ah, San Francisco Bay. It's a natural wonder.

It's over 100 miles of shoreline, contains about 450 square miles of water, and that's just at low tide. And is it one bay or three? Arguably the latter, considering that its two connecting neighbors often get lumped into California's sprawling coastal region known as the Bay Area. This most famous of bays is fed by numerous freshwater rivers, has no shortage of islands, and is generally shallow, averaging a depth of 14 feet. And yet, it's also the complete opposite of all that. Not far from its infamous imprisoning island of Alcatraz,

San Francisco Bay plunges more than 300 feet deep and opens itself to the Pacific Ocean's salty waters. This opening, where cold salt and fresh warm waters battle one another, mixing as a choppy, brackish cocktail garnished with resulting thick blanket of fog and and strong winds is only three miles long and at its narrowest but a mere mile across. The Spanish knew this dangerous passage between the Pacific and the Bay as Bocca del Puerto de San Francisco, but you and I know it as the Golden Gate Strait.

The name Golden Gate comes to us from an old HTDS acquaintance taking us all the way back to episode 34, John C. The Pathfinder Fremont. Laying his eyes on this strait in 1846, the handsomely bearded, intrepid explorer declares, it is a golden gate to trade with the Orient. He's right. Built on the northern end of the stra the straight southern peninsula, San Francisco will soon boom as a trading hub with Asia. Moreover, that name takes on a double meaning when the Bay welcomes 40,000 miners called

49ers rushing to the region for their chance at riches in 1849 after gold was found at Sutter's Mill the year before. One of those 49ers, a man of Jewish-English descent named Joshua Abram Norton, loses all his money and apparently his marbles, becoming a local curiosity after declaring himself Emperor of the United States. I only bring up Emperor Norton I, as he's known, because of his January 6, 1872 proclamation. His would-be eminence declares, whereas we observe that certain newspapers are agitating

the project of bridging the bay, we Norton de Gratia Emperor ordered that the bridge be built from Oakland Point to Telegraph Hill via Goat Island. It makes sense. San Francisco has gone gangbusters as an international harbor. Meanwhile, across the bay, Oakland is taking off too. Founded in 1852, it's now the western terminus for the recently completed Transcontinental

Railroad. That's exciting, but it's really unfortunate that moving goods between these two booming cities means a lot of loading and unloading to cross less than 10 miles of bay water on a ferry or a 30 plus mile trip down through San Jose to go around the bay. Likewise, the Bay Area's residents, who number over a quarter million by the 1880s, are feeling this same time suck and inconvenience as they travel to and fro. Oh, if only such bridges weren't utterly impractical.

I mean, sure, the Brooklyn Bridge used a suspension design to conquer the tidal strait of New York's East River, but the Golden Gate strait's thick fog, harsh winds, and deep churning waters, all of which reach into San Francisco Bay itself, make bridging either the strait or the bay look impossible to turn of the century San Franciscans. Then there's the danger of earthquakes like the one that all but destroys San Francisco in 1906 as you may recall from episode 113. Alas, perhaps bridges are just not meant to be here. Such defeatism does not conquer the Bay Area.

As early 20th century San Francisco rises from the ashes of the earthquake and its fires, fully loaded ferries cross the Bay's waters morning, noon, and night. Frankly, they can't handle all the traffic. By the 1920s, interest in a bridge over the Bay is renewed. In January 1927, the Dumbarton Bridge spans the southern tip of the bay to connect East Palo Alto to Newark. Two years later, in 1929, the San Mateo-Hayward Bridge connects its slightly more northern two namesake towns. Though only two lanes, its seven-mile span over the bay makes it the longest bridge in the world at this point,

and it opens with great fanfare as President Silent Cal Coolidge presses a button in Washington that telegraphs instruction to unfurl a flag over the bridge. Both of these bridges rely on tolls, and even at 40 cents or more to cross, they're still seeing ample traffic. Hmm. Okay. The state of California is officially thinking it's time to get serious about a bridge between Oakland and San Francisco.

Unfortunately, the U.S. Navy is not a fan of the idea. See, they've got ports and supply stations all up and down the bay with more planned and a bridge could get in the way. The Navy would prefer to torpedo any bridge talk. But then, a champion steps up to fight on the Bay Bridge's behalf in the early 1930s, U.S. President Herbert Hoover. The stock market has crashed and the Great Depression is on, but as a proud Stanford man who knows the Bay well, Bert gets what this bridge could do for the area. And while nowhere near where FDR will go with government intervention, he is,

as we learned in episode 172, nonetheless intervening in the economy more than any other president to date. His Reconstruction Finance Corporation buys over $61 million in bonds to support the construction of the Bay Bridge. But even with Burt's support, Bay residents are wondering, is it possible to build a bridge spanning more than eight miles, part of which goes through the Bay's deeper, muddier,

and more turbulent waters? Well, according to Charles H. Purcell, the answer is yes. A handsome Nebraska native turned Californian whose white hair contrasts with his dark black eyebrows and large circle spectacles. Charles Purcell studied at Stanford and the University of Nebraska and is currently the state chief highway engineer for California. That's no small task and one filled with roads and bridges as rapidly growing California embraces a new love affair with the car.

His personality is, well, it's what you would imagine when you hear bridge engineer. He loves what he does, but he's not the life of the party. Regardless of his party prowess, Charles is the perfect man for the job. He's built bridges and roads everywhere from Wyoming to Peru. He's aided by a capable team of consulting engineers, among whom is Latvian-born New Yorker Leon Moiseyev, the genius behind New York's Manhattan Bridge. Leon is simultaneously working on the Golden Gate Bridge, but let's just note that as we keep our focus

on the task at hand. By 1932, Charles Purcell and his team know how they'll span the more than eight miles between San Francisco and Oakland with a single bridge. They won't. Rather, they'll build three bridges acting as one. Ah, and this brings us back to the plan I described for you in part during this episode's opening. The segments work like this. On the generally shallower east side of the bay, they'll use a cantilever and truss supported bridge, and as the self-declared Emperor Norton once ordered, this eastern segment will connect to Goat Island or your Bobuena Island as it's now known.

Okay, so that's halfway across the bay, and here they'll carve a tunnel through the island to connect this eastern segment to a western one that will continue to San Francisco. Now I know what you're thinking, that only makes two bridges, not three, and you'd be right except that this western segment is actually two bridges in one. See, they want to use a suspension bridge over the more turbulent waters of the bay's west side, but since a single nearly two mile suspension bridge isn't sane, they're doing something slightly less insane. Sinking a massive caisson between Yerba Buena Island and San Francisco that will serve as

a center anchorage for two seamlessly connected almost one mile suspension bridges that will feel like one roughly two mile bridge. This anchorage will be known as the Westside's Pier Number 4. Oh, and that's to say nothing of the other caissons that will form the foundation of still other bridge piers. Whew, quite the plan. So let's break ground and see if it can become reality. It's a hot late morning, July 9th, 1933.

More than 5,000 people and four brass bands are gathered on Yerba Buena Island to celebrate the groundbreaking of the San Francisco-Oakland Bridge. And this crowd is just one group. Other celebrants are gathered on San Francisco's Rincon Hill and on Oakland's 14th Street. In truth, work began on the bridge back in May, but it's hard for the Bay Area not to be excited about this ceremony. The former president who got this bridge going, the Bay's own Herbert Hoover, is here to speak.

He may not be the most popular of these days, but it's still exciting. As the music hits a final note, Bert takes the stage. Dressed in a dark suit, the husky former president declares in the microphone, This ceremony today marks more than the beginning of a physical theme. It means more than a bridge. It marks the beginning of a testimonial to the cooperation between citizens of many communities. It represents the real spirit of the American people. Soon thereafter, Director of Public Works, Earl Kelly, speaks briefly. It represents the real spirit of the American people. Soon thereafter, Director of Public Works, Earl Kelly, speaks briefly.

He lays out details describing the 169,000 tons of steel and 1,300,000 barrels of cement it will take to build this 22,720 foot long, three bridges masquerading as one, Bay Crossing. Okay, a bit of a snoozer. Until he calls on a Great Depression struck working man in the crowd named George White to speak to the real significance of this bridge. Mr. White, what does this project mean to you? It means work. I've been unemployed for 15 months.

I have two children. This bridge job will put back on this payroll many men who want to be there. It will bring sunshine into many a home. Now that hits for this crowd. Finally, at 12.58 PM Pacific Standard Time comes the big moment. From across the nation at the White House,

President Franklin Roosevelt makes his contribution, declaring this the greatest bridge ever built as he presses a button that sets off three explosions. One in Oakland, one in San Francisco, and one here on Yerba Buena Island. With that, former President Burt Hoover, California Governor James Rolfe, and one of the last living 49ers, 94-year-old Laura Hester Phelps plant their golden shovels into the ground as an airplane roars overhead,

leaving a trail of smoke where the bridge will later lie. With the groundbreaking ceremony complete, the work begins, or rather continues. The first big task is building the suspension bridge's six piers. Fortunately, there's an underwater ridge of rock that will support these bridge piers, but unfortunately that bedrock is under roughly 100 feet of water and another hundred feet of mud. Ah, this is where those caissons we talked about earlier come into play, and at 200 plus

feet down, they will form the deepest bridge foundations to date. Perhaps none of the caissons pose a bigger challenge, however, than the one intended for the center anchorage connecting the west sides to suspension bridges, Pier W4. I mean that literally. It's gargantuan, and Charles Purcell is a little unnerved. So he brings in underwater foundation pro Daniel E. Moran. With Mr. Moran's help, they build a 92 by 197 foot caisson in the docks. It's then towed into its central W-4 place on November 8, 1933.

Concrete weighs it down and builds it up. Once the massive caisson hits the bay floor, divers remove the cables and the enormous structure's 15-foot in diameter cylinders start slurping up sludge and mud. Down the caisson burrows until it reaches firm rock, in this instance 210 feet beneath the surface. Its cylinders are then filled with concrete. And yet, the concrete built on top of it takes the anchorage 261 feet above the surface, a height that will ensure the Bay Bridge doesn't disrupt the comings and goings of commercial or naval vessels. Altogether, the center anchorage contains 165,000 cubic yards of concrete. Zero human remains, despite the rumors otherwise,

and stands 40 stories tall, a staggering reach far exceeding that of San Francisco's tallest building at the time, the 32-story Russ Building. It truly is an island then, and in honor of the expert advisor who made it happen, they give center anchoring Pier W4 a new nickname, Moran's Island. In total, the Bay Bridge has seven caissons

supporting six piers and the west side's center anchorage. They include four of the west side's six piers, W3, W4, W5, and W6, and three of the east side's 23 piers, E3, E4, and E5. On both sides, these piers are relatively close to Yerba Buena Island, and as we know, case on work on W6 makes diver Lloyd Evans the project's first casualty on December 14, 1933. But his fellow divers continue to brave the cold, dark depths. Especially the famous Bill Reed.

Renowned for his two decades of deep sea exploits, he's earning every cent of his $15,000 per year salary and bonus of a dollar per foot on dives deeper than 100 feet. More stunning, perhaps, is his work with dynamite. When one caisson's muck-s can't handle a descent preventing boulder, Bill goes down with explosives. Because you know, the challenges of the squeeze and the bends just aren't enough. Yet it works. The boulder is blown to bits, Bill is not, and the caisson continues down.

With these caissons sunk, we can now build the actual bridge, or rather bridges. Coming off of Yerba Buena Island and running toward Oakland is our cantilever segment. A cantilever bridge uses an anchor on one side to serve as a counterweight against the other side. In doing so, the bridge's anchors on its two ends do all the lifting for the middle. Hitting increasingly shallower water as we continue east,

the bridge then turns to the load-bearing power of the triangle-loving truss. Altogether, this Oakland to Yerba Buena eastern segment runs nearly two miles. On the western side, of course, are our two suspension bridges. These colossal bridges require tall towers so that cables can run across them and support the bridge's weight from above. They build four steel towers ranging from 414 to 458 feet on piers W2, W3, W5, and W6. That's right, not W4, which as we know is the colossus Anchor between them known as Moran's Island. It's while these towers rise that San Francisco's Longshoremen strike of 1934 results in Bloody Thursday as we witness in episode 175.

But once the Longshoremen and subsequent citywide strikes end, work resumes. Men known as Bridgemonkeys run along the catwalks, assisting as the suspension cables are strung and attached to the towers. Each of the four cables measures 28 3 quarters of an inch in diameter, a thickness made from 17,464 galvanized wires. But while the cables go up and the cantilever is built, let's not forget the tunnel being dug through Yerba Buena Island.

Measuring 540 feet in length, this double-decker tunnel is the longest and largest for cars in the world, and all of the dirt that gets flung out in the process is dumped into the bay, partly creating future Treasure Island. Once all the tunneling and the cantilever, truss, and suspension work are done, it's time for pavement on both the upper and lower decks. truss and suspension work are done. It's time for pavement on both the upper and lower decks. The upper level will serve cars and buses, while the lower will be for trucks and electric trains.

It's a plan that will change in 1958. When the train will disappear, the upper level will become purely westbound traffic, while the lower will be dedicated to eastbound traffic. So much more could be said about the Bay Bridge and its 22 million rivets, its 54,850,000 man hours, its cost of $77 million and 24 lives.

But alas, time being what it is, we'll note that this technological marvel that measures 8.4 miles across its several segments, excluding its approaches is the world's longest bridge to date when completed on October 23rd, 1936. And that means it's time to dedicate it. It's Thursday afternoon, November 12th, 1936. Hundreds of thousands are packed onto the finished Bay Bridge. Some are on foot, others are in cars,

hoping to be one of the first to drive across the finished expanse on this, its opening day. Former president Herbert Hoover has returned to the project he so long supported. He speaks, of course. Rabbi A.A. Stern prays on behalf of the 24 lives lost for this great project. Chief engineer Charles Purcell stands with a few

hard-hatted workers who represent the thousands like them that made this bridge a reality. They bow mid-shiers in applause. At 1227, Governor Frank Miriam puts in a settling torch to a golden link in a silver chain. As he does, 1,500 pigeons are released and planes fly overhead, spelling out a message in their smoke that reads, the bridge is open. All this as President Franklin Roosevelt again participates remotely from Washington, D.C., turning a key that brings the bridge's traffic lights to life. And with that, the Bay Bridge is open. It's a magnificent achievement. Yet at this very moment San Francisco is only months away from completing another monumental

once thought impossible bridge. One that spans the Golden Gate Strait. But to appreciate its story in full, we need to back up a bit to capture the tenacity, the salesmanship, and the ego of this other bridge's chief engineer, Joseph Strauss. You know what that means. Rewind. Add a little curiosity into your routine with Ted Talks Daily, the podcast that brings you a new Ted Talk every weekday.

In less than 15 minutes a day, you'll go beyond the headlines and learn about the big ideas shaping your future. Coming up, how AI will change the way we communicate, how to be a better leader, and more. Listen to TED Talks Daily, wherever you get your podcast. It's an unspecified day in 1890. Joseph Strauss is laid up in the infirmary at the University of Cincinnati's Medical College. See, this dark-haired, square-jawed, 5'3", 20-year-old student isn't built for football.

But he tried out for the team anyway, and, well, let's just say it didn't go great. But at some point while convalescing, Joe gazes out the window and sees something extraordinary. The Cincinnati-Cubington Bridge. Far from merely providing any means for crossing the Ohio River, its cable-laden stone towers are a true work of art. One that a man with a love for the arts and engineering like Joe can appreciate. Moreover, it's a piece of history. Designed by the famous John Roebling, it's the first long-span suspension bridge in America. In a very real way, the Cincinnati Covington Bridge prepared John to conceive of the Brooklyn Bridge. Now this isn't the first time Joe's seen it.

He's gawked at the Cincinnati Covington Bridge since he was a boy. But now, as a young college student with ambition to do something great, it hits differently. Joe feels inspired to be a great bridge engineer, to build something that will stand the test of time as a testament to art and functionality, just like the great John Roebling and his Brooklyn Bridge.

So goes the often told origin story of Joe Strauss's path to bridge engineer. But whether or not Joe's recovery from his football injury did or didn't lead him to a window staring in reverie, the fact remains that this low in stature but high in hopes Ohayin is an aspiring bridge engineer with dreams of glory. To give you a little more background, Joseph Behrman Strauss was born on January 7th, 1870 in Cincinnati, Ohio. With a portrait painter and a pianist for parents, Joe's ethnically German and Jewish family filled him with a love for the arts. But alas, he also learned that loving the arts doesn't pay the bills. Perhaps that fiscal pinch

from childhood is all part of why the artistic Cincinnatian studies engineering and commerce at the University of Cincinnati. But he doesn't drop the arts either, which leads to quite the undergraduate portfolio upon graduation. As class poet, Joel presents an epic 21 stanza poem of his own creation, which is way overboard for what was expected. He's also prepared a thesis proposing a bridge over the Bering Strait. You know, the more than 50 mile dividing point between Asia and North America, where the Pacific and Arctic oceans meet. Now you and I might advise getting something a little more practical than this poem and

unbuildable bridge proposal on the resume before entering the workforce. But instead, Joe pulls the same move that Harold Hill of the yet to be written musical, The Music Man, does. He lies about his resume. Joe doesn't just claim to have graduated from the University of Cincinnati. He claims to have taught engineering there. Talk about fake it till you make it. Joe lands a gig as a draftsman in New Jersey. Between this and consulting in Chicago, he picks up the skills he really needs to build bridges,

particularly bascule bridges, essentially draw bridges that use counterweights with a French name. Basculé means to tip or tilt in French. Joe comes up with his own version called the Strauss-Trunyon bascule bridge. It's a huge hit. The design launches his firm while building his fortune. Now, none of these bridges are particularly aesthetically pleasing, but they get the job done and with 40 bridges built in Panama and a movable bridge across the Cuyahoga River in Ohio, this small and statured man is making a big name for himself.

His vascular bridge also makes for a great carnival ride. Seriously, the bridge design uses a counterweight on the end that pulls the arm of a bridge up, and with a little modification, it becomes a ride that gives people the sensation of flying 260 feet in the air. Joe calls it the aeroscope, and it's a huge hit at the 1915 Panama Pacific Exposition in San Francisco. You heard that correctly, San Francisco. And even more than the people on this ride, the aeroscope is elevating Joe as it lifts him toward bridge building greatness by placing him on the radar of San Francisco's city engineer, Michael O'Shaughnessy. A 51 year old immigrant from Limerick, Ireland, Michael O'Shaughnessy came to the city by the bay as a young man back in 1884

with nothing but his rogue accent and a bit of parchment. But he became more as the years passed and is nothing less than a local hero thanks to the engineer's leadership in rebuilding San Francisco since the 1906 earthquake. Joe Strauss and Michael O'Shaughnessy really hit it off. Both men have fiery personalities and as a Jew and an Irishman,

both of them know what it is to fight through bigotry and have to rely on sheer determination. Soon, Joe and Michael are working on San Francisco's Fourth Street Bridge, and then Michael tosses out that ridiculous idea that he loves to throw at all bridge building engineers. He asks Joe about bridging the Golden Gate Strait. But unlike most engineers, who see bridging the windy, foggy straight and its tempestuous waters as too hard or too expensive, Joe sees the opportunity to do something more than yet another bascule bridge. To do something great, something as daring as John Roebling's East River traversing Brooklyn Bridge. And Joe seizes on the idea. Armed only with poor survey information, he submits a proposal for a 6,700 foot long

mixed cantilever and suspension bridge. It's ugly as sin, but the price is right. Joe thinks he can connect the strait's one mile distant shores for just over $17 million. Encouraged, Mike teams up with the Chicago-based Dreamer in 1921 to push a brochure trying to sell this idea to the public. It gains traction. To those in Marin County and other communities on the northern side of the strait, this would be a life-changing connection to the

commercial and financial hub of San Francisco. San Franciscans would love the ability to develop north as well. In 1923, the state legislature creates a special six-county district to look at financing and designing a bridge over the Golden Gate Strait. But the Irishman gets cold feet, or at least cooler feet, as he quietly looks for other bids. Of the two other bridge designers he talks to, one doesn't even bother to bid, while the other comes in at a staggering $77 million, the same as the cost of the future 8.4 mile long Bay Bridge. That number makes Joe's look like an impractical lowball. Michael says to Joe, Everybody says it can't be done and that it would cost over a hundred million dollars if it could be done.

Joe pushes back. I think it can't be done, and that it would cost over $100 million if it could be done." Joe pushes back, I think it can. But the Irishman's doubts are far from being Joe's biggest problem. As discussion moves forward, the enterprising bridge builder will have to defend his proposal in a public hearing run by a powerful and sharp critic, the U.S. War Department. It's about 10 in the morning, May 16, 1924. Some 350 people are packed into the supervisor chambers of San Francisco's City Hall, or the People's Palace, as this almost a decade old and gorgeously domed Greek-style public building is also known. In the center of the ornate ceiling is a Manchurian oak carved representation of the San Carlos, which was the first ship to sail through the Golden Gate. It did so in 1775, one month after George Washington

took command of the Continental Army. Ah, sorry, you know how I get distracted by architecture. Anyhow, this hundreds-strong group is here for a hearing about a potential bridge over the Golden Gate Strait proposed by Joe Strauss and Michael O'Shaughnessy. Many attendees hail from various communities north of the Strait. They're from Napa, Sonoma, far northern Del Norte County, and of course San Francisco's northern neighbor just across the street, Marin County. They listen as Joe gives a polished pitch. San Francisco has often done the impossible.

I believe this bridge will bring an era of unprecedented prosperity. San Francisco is one of the few cities that has all the energy, all the wealth, all the courage, and all the ability that is needed. Oh yeah, Joe has them eating out of his hand. But the man conducting this meeting, the head of the local board of Army engineers, a thinly and dark-haired colonel named Herbert Deacon, is far less enthusiastic. Worried about Navy vessels navigating the strait in times of war and peace, the Colonel

cuts right to the chase. What would be the effect of an airplane bomb dropped on the bridge? If the bridge was hit dead center, the road bed would fall into 300 feet of water and leave the channel freely navigable. A good military answer, but Joe doesn't leave it there. Proving his real gift isn't engineering, but salesmanship, he adds, during the late war, not a bridge was destroyed. If the enemy got so close to this city

as to be able to bomb the bridge, I am afraid that there'd be very little left of the city. The Colonel presses, what about cost? Joe loves this question. Having barely raised his original estimate, he answers with $21 million. Between Joe's responses and other supportive comments, like Michael's reassurances that the bridge's lights

will actually help navigation, and Mill Valley Mayor's comment that his city's residents 12 miles north of San Francisco will happily pay a toll to cut their commute from an hour to 20 minutes. The Colonel comes around. It takes the rest of 1924, but that December, Secretary of War John Weeks gives his blessing. He will allow this bridge over the Golden Gate Strait, provided that bridge builders keep his department in the loop before doing anything.

That's more than enough permission for Joe, who's already considering this bridge his life's work. But even if this is his baby, and it is, Joe isn't quite egotistical enough to think he can do it all on his own. He seeks out other engineers who can shore up his shortcomings. One such pro is University of Illinois professor

of structural and bridge engineering, Charles Ellis. This tall and slender, late 40s Maynard, would get along great with the Bay Bridge's Charles Purcell. A consummate professor, he publishes a well-received textbook on structural design in 1922, and spends his free time translating ancient Greek or looking for engineering problems he can't solve. Sorry, ladies. He's taken.

Joe also lands Bridge Architecture rock star Leon Moiseyev. Yes, the same Latvian turned New Yorker whom we met working on the Bay Bridge. I really can't overstate how big of a get this is for Joe to have the designer of the Manhattan Bridge on his Golden Gate team. With these two and still others, Joe is finally rubbing shoulders with the big dogs. Yet, there is trouble in paradise for Joe Strauss and his now years-long Golden Gate Bridge pushing partner, Michael O'Shaughnessy. Michael is struggling in the world of municipal politics. Wanting to push him out of his position as San Francisco's engineer, a few city supervisors accuse him of shady dealings

with a massive water distribution plan called the Hetch Hetchy Project. They also make him the scapegoat for the poor survey data used in Joe's original Golden Gate Bridge proposal. As a result of these and other political constraints, Michael, who held aspirations to serve as the bridge's chief engineer, will be off the project by 1929. Meanwhile, Joe, who desperately wants to serve as chief engineer, is struggling to keep up.

His team is more talented than him. For instance, when Joe asks Leon Moiseyeff to toy with the suspension bridge design, he was only looking for a second but not viable option to throw around for optics while pitching his cantilever suspension hybrid bridge. Instead, Leon reports in November 1925 that an elegant suspension bridge is possible. In fact, it will sway with the strait's incredible winds. And it might even be cheaper than Joe's hideous design as well.

City officials are concerned about Joe too. His energy is incredible and he could sell like no other, but his cantilever suspension design is truly hideous. Further, the diminutive but fiery engineer gives off serious Napoleon complex vibes. With his design in question and his backing falling away, Joe knows he has to make a move. Working through Charles Ellis, he gets Leon and another rock star of the bridge world, the man behind New York's currently under construction George Washington Bridge, Othmar Amman, to serve as advisory engineers paid by the state, or rather the state's special bridge district. This all makes Joe look like a true leader and reassures San Francisco that

these other talented engineers will pull serious weight with its design. Joe even concedes to the death of his visually offensive hybrid design, accepting Leon's majestic suspension bridge instead. It's a turn of events that undoubtedly delights Charles Ellis, who's writing volumes, yes, volumes of calculations to ensure Leon's design works perfectly. But even if Joe is a glory hog, and he is, his brilliant salesmanship remains crucial. Unlike the federally funded Bay Bridge, the Golden Gate is getting no love from Washington. A tough spot with the Great Depression beginning.

Right there this bridge should be dead, and that's to say nothing of the project's foes, like the powerful Southern Pacific, which owns the ferryboats, whose business will soon suffer, or the environmentally minded Sierra Club. Yet, between the Bay Area's desperate need for connection and Joe's ability to sell, the special district's residents look past the financial collapse around them and vote to make their own homes collateral for $35 million in bonds to build this bridge on November 4, 1930. Legal challenges try to stop the bonds from succeeding, but the mustachioed Italian-American founder of the Bank of America, Amadeo Peter Giannini steps up and buys the $3 million

in bonds needed to get the ball rolling. And so, this bridge is happening. Yet, before ground is broken, Joe's ego costs the bridge one of its most brilliant contributors, Charles Ellis. Joe's come to see his textbook authoring advisor as too much of a rising star at meetings and hearings. Besides that, Joe's angry at what he incorrectly considers needless delays to study the structure, ground, and make further calculations. In late November 1931, Joe urges the genius engineer to take a vacation. He then writes to Charles three days before the latter's planned return, telling him to take an indefinite vacation

without pay. And just like that, Charles Ellis is pushed off this bridge project. On February 26, 1933, four months before the Bay Bridge will break ground, 200,000 excited spectators turn out for the Golden Gate Bridge's groundbreaking. Like the Bay Bridge, this formality is coming after some work has already begun. In this case, on the anchors and piers on both sides of the strait. On the north side, the pier is at the water's edge near the line point lighthouse. Working inside a cofferdam, that is, a temporary enclosure that is pumped dry of all water, just as we saw it done with the Hoover Dam in the last episode, the north pier rises

with relative ease. But that's not the case across the strait. The South Pier is the real challenge. It has to stand 1,125 feet off San Francisco's coast and take the perpetual battering of the Golden Gate Strait's turbulent tides. Naturally, the plan is to sink a caisson to bedrock and build the pier on it. But the waters are so rough, they begin building concrete walls roughly the size of a football field around the area just to calm the flow. Officially this is called a fender, but it picks up a nickname. The giant bathtub. But even as the giant bathtub is constructed, the work remains challenging

and dangerous. The straight six knot tides make deckhands seasick and give divers short windows in which they can work. While on August 13, 1933, thick fog and churning waters causes the 2,000-ton freighter, Sydenyam Hauptman, to crash into the access trestle on which the South Pier's builders work. Amid repairs to the trestle, more construction site damaging weather attacks.

The pattern continues, as one worker will later write, quote, The most difficult engineering feat men have ever tackled was the South Pier. For 11 months it was an unequal battle of man against the sea. Close quote. And so the battle continues. Ditching I-beams for more flexible timber, the men finally complete a trussle that can move with the tide by March 1934. That October, enough of the giant bathtub, or fender, is built to try to bring the caisson in. But no dice.

Even with calmer waters, the caisson is damaged and cracked. So Joe pivots in a truly unconventional way. He ditches the caisson is damaged and cracked. So Joe pivots in a truly unconventional way. He ditches the caisson altogether. Instead, the fender is built out until it is a complete and watertight enclosure. Then in November, they drain this giant bathtub, effectively making it a cofferdam. Seven months later, in June 1934, the San Francisco Tower is in place, just like the Marin Tower, which rose half a year earlier. The 64-foot tall South Pier goes deeper than the North's, but both of the strong yet slightly flexible carbon and silicon steel towers

reach the same astounding height of 746 feet. With 150-ton steel castings called saddles atop each tower, the bridge's two main cables that will hold, or rather suspend, this suspension bridge are ready to go up. As was done with John Roebling's Brooklyn Bridge half a century ago, the Golden Gate Bridge's cables are made on the spot by weaving, or looping, strands of steel wire together with spinning wheels that run the wires up to the towers from one anchorage to the other. And poetically, Joe Strauss brings in the Roebling Company to do the work.

Altogether they run 80,000 miles of galvanized carbon steel wire to create two main cables, a figure that just exceeds the Bay Bridge's total wire and it's four cables. Each Golden Gate cable is 36 3⁄8 of an inch in diameter and 7,650 feet long. This cable lane starts in August 1935 and is completed in May 1936. Joe is also fastidious about safety. A surprising attribute for the era, but he requires his men to wear hard hats.

Not clipping into the safety lines when working high in the air is grounds for firing. He's a surprising attribute for the era, but he requires his men to wear hard hats. Not clipping into the safety lines when working high in the air is grounds for firing. He even spends a small fortune, somewhere between $85,000 and $130,000 on a hemp-made net, or a gossamer web, as the literary digest describes it, to run under the rising bridge to catch any men who might fall. This saves 19 lives. The survivors form the We Fell Off the Bridge Club, later renamed the Halfway to Hell Club. Thanks to Joe's no-nonsense safety protocols, this bridge, with a workforce of over a thousand

men, is nearly completed before Kermit Moore sadly becomes its first death on October 21st, 1936. But even with all the care in the world, far larger accidents can still happen. It's a warm fall-spring morning, Wednesday, February 17th, 1937. Evan Lampert, or Slim, as the 26 year old's crew calls him, is shouting directions to his 12 employees working beneath the Golden Gate Bridge's deck. They're on a rolling scaffold, or stripper, as they call the 60 foot platform, since they stand on it while stripping wood and concrete from the completed road deck. It's got to feel good to see the bridge this close to completion.

The men are in a great mood, teasing each other about the ease of this current job as they progressively strip one section of the deck, then roll southward. Suddenly, a loud crack rips across the bay. The rolling scaffold lurches. Slim shouts to the men to get out as he leaps for the halfway to Hell net.

His men do likewise. But then, a set of their rolling scaffold wheels slips off its supporting rail. It swings out, compromising the other set of wheels. And that's when the platform, its rods, its wheels, everything drops. The netting doesn't stand a chance. As one painter later recalls,

it ripped like a picket fence, splintering. In an instant, one net connection after another cascades down, and with the exception of Tom Casey who clings to a bridge beam as tightly as he clenches the pipe in his teeth. Slim and 11 others are thrown 220 feet down, the equivalent of a fall from a 22-story building. They fall right along with the netting and 10 tons of debris into the cruel, churning waters below. From above, shocked workmen on the bridge shout down at the gasping or unconscious men in the waters below and scramble to try to help.

Meanwhile, Slim, who'd been knocked out by a piece of falling lumber, snaps back to consciousness as the water's ice-cold temperature sees his body. Coming to the surface, he gasps for air. His nose and ears are bleeding, one shoulder is broken, but he's alive. Looking around, he sees three pairs of feet rising up from the waves. Oh God, those are his men. A strong swimmer, the busted up 26 year old, one arm strokes his way toward them. But that's not enough to defeat the tide. As Slim will

later recall, all he can do is watch as, a pair at a time, they disappear as if they were being sucked down. Slim notices another man. It's his friend, Fred Dumanson. Is he unconscious or dead? Doesn't matter. Slim swims out and grabs the limp body. As close as the battered, dangerously cold foreman is to death himself, he won't leave Fred if there's a chance of saving him. A fishing boat finds Slim and Fred and pulls them from the line. Bloodied and frozen, Slim looks at Fred. His worst fears are confirmed. Fred's gone. Tom Casey is rescued from the beam.

Still clenching his pipe, the Irishman goes to the field office to collect his pay. He won't be coming back to this bridge. But of the twelve who fell, only bone-broken 51-year-old Oscar Osberg and Slim survive. The other ten, men like C.A. Anderson, Elbridge Hillen, and Jack Norman, whose broken-hearted fiancé Sue McMillan won't be marrying him this June, have all gone to their watery graves. Meanwhile, Slim is tortured by the memory. To quote him, that's like a terrible dream. Ten of my friends were dead. I saw them die all around me. I couldn't do anything about it. Four separate inquiries are made into the rolling scaffolding's collapse. Ultimately, it's deemed an accident, though changes are made to the brackets to prevent another such disaster, and no others will die on this project. And yet, with a

total death count of 11, Kermit Moore's earlier death plus these 10, the Golden Gate Bridge is still well under the era's expected death rate of one life per million dollars spent on a project. The bridge is so close to being done. But where does its iconic orange color come from? Well, back in 1935, one of the assistant engineers, Irving Morrow, was assessing color options. These included the Navy's desire for alternating black and yellow stripes

to make the bridge highly visible to ships, the Army Air Corps' interest in stripes as well, but red and white instead, and still other ideas, gray or even black. But one day, as Irving was on a ferry, he found himself drawn to the reddish orange color of the primer already going on the bridge. He found that it sort of blends with the landscape,

yet pops against the blue of the sky and water, which should please both the Navy and the Army. Irving manages to sell it. The Golden Gate is slathered in nothing but primer in a color known as International Orange. But with the towers up and painted, the cables in place, and the roadway paved and ready, there's nothing left to do but open it up. Come on, we'll need to get there early. It's just before six in the morning, May 27th, 1937. Between both the Marin and San Francisco

sides, almost 18,000 people have gathered at this early chilly and gusty hour for a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, being the first to walk across the finished Golden Gate Bridge. That's right, walk. This first day in a week of celebrations is pedestrian day. It cost a nickel to do so, but these are the same people who leveraged their own land and homes to get this bridge built. What's another five cents for this experience? A foghorn blasts and cheers erupt. The bridge is open. The barriers drop and the charge begins.

From the Marin side, high schooler Robert Miller is the first to sprint across. Meanwhile, 19-year-old San Francisco Junior College sprinter Donald Bryant charges the other way. Oh, but these two aren't the only ones trying for a famous first. Carmen and Nini Perez are the first to skate across. Florentine Caligari is the first on stilts.

There's also a tuba player, a backwards walker, a unicyclist, and yeah, the list of curious crossings goes on. But I'm drawn to 74-year-old Henry Boder, who crossed the Brooklyn Bridge on its opening day back in 1883. From sea to shining sea, that makes Henry an eyewitness to America's magnificent suspension bridge bookends. Four hours later, at 10 a.m., the customary stand for elected officials and other bigwigs is set and ready for their speeches. Standing in a sharp black suit, short and stature Joe Strauss is one of those big men.

As he's introduced, the chief engineer is greeted by a mighty ovation. This is his moment. As historian John Van Der Zee writes in his seminal history of the Golden Gate Bridge, Strauss was at last the man he had wished, then willed himself to be, the poet in steel whose greatest work was now etched on the canvas stretching above and behind him. Joe will have other opportunities to speak in the future, but today he sits back down on the stand and lets others talk. He's already made his thoughts known in a poem he published in the newspapers just yesterday. Yes, he's still writing poetry.

Here's a small taste. At last, the mighty task is done. Resplendent in the western sun. The bridge looms, mountain high. Its titan piers grip ocean floor. Its great steel arms link shore with shore, its towers pierce the sky, launched amidst a thousand hopes and fears, damned by a thousand hostile sneers, yet nair its course was stayed, but ask of those who met the foe,

who stood alone when faith was low, ask them the price they paid. High overhead its lights shall gleam, far, far below life's restless stream, unceasingly shall flow, for this was spun its life-fine form, to fear not war, nor time nor storm, for fate had meant it so. In the end, the Golden Gate Bridge is everything that Joe Strauss could have hoped for. And yet, it also takes his health, his marriage, and not even a year from the opening day, his life. He passes on May 16, 1938, from coronary thrombosis.

He'll long be appreciated for his daring and salesmanship, but his pettiness and insecurity will also taint his legacy. Effective as he is at hiding Charles Ellis's contributions to the Golden Gate Bridge, historians will piece together the brilliant professor's essential role in the decades ahead. Charles Ellis's name will eventually be said right alongside his fellow Golden Gate peers like Leon Moiseyev and Othmar Amann. The simultaneous rise of the Golden Gate Bridge and the San Francisco-Oakland Bay Bridge, as well as the Bay's Treasure Island, created partially from what is dredged up in the making of these two wonders of the world, changed the Bay

Area forever. These bridges did far more than provide jobs to the jobless in the Great Depression or put a feather in the cap of Joe Strauss and Charles Purcell. Great as all those things are between the swaying abilities of the often wind-battered Golden Gate Bridge and the deeply case on built long suspension meets cantilever meets trusses Bay Bridge. Both broke new ground in the world of engineering. In the words of historian Richard Dillon, quote, the San Francisco Oakland Bay Bridge and the Golden Gate Bridge were true phenomena. They tested, boldly challenged the perceived limits of engineering, close quote. And of course, they

did what all hoped they would do fundamentally. They linked California's international hub of San Francisco to the state's growing northern communities across the strait and its booming cities across the bay. And despite the 1989 Loma Prieta earthquake damaging the Bay Bridge's eastern segment to such an extent that it will get replaced in the early 21st century, both bridges will continue to serve as crucial arteries for the Bay Area into the foreseeable future. But after two episodes of boldly bridging and damming the elements in the West, it's time for us to head east to bear witness as New Yorkers break other barriers in their

reach for new heights. I mean that literally. They're constructing the tallest building in the world. But which will it be? The Manhattan Company building, the Chrysler building, or the Empire State Building? We'll find out next time as we take in this competitive tale of skyscraper glory.

History That Doesn't Suck is created and hosted by Greg Jackson. Episode research and written by Greg Jackson and The Troll Under the Bridge, Will King. Production by Airship. Sound design by Molly Locke. Theme music composed by Greg Jackson. Arrangement and additional composition by Lindsey Graham of Airship. For a bibliography of all primary and secondary sources consulted in writing this episode, visit HTVspodcast.com.

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