My Life in the Shipyards

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It was well after midnight in the Central District, and the businesses along 23rd and East Madison were closed, except for the Honeysuckle Tavern: It was still going strong, even at this hour. I tried to make myself comfortable leaning against the door of the Ship Scalers Union Hall, my way of assuring I’d be the first person in line for the early-morning job call. 

A little after 2, tavern barflies emptied into the street, trying to find their cars, and by 2:30, East Madison was completely deserted, dark and silent. I sat with my back against the union hall door, a blanket over my shoulders, my eyelids growing heavy. That’s the last thing I remember before the stillness was shattered with “You can’t sleep here! You can’t sleep on the sidewalk!” 

I jumped, startled by the booming voice, eyes now wide open. The problem was, I couldn’t see anything because of the oversized flashlight directly in front of my face. 

“Let’s go,” the voice commanded, as the flashlight waved. I blinked a couple times and recognized the metallic glint on some sort of suit on the other side of the light. “I said let’s go,” the voice repeated, and I recognized the uniform of a Seattle Police officer.

I disentangled myself from the blanket and cleared my throat. “I’m trying to get a job,” I managed to get out, half sitting up. “What I mean is”—I cleared my throat again—“I’m trying to get in line for a job call.”

A month earlier, I had relocated to Seattle with my bachelor’s degree in hand, landing at my older sister’s house. Nancy lived with her husband, Dave, in an aging bungalow in Beacon Hill. With two small kids, their tiny house was already crowded, so I slept on the worn green couch in their living room.

That first afternoon I sat, coffee cup in hand, poring over the newspaper in Nancy’s kitchen. It was the late ’70s, disco music was sweeping the country, and finding a job began with scouring the Help Wanted section of The Seattle Times. The page was large, and the newsprint was small, so by my rose-colored calculation there were hundreds of job openings waiting to be filled. 

Reality hit hard the following morning when I tried to track down addresses in the city and follow up on applications. I wasn’t familiar with Seattle, didn’t know the layout of the downtown streets, couldn’t even find parking. When I finally made a connection, I would fill out paperwork and receive a polite “Thanks, we’ll let you know.” By the end of the first day, I’d turned in a total of four applications. 

Days wore on and I continued filling out applications, but I didn’t have any follow-up meetings or interviews. I heard the same “Thanks, we’ll be in touch if we need you,” but no one got in touch.

In my own naive way, I’d assumed that if I went to college, worked hard, and earned a degree, a well-paying job would automatically fall into my lap. As a white, entitled college-educated male, this was a foregone conclusion. In retrospect, that was so presumptuous. I didn’t consider the things that needed to happen between earning my degree and being offered a job. 

I spent four weeks getting nowhere, and tried to keep up a brave face as misery built up inside me. My efforts in college had been rewarded with recognition, good grades, and a diploma. Now I put the same level of dedication into job hunting and struck out. I tried to remain hopeful when I pulled up to Todd Shipyard in West Seattle. As I ambled to the main gate, a uniformed security guard directed me to an aging wooden building. I found the personnel office on the ground floor, walked in, and asked if they were hiring. The man behind the desk stopped what he was doing, leaned back in his creaking metal chair, and set his glasses on the desk. “Yes,” he said slowly, “we have openings. What craft are you?”

What craft am I? My blank look was enough to tell him I needed information.

“Craft is another word for trade,” he explained. “A trade is like welder or pipe fitter, or shipwright or rigger. Those are all shipbuilding trades.”

“Oh…ah…I’m not any of those.”

“Well then, if you don’t have a specific craft, you’ll want to hire on as a laborer.”

Laborer? My thoughts stuttered. I’m going to hire on as a laborer? I was a biology major. I graduated with honors. But I was also broke.

Staring at me, he patiently asked, “So do you want to hire on as a laborer?”

“Sure,” I said, nodding. “Do you have an application I can fill out?”

“No, it doesn’t work that way. All of our tradespeople come to us through union halls. If you don’t have a specific craft, you’ll want to join the laborers union.” He handed me a card. “Go sign up with these guys. They’ll get you started.”

The card read “Ship Scalers, Dry Dock, and Boat Yard Workers Union” along with a street address in the Central District. My eyes lit up as a genuine smile of relief relaxed my face. I felt lighter. I might have even heard music playing. “Thanks,” I said. 

It only took me four weeks, but I finally had a solid lead on a job.

The next day I stood at the corner of 23rd and East Madison. The Central District enjoyed a rich cultural and musical heritage, counting itself home to Quincy Jones and Jimi Hendrix. A teenage Ray Charles launched his career here. In the late ’70s, the neighborhood was about 70 percent Black and had been the epicenter of the civil rights movement for the people of Seattle. 

This was a fitting location for the Ship Scalers Union Hall, because its membership was heavily African American. It hadn’t always been so. The union started out in the Belltown area, originally composed of European shipyard workers. Prior to the Second World War, shipyard unions actively discriminated against Black people, barring them from membership or, in some cases, segregating minority workers into “auxiliary locals.” As Black soldiers were integrated into the US Army, a door eventually creaked open for Black workers in the shipyards. It wasn’t much of an opening. The craft unions, representing skilled workers, continued to discriminate by and large, but the Ship Scalers Union—the laborers union—opened membership to minority workers. Ship scaling was the least desirable work in the shipyard: dirty and dangerous, not to mention the lowest paid. But this was the only door open to African Americans, so they became the majority in the Ship Scalers Union, eventually making up about 90 percent of its membership in the years after the war. The Ship Scalers went on to become a progressive voice in Seattle for social change, integration issues, and civil rights.

Standing in front of the union hall that morning, knowing none of this, I studied the peeling paint. With “Ship Scalers Union Local 541” posted over the door, the building’s run-down appearance belied its venerable history of activism and fighting for social justice. Walking inside, I felt out of place. Against one wall was a row of rickety wooden chairs and four Black men talking. They all wore faded gray coveralls and scuffed black work boots. The men looked up for a second, said nothing to me, then went back to talking among themselves. 

All of a sudden, I sensed how white I was. Is this how it feels? I wondered. I’d gone to a high school with no Black students, and only known two or three Black students at college. Was this the sort of feeling they experienced each day on campus? Was this what they felt, magnified on a much greater scale, every time they walked into a classroom full of white people?

I walked across the room to an office behind what looked like a plexiglass bank teller’s window. A thin, ancient Black man leaned back in an old swivel chair. Approaching the window, I bent forward and said, “I’d like to join the Ship Scalers Union.” 

The man didn’t look up. He didn’t even move. Instead, he took a long breath, then exhaled “8am call” in a voice charred by cigarettes.

I ducked down a little, bringing my face closer to the semicircular opening. “That’s when I can sign up?” 

He still didn’t look up, but the lines in his face deepened as he repeated, “8am call,” then swiveled in his chair, turning away from me. 

Do I wait here? Do I say something? 

I stood there, head down, feeling the men from across the room’s eyes on my back, and realized nothing else was going to happen. I put my hands in my pockets and quietly left, driving back to my sister’s place. Stopping along the way at the giant Sears store on Third Avenue South, I bought coveralls and black, midcalf-high, steel-toed work boots.

Friday morning at a quarter to eight I walked down the sidewalk, counting eight or nine people—mostly men and all older than me—lined up by the door. Wearing my brand-new coveralls, I was met with eyes neither welcoming nor disapproving. I was the only white guy. 

Alone at the end of the line, I kept checking my watch: 10 till 8…5 till 8…then, right on the money, the door to the union hall swung open. The line quietly filed in as people queued up in front of the plexiglass teller’s window, and a deep, now-familiar gravelly voice barked out, “Call for four at Lockheed, ship repair, days.” One at a time, the first four people bent down to the window and gave their names. The thin man wrote down each one, and after the four left, the rest of the line queued up expectantly.

“Call for two at Todd, ship repair, swing.” The next two people gave their names, and then the man in the office placed a semicircular piece of plexiglass, cut to fit, into the window, sealing it up. He turned around with the list of names, sat down at his desk, and picked up the phone. 

Was that it?

“Show’s over,” the person in front of me said as people turned to leave. I hesitated for a second, looked around, then followed everyone out. The show was over. Obviously, I had to be there earlier for the Monday-morning call.

Monday I pulled up in front of the union hall a little after seven, this time counting five people in line. OK…makes me number six. Standing in line, I made some small talk with two guys in front of me, learning that (a) the man behind the plexiglass was J. J. Johnson, president of the Ship Scalers Union; (b) most people were sent to either Todd Shipyard or Lockheed Shipyard; (c) calls were for day shift, swing shift, or graveyard; and (d) people were sent to either “ship repair” or “new construction.” 

I absorbed the information, although I didn’t fully appreciate all the implications yet. Precisely at eight o’clock the union hall door opened, and we filed in. By now there were 10 or 12 people in line and I smiled, feeling confident being number six. From behind the window J. J.’s voice rang out, “Call for three at Lockheed, ship repair, swing.” After the first three people in line gave their names and left, the plexiglass insert went back into the window. J. J. sat down to phone in the names. End of story. 

This is getting frustrating…tomorrow morning I’m going to be first in line. 

I had the rest of the day to kill and no job openings to pursue. Tomorrow morning I’m going to be first in line. I didn’t feel like spending the night at Nancy’s, so after changing, I left my sister a note, then drove around the city. Ending up in Chinatown, I bought a bowl of noodles at a little restaurant. I ate slowly, drank a lot of tea, and wasted enough time to arrive at the union hall around midnight. That’s when I had my encounter with the Seattle Police officer, who was the last person I saw until about 6, when two guys walked by, one white and one Black, both a little younger than me. 

“You waitin’ for the 8am call?” they asked. I nodded. “Mind if we join you?” 

Their names were Willy and Derek, buddies who graduated from Garfield High School that spring. They heard ship scaling was a good-paying gig and were impressed when I told them I’d arrived at midnight to be the first person in line. 

Time passed quickly as we fell into conversation, and by eight o’clock there were six people in line behind us. The door swung open right on time, and I marched into the union hall with a self-satisfied grin. First in line! 

The union president, J. J., looked up from his chair and barked, “No calls today!”

We stood there, momentarily frozen, as J. J.’s words bounced off us. Christ! What’s it gonna take? I rolled my eyes and turned away. So much for being first in line. 

Looking at Willy and Derek, I cleared my throat and swallowed my frustration. “Guess that means I’ll see you guys tomorrow morning.” 

“Yeah, early in the morning,” Willy shot back, a little bleary-eyed.

I arrived at midnight, and my new friends showed up a little after 1am. This time, hanging out in front of the union hall was fun: With Willy and Derek, it was like a junior high sleepover. I had a blanket, Willy brought two sleeping bags, and Derek showed up with a bag of Doritos and a box of Twinkies, which we devoured. We talked the whole evening.

By eight o’clock a dozen people were in line, and bang on the dot, the union hall door swung open. Once again, I led the procession to the teller’s window. This time, J. J. said the magic words. “Call for two at Lockheed, ship repair, days.” 

Finally! Being first in line, I couldn’t wait to give my name, but I wavered. I knew Willy and Derek hoped to be called out together, and this was a call for two. I backed away…after all, they had brought the food last night. “You guys go ahead of me. It’s a call for two.” Willy and Derek went around me and gave their names while I prayed that J. J. would keep talking. 

My anxiety was short-lived. “Call for four, Todd, ship repair, swing.” 

This time it was my name J. J. was writing down. “So I just show up at Todd Shipyard?” I asked.

“Right,” J. J. replied. “I’ll phone your name over there, so be at the yard by four o’clock today. They’ll be expecting you.” 

“OK.” I nodded. “Thanks.” I shook hands with Willy and Derek, wishing them luck, then bolted from the hall. Just like that, I had a job. I possessed identity. I was Mike Nolan Ship Scaler, and I couldn’t wait to tell somebody—my folks back home, my sister Nancy—anybody. I had no idea what a ship scaler did, but that didn’t matter. At four o’clock I’d find out.

That afternoon I pulled up to a crowded Todd Shipyard parking lot. When I told the security guard at the main gate I was sent from the union hall, he pointed to a rack of hard hats. “Put one of those on.” Then he handed me a blank punch card. “Here, print your name at the top—and print it so they can read it, or you won’t get paid.” He pointed to a small clock mounted on a post at the end of a huge metal rack full of time cards. “Punch it there.” I stuck one end of my time card into a slot beneath the clock and—stamp!—the time appeared on my card. “Now take it over there.” He pointed in the direction of the company offices.

By now the other three scalers from the union hall had shown up. While the guard got them going, I walked to the administration building. The man sitting in the personnel office was the same person who had directed me to the Ship Scalers Union. “OK…you four will be working on the Thomaston. She’s tied up to the pier across from the shipways. This is Henderson.” He gestured to another man who had silently walked into the office behind us. He was a short, solid, powerfully built Black man with a thick mustache, and I could tell from his demeanor that he was not a new recruit. “Henderson is your leadman. He’ll show you what to do.” 

Henderson wore dirty blue coveralls. A laminated Todd Shipyard badge showing a headshot and barcode was clipped to his breast pocket. His hard hat had a large capital L on the front, and his commanding presence exuded unspoken confidence; in other words, he was everything I was not.

“Why don’t you gimme your time cards,” Henderson said in a low monotone. Collecting the cards, he slowly read each name, then tucked the stack into his shirt pocket. “OK…follow me.” 

The four of us shuffled out behind Henderson and followed him to the tool room. “Canvas work gloves,” Henderson said to one of the men behind the counter. Someone took Henderson’s badge and scanned the barcode. We were issued safety glasses, and Henderson pointed to a box of earplug packets on the counter. “Grab y’all some of those.” 

After that, he looked at us with absolutely no expression and said, “OK,” which I guess was his way of saying, “Follow me, guys, and I’ll take you to the worksite.” 

We walked past a massive navy vessel on the shipway, a “fast frigate.” Two towering cranes wheeled up and down the pier alongside it, loading pallet boards onto the vessel’s main deck. Scaffolding had been erected all along the hull, with three or four guys perched in various places, welding. Golden sparks flowed down the sleek gray hull in narrow, shimmering waterfalls. 

Throughout the yard, workers moved in every direction, carrying tools, dragging hoses, lugging equipment…with forklifts driving in between them all. I paused for a second and looked around, pressed in by the noise and frenzied activity all around me. Everything was in motion. It was loud and hurried and seemed erratic, but at the same time the movement possessed an energetic rhythm and geometry: perfectly organized chaos. I loved being in the center of it all.

Past the shipways, Henderson led us down a long wooden pier where the Thomaston, a haze-gray navy vessel with an oversized 28 painted on her bow, was moored. 

“Is this the boat we’re working on?” I asked Henderson, walking down the pier. 

“Ship,” he said without breaking stride. 

The four of us followed Henderson up a lengthy aluminum gangway, climbing from the pier to the main deck of the Thomaston. One of the scalers behind me, who obviously had more experience, leaned forward. “You can put a boat on a ship, but you can’t put a ship on a boat.” 

I turned around. “OK…I get it. It has to do with size.”

“Uh-huh.”

“One’s a lot bigger than the other. Like ‘life boat’ versus ‘battle ship.’”

“You’re learnin’” was the laconic reply.

Henderson led us below decks and through what seemed like a maze, until we came to a compartment—not a room. “This is where day shift left off.” 

The compartment was empty except for four aluminum ladders and a big bale of rags. Heavy brown paper covered the floor—the deck—and the light fixtures were wrapped in clear plastic sheeting and masking tape. 

“Y’all get ya a ladder.” Henderson bent down with a pair of pliers and clipped the baling wire on the bundle of rags. “We’re gonna get this space ready to paint.”

“We’re going to paint it?” I asked.

“Fuck no. We’re gonna get this fucker ready to be painted,” he said matter-of-factly. “The fucking painters gonna fucking paint it.” 

The look on my face was probably something like there’s a lot they don’t teach you in college, but I smiled realizing I’d finally heard Henderson utter more than three words in a row. I was catching on to something else about shipyard terminology, something that would become abundantly clear in the next few days: Everyone used the word fuck, or some permutation of it, continually. With a little bit of imagination, people used the word as a verb, a noun, an adjective, and an adverb. And it went on like that, all the fucking time. 

“Get y’all some rags too,” Henderson said, “and wipe down the fucking overhead.” 

“Right.” The other guys grabbed handfuls of rags and started up the ladders. The overhead—the ceiling in the compartment—was exposed steel I-beams. They were dusty, and I found stubby, burned ends of spent welding rods. My first eight hours as a ship scaler consisted of wiping down I-beams. 

My second and third nights at Todd were just like the first; Henderson would take us to a compartment, “a fucking compartment,” a little farther down the passageway from the night before. I wiped I-beams every night for eight hours; my job lasted three days, and at the end of my third shift, Henderson caught up with me. 

“Here.” He handed me a slip of pink paper.

“What’s this?”

“It’s what it fucking says it is.” He pointed to the bold lettering at the top of the pink carbon copy: Reduction in Force. 

In my head, I was asking myself how I could be so smart—I graduated cum laude—and at the same time so ignorant. My eyebrows went up as I stammered, “So this is…?”

“You got an R-I-F, man—you know—you got ‘riffed.’” Henderson shrugged. “This here’s your fucking pink slip. You been laid off.”

The next morning I was back in line at the union hall. I knew the first few people would show up between 6 and 7, so that’s when I got there. As it turned out, I was third in line, which was perfect. J. J.’s first call was “Four at Lockheed, ship repair, days.”

That cycle—being sent out from the union hall and getting laid off a couple days later—continued for weeks, until one day a leadman asked me if I was a sandblaster. Knowing sandblasters didn’t get laid off, I lied through my teeth. 

“Yeah. I can blast.” 

That eventually led me to full-time work and seniority. For four years I had been the quintessential rule follower in college. Compliance—and honesty—were considered virtues. But I didn’t get ahead in the real world until I lied about myself. Life wasn’t turning out the way I expected, but my second education had begun. 

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This story was adapted from Mike Nolan’s new book, Hardhat Days: My Re-Education in Seattle’s Shipyards, from WSU Press. Some names have been changed.