Over a two-year period, several close friends and I gained unprecedented access to the decaying ships, spending several days at a time photographing, documenting, and even sleeping aboard them—often in the luxury of the captain’s quarters. Sneaking on-board required months of planning and coordination, and it involved taking significant risks. Of course, things did not always go as planned, but despite several close calls, we were successful in all of our attempts to infiltrate the ships while evading round-the-clock security patrols.

History and Current State

These ghost ships, part of the National Defense Reserve Fleet (NDRF) overseen by the U.S. Maritime Administration (MARAD), were supposed to be ready for duty in the event of a national emergency. Perhaps a few ships are actually “reserve ready” and could be activated, but the vast majority are well beyond their useful lives and rotting away as they wait in line for disposal.

The mothballed ships once numbered close to 400, and in 1959, 324 vessels still lined the waters of Suisun Bay. Although the ships continued to dwindle down over time, approximately 75 remained throughout the 2000s, rusting and leaching toxic heavy metals into the bay as the Bush administration did little to address the crumbling ships.

Many ships in the fleet served in World War II, including the historic USS Iowa, the last remaining U.S. lead battleship. Retired war ships like the Iowa were laid up in Suisun Bay for decades awaiting their next battle, but the call never came. Instead, they have sat unused and largely forgotten. But the Iowa will likely see a different fate than its sister ships who await their ultimate demise at a shipbreaker. Vallejo is currently in a heated battle with the port of Los Angeles (San Pedro) to secure rights to the battleship and turn it into a museum.

Guns on the deck of the USS Iowa.

Ticking Environmental Time Bombs

The ships have shed more than 20 tons of toxic paint debris that have settled into bay sediments, where they will cause problems long after the ships are gone. Even though Congress and the State of California ordered MARAD to address the situation, nothing was done for most of the past decade. Lawsuits filed by environmental groups were also unsuccessful in forcing MARAD to remove the ships. However, after Barack Obama took the Oval Office in 2008, the tide shifted and MARAD began working diligently to clean up and remove the ships.

Planning

As news began to mount that the ships would finally be towed out for scrapping, we knew we had to act fast if we wanted to explore and document them. We had fantasized for years about getting aboard, but it always seemed too difficult and other sites presented fewer challenges. In addition, the potential repercussions of trespassing are likely more severe than other locations we explore. One intimidating factor was our inability to find out what the penalties might entail if we did get caught, making it difficult to weigh the risks.

The President, which was towed to Mare Island in March 2011 to be scrapped. In May, it was towed out again, this time to Texas, in a swap for its sister ship, the President Lincoln, which was deemed too un-seaworthy to make the voyage to Texas.

But we knew that many inherent risks could be mitigated with enough planning and preparation. Before making our first trip on the water, Stephen scoped out the environs to assess how close we could get to the water on foot, which along with satellite imagery, helped us determine our route. Later, we made a second visit just to observe the 24-hour security patrols from the safety of the shoreline. We also purchased a scanner to eavesdrop on nearby radio communications and studied tidal patterns, planning our trips accordingly.

Sea Shadow inside the Hughes Mining Barge.

We had to overcome numerous obstacles just to get to the ships without even addressing the issues involved in getting on them. To get across the channel, we acquired a small, inflatable raft that was just big enough for the three of us and our gear, along with a small motor powered by a car battery. A raft seemed ideal several reasons: 1. it was not possible to drive up to the drop-in point, so we needed something lightweight to carry across the marsh, along with our camera gear, food, water, and sleeping bags; 2. we needed a boat that we could maneuver through extremely shallow tidal flats near the shore; 3. The raft’s low profile and nearly silent motor would help us evade security patrols; 4. a raft would be the easiest type of vessel to pull aboard the ships once we found a way on, and we could then deflate it and stash it away from prying eyes.

An inflatable raft does have its disadvantages. For one thing, it’s only possible to mount a tiny, low power motor on an inflatable raft. But the primary drawback is that holes are nearly inevitable. On our second trip, we discovered several holes as we readied the boat along the roadside. Luckily, we found a patch kit at a nearby gas station, and we were back in business. Another time, we discovered leaks on our return trip as we were leaving the ships. In this case, we continuously pumped up the boat while still on the water.

Scouting Mission

For our first trip, we decided to play it safe and treat it purely as a scouting mission. We did not bring our cameras or overnight gear, and we approached the ships cautiously. Warning signs posted on the hulls instruct you to stay at least 500 feet away. When we agreed it was safe, we breached the 500 foot barrier, and found a place with good cover where we could scope out potential ways aboard. To our surprise and delight, it was easier to climb aboard than we had imagined. It was a huge rush to climb aboard for the first time, but we did not stay long in case we set off alarm sensors. We turned back and called it a weekend, but now we knew it was possible.

Aboard the Ships

On subsequent trips, we spent the entire weekend aboard the ships, each time on a different row. Because they are tethered closely together in rows, we had many ships to explore—enough to keep us occupied for a week or more if the excursions were not so draining and we did not have jobs pulling us back. But the main reason we stayed all weekend is simply because it was such a challenge to get out there. Getting aboard was both physically and emotionally draining and was the riskiest part of the endeavor.

USS Sperry from the crow’s nest of the USCGC Glacier.

Once aboard, everything seemed to slow down. The adrenaline rush and anxiety I felt as we approached the ships instantly faded once we climbed aboard safely. I found it easy to relax and enjoy the quiet and stillness of the evening, miles from the hustle and bustle of modern civilization. We heard nearby trains rumbling as they passed, even inside the ships, but that’s it. Otherwise, it was just us and a few birds of prey that call the ships home.

Getting inside the ships was usually not straightforward, and sometimes impossible. MARAD locks them down tight, but there are so many possible entrances that persistence often paid off. One of the first orders of business each trip was finding a place to sleep. The ships are often stinky from mold, mildew, PCBs, and decay, so a room with windows that opened was preferable. We typically slept in the captain’s room where we found comfy couches, convertible beds, lots of space, and plenty of light during the daytime.

We slept during the day after shooting and exploring all night. Around noon, we would wake up and eat and explore the bowels of the ships. We had to be careful moving around on the decks during the day, but because the ships are so tall, it was still fairly low-key—at least during our initial trips. On later trips, we ran into crews working on the ships, even on weekends, due to increased cleanup efforts. Luckily we always saw or heard them before they saw us!

Final Trip

On our final trip, we visited the “J Row,” the closest row to security headquarters where 24-hour crews keep a watchful eye on the ships. It would prove to be our most harrowing trip yet, because we had to pass within a couple hundred feet of the converted boathouse where the guards reside.

As we boarded the ships, a patrol boat zoomed up on us and started shining spotlights. Luckily, we had already climbed to safety, but it seemed odd that they accosted us like that. Fearing that we might have tripped alarm sensors, I had an uneasy feeling all weekend as we explored the ships. Despite ramped up patrols and uncharacteristic spotlighting all night long, we spent the weekend exploring the ships unscathed.

However, as we prepared to leave, we got buzzed by security again while inflating our raft on a barge near water level. With nowhere to hide, we literally hit the deck and prayed that they would not see us. In the scramble, Stephen dropped both paddles through a thin slot on the barge. Not only were we now lacking an essential piece of equipment that we needed to get back to shore, but worse, the paddles might float out in view of the security boat. All three of us began to panic, but there was little we could do. After a couple false starts when it initially appeared security had moved on, we frantically dropped our boat in the water, followed by our gear and ourselves, trying to be careful not to dunk our expensive cameras in the frenzy.

Remarkably, we found one of the oars floating out from under the barge right where we dropped the raft in the water. The other was about 50 feet away in a relatively calm patch of water next to the President, the last ship in the row. We decided to detour to retrieve the paddle, which would burn a couple minutes and leave us vulnerable if the security boat returned. Fortunately it did not, and we got away from the ships quickly, thanks to gallant rowing efforts by Jon and me as Stephen motored ahead.

But before we could get outside the invisible 500 foot barrier, we found ourselves right in the beam of the security boat’s search light. We were had! We stopped paddling, and desperately tried to come up with a good cover story. Practically admitting defeat, we decided that there was not much we could say, and we feared our gear would give us away. Then, astonishingly, after being in direct view of the boat’s spotlight for at least 10 seconds, the light moved off us and nothing happened. We kept rowing. The light came back a second time, further escalating our sense of despair. But then, the light went off of us again! We could not believe it—the boat turned and went the other way, but we still were not certain we were off the hook.

We frantically rowed until we reached the shore, fearing at any moment they would come for us. It was not until we reached the safety of the small marshy channel that we breathed a huge sigh of relief. The sun was about to rise and the morning chorus of chirping birds began. We were exhausted and vowed that this trip, our fifth, would be our last visit. Sadly, it was.

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On May 7, 2011, we gave a slideshow presentation Mothball Fleet Revealed at Workspace Limited in San Francisco.

View more of my Mothball Fleet photos »

Postcard published sometime before 1923. Source: Greystone Park Psychiatric Hospital archives.

Dorothea Dix, a school teacher and crusader for the mentally ill, was instrumental in creating the new hospital. Her persistence and lobbying led the New Jersey legislature to appropriate $2.5 million to secure land for Greystone. Dix proposed the new hospital to relieve overcrowding at New Jersey’s first state hospital in Trenton, which she founded in 1848. Trenton Psychiatric Hospital is significant because it was the first mental hospital built according to the Kirkbride Plan, which emphasized humane treatment of the mentally ill.

The Kirkbride Plan

Thomas Story Kirkbride (1809–1883), a physician and advocate for the mentally ill, was regarded as one of the leading authorities on mental health care in the late 1800s. His ideals were based on the concept of “moral treatment,” where patients enjoyed attentive care with a minimum use of restraints, and his belief that the buildings and grounds could have a curative effect on patients.

Aerial view of the Greystone campus depicting its staggered patient wings and remote location (date unknown).

Most Kirkbrides feature stunning architecture and amazing attention to detail, both inside and out. No cost was spared, it seems, in ornamenting the buildings. They were often built in remote areas, away from pollutants and noise so that patients could enjoy the beauty and peace of their surroundings in a natural setting.

Like many Kirkbride buildings, Greystone’s patient wings were staggered “en echelon” so that each section received adequate sunlight and fresh air, promoting more comfortable living spaces. The wings branched out from a central section that was used for administrative purposes, with males and females on separate sides. The most unstable patients were placed at the ends on the lower floors, away from the central administrative area, where their screams and outbursts were less likely to disturb others. More well-behaved patients were situated on the upper floors near the administrative center, with amenities such as stuffed Victorian furniture, pianos, wool rugs, pictures and fresh flowers. Some of the pictures still hung on walls when we visited in 2010.

The Greystone campus, like other Kirkbrides, was largely self-sufficient with its own dairy and agricultural farms, power generating station, water utilities, staff housing, police and fire stations, a post office, and recreational and vocational facilities. Patients worked on the farms and performed hard labor and other tasks in the hospital and on the grounds. Kirkbride believed that putting patients to work aided their general well-being by providing a sense of accomplishment and purpose. In addition, the institution benefitted from the fruits of their labor, with readily available food and other products such as brooms, rugs, brushes, and carpets—all at a minimal cost to the state.

Overcrowding

Just four years after opening, 800 patients overcrowded wards designed to accommodate 600, and inadequate staffing exacerbated the problem. Attic space and exercise rooms were haphazardly converted to patient rooms with cots that were set up and taken down on a daily basis. Even hallways were utilized to provide space for overflowing patients to sleep.

Hallway cots in 1914. Source: preservegreystone.org.

Jon silhouetted in a similar hallway in 2010.

Relief came temporarily when a new dormitory building opened in 1901. But by 1911, the facility housed 2600 patients, 1.6 times its maximum capacity of 1600. At its peak in 1953, Greystone accommodated a staggering 7600 patients, many of them veteran soldiers recovering from post traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) suffered as a result of fighting in World War II.

Congested wards created a health hazard, leading to at least one outbreak of typhoid fever. Poor care made matters worse. Patients often soiled their beds at night, yet nurses handed the cots out the following day without cleaning them. Even the hospital board confessed that the cots were a sanitary abomination.

Treatment

Kirkbride’s vision of moral treatment, popular in the late 1800s, eroded as treatment practices evolved based on current theories regarding mental illness. Around 1919, doctors removed teeth, tonsils, thyroids and prostate glands in a misguided attempt to alleviate psychiatric problems. Hydrotherapy was used from 1906 to the 1950s in various forms. Some methods, such as steam baths, are analogous to today’s health spa treatments. Others don’t seem so innocuous by current standards—depressed patients were sprayed with hot and cold water at extremely high pressure and piercing sharp streams in order to stimulate them. From 1940–1950, doctors performed lobotomies in an attempt to control impulsive and destructive behaviors.

Later on, patients were treated using insulin shock therapy in the hopes that they could be “jolted” out of their mental condition. They were injected with increasing doses of insulin over a period of several weeks to two months, causing daily comas. Nurses also used electroshock therapy to induce seizures, a treatment practice that is still used today in cases of severe depression. Unfortunately, patients suffered long term side effects as a result of shock therapy, including gross obesity, brain damage, and even death.

Deinstitutionalization

During the 70s and 80s, patient numbers decreased dramatically as new drugs and budget cuts emptied the congested hallways. Thorazine alleviated psychotic tendencies such as paranoia and hallucinations associated with schizophrenia and bipolar disorder, improving the prognosis of many patients. The development of patient’s rights, including new laws requiring minimum wage in exchange for their labor, forced operating costs to skyrocket as patients could no longer work to offset the price of their care. Public outcry concerning abuse and unsanitary conditions was also a contributing factor.

By 1988, patients and staff had vacated Greystone’s main Kirkbride building. Many buildings, including the dormitory, were subsequently vacated and demolished. The entire complex was slated to close in 2003, but the final remaining patients did not move out until 2008, when a brand new, 450 bed facility opened just up the hill.

Current State

The Greystone campus was purchased by Morris County from the state of New Jersey in 2003 for $1. Due to neglect, the approximately 40 remaining buildings—many of them historically significant—are in danger of being bulldozed.

Jon Haeber and I visited Greystone in March 2010 to document the hospital before it was too late. Buildings are connected by a network of underground tunnels, some of them beautifully lined in original brick. The tunnels are a confusing labyrinth, making it easy to get disoriented and lost, but they helped us move around freely without any security patrols seeing us. We found wheelchairs abandoned in place by patients in the tunnels. A storage room in the basement contained thousands of patient records on collapsing shelves—admittance documents, physical exams and death certificates.

Upstairs, the patient wards have sat in a state of arrested decay for the past 20+ years. On the ground floor, we walked past graveyards of chairs and other furniture piled up in dark rooms. A planter with fake flowers still hung in front of a boarded up window in a former patient’s room. Even though I didn’t feel a breeze, I observed the planter slowly twisted back and forth as if being influenced by looming spirits. Peeling paint, rotting wood, and extensive decay surrounded us. Bird carcasses rested in window sills, where they perished after being trapped inside. On the top story, patches of grass grow on the floor as Mother Nature begins to reestablish her dominion.

Conclusion

Greystone’s demise is an all too common story in the institutionalized care of the mentally ill. The initial practice of providing adequate care was later tarnished by severe overcrowding and cases of abuse. The irony is that one of the central tenets of the Kirkbride Plan focused on moral treatment of patients who previously had been living in appalling conditions—often shackled in chains, neglected, isolated, and tortured by physical beating, starvation, shocking, and bloodletting. But bulging populations, inadequate funding and changing times resulted in the idealistic vision of humanitarians like Dix and Kirkbride being unsustainable.

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View more of my Greystone Park Psychiatric Hospital photos »

Gaining Access

The next day, we spent 10 hours documenting and exploring the park. Mike dropped Minda and me and our gear off, then parked the car in an adjacent neighborhood that is still littered with abandoned homes in the aftermath of the hurricane and flooding.

We entered through a hole in a barbed-wire fence along a main thoroughfare, right next to a Six Flags sign that still reads “Closed for Storm” a full five plus years after Hurricane Katrina ravaged the city. Weeds and grasses were sprouting in the vast, empty parking lot, crumbling the pavement as nature begins its first steps to reclaim the amusement park.

As we approached a heavily vandalized attendant’s booth, I noticed fading roller coasters, derelict rides and concession buildings on the horizon. We continued across the parking lot to the ticket booths and park entrance. Right away, I saw indications of the extent of flooding at the park: the iron gate was rusted to a height of approximately four feet after being submerged underwater for a month following the storm.

As we entered through a toppled section of the gate, the place felt like a ghost town. The ticket booths were empty, but signs and notes were still tacked to the walls. A nearby office was filled with computers and monitors stained by receded flood waters. Discarded toy prizes and stuffed animals were scattered around. The entry plaza featured French Quarter style buildings lining the former “Main Street” that led visitors to the park’s attractions. As I passed by the buildings, it reminded me of walking down a deserted street in an actual abandoned town.

History and Geography

Jazzland Theme Park, located in Eastern New Orleans, opened in 2000 with a Louisiana theme. Although the park did well in its first season, within a couple years the city had taken over the property after dwindling visitor numbers forced the company into bankruptcy. In 2002, Six Flags leased the property from the city, making improvements and adding new rides before reopening in 2003. The park was profitable during its first two seasons, but success would be short-lived. Toward the end of the 2005 season, the park was forced to shut down as Hurricane Katrina approached from the Gulf of Mexico. Six Flags New Orleans closed on August 27 in preparation for the storm and never reopened.

The park is situated in a low-lying area surrounded by a 6-foot flood berm within the Ninth Ward, one of the most heavily damaged regions of the city. When drainage pumps failed during the storm and the earthen berm subsequently burst, the artificial basin filled with brackish floodwater, a combination of rainwater and seawater overflow from Katrina’s immense storm surge. The entire grounds were submerged under four to seven feet of corrosive water for more than a month, damaging most of the rides beyond repair. Six Flags, Inc. declared the park a total loss in July 2006, with no desire to rebuild.

Exploring the Park

Except for Batman: The Ride and a couple other rides that were removed and relocated to other Six Flags locations, the park sits in a state of arrested decay just like the day it closed over five years ago. These days pools are overgrown with moss and muck. Ceiling fans droop toward the ground like claws. Sidewalks where eager riders lined up for their next adventure are barely navigable in some instances. At The Jester and Mega Zeph roller coasters, walkways are completely overgrown with grasses, shrubs, and other wild plants. The high water mark is still visible on various buildings and signs.

Decorative palm trees still line the walking paths, now covered by shrubs in their vases. Ironically, the pathways that shuttled visitors to their next ride had waves of water painted on them to lead the way.

As night began to fall, the park took on a spooky feeling. A place once defined by twirling rides, laughter, screaming kids and sparkling light displays was completely silent and dark. Everything was in a standstill, except for wind tattered shade coverings and the Zydeco Zinger ride swings blowing gently in the breeze.

Before leaving, we climbed to the top of the wooden roller coaster, which was built on a steel frame to withstand hurricane-force winds. Climbing the stairs was a surreal experience that was familiar, yet new and exciting. As opposed to zooming by in a train seated next to strangers, I hiked up at my own pace. As I ascended, I looked down on the abandoned park and out to the horizon along the Interstate, enjoying the view. It was windy and cold at the top, so I only snapped a couple pictures before climbing back down and leaving the park. Although the coaster’s reinforced frame did successfully protect it from the storm’s winds, the ride couldn’t survive the corrosive floodwaters and will have to be scrapped.

The Future

After three years of negotiations, Six Flags finally came to an agreement with the city of New Orleans to terminate its 75 year lease in 2009, after operating the park for only 2 1/2 seasons. The city took over responsibility for the property following the agreement. Also in 2009, Six Flags removed the New Orleans’ page from its web site, signaling the inevitable demise of the park that had been obvious years earlier when Six Flags began attempting to get out of their lease. Still, just prior to being removed, the web page continued to claim that “Six Flags is still in the process of settling claims with its insurers due to substantial damage caused by Hurricane Katrina. As a result, Six Flags New Orleans will remain closed at this time. We know that it is still a difficult time for the residents of New Orleans, and we remain committed to working with the city in support of the recovery efforts.”

In January 2011, Southern Star Amusement Inc. announced its current plan to redevelop the park. During Phase One, the company plans to rebuild using the existing footprint and infrastructure and revert the park back to its original Louisiana theme. Future plans include “quickly” adding a water park during Phase Two, and adding other amenities such as retail shops, a hotel, a sports complex, and even a movie studio/film set in Phase Three.

This is the same company that backed out of plans to restore and expand the park in 2008 as “Legend City Adventure Park.” Then in 2009, they announced plans redevelop the park with a Nickelodeon-branded theme which fell through when bonds failed to materialize.

Wrapping Up

I was surprised and sobered to see first hand the devastation wrought by Hurricane Katrina in New Orleans. Even five years later, abandoned homes, schools, and other buildings are commonplace. I got the feeling that flood insurance dictated who rebuilt and who fled. On a positive note, the French Quarter is thriving with energy, tourists, and even new restaurants, hopefully signaling the continued revival of a great city.

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The steamship was completed in 1951 at Bethlehem Steel Corporation in Quincy, Massachusetts at a cost of $50 million. It had a rich history of sailing passengers between New York and Europe, Portugal and Africa, and in its later life, inter-island service in Hawaii. In 1981, it ran aground off the coast of Kauai, suffering severe damage. Although the ship was repaired, it became a casualty of decreased bookings following the September 11 attacks that ultimately forced the tour company to file for bankruptcy.

An Unlikely Outcome

In September 2007, Stephen Freskos and I snuck into BAE Systems, an active ship repair facility and Department of Defense contractor in downtown San Francisco. To gain access to the shipyard, we climbed a razor wire fence, crawled into an abandoned warehouse, and scaled the side of a building above the western edge of SF Bay. There we stumbled upon a hole cut in a chain link fence that we slid through onto the property. Similar to our first two missions, our goal was to board the decaying, forgotten 682-foot S.S. Oceanic Independence cruise ship moored on-site.

Unfortunately, we weren’t so lucky this time. As we sprinted across the yard toward the ship, the night foreman spotted us. We tried to run up the gangway and hide, but it was too late. He was angry and screaming at us, ordering us to get off the boat. We obliged, and were promptly escorted to the guard shack near the shipyard’s main entrance.

At first, the guard demanded that we turn over all of our camera gear, including our bags. We refused. When the SF Police arrived, the guard changed his mind and decided that confiscating our memory cards was sufficient. I inquired with the officer about our options and she presented an ultimatum: Turn over our memory cards or be arrested. It was an easy decision; since we hadn’t made it onto the ship that night, our $20 memory cards were still empty. The cop insisted on keeping a paper trail so that we could recover our seized cards, but it didn’t help.

Despite repeated efforts, we never saw our memory cards again. But something remarkable happened. After multiple visits and phone calls, I began to befriend both the guard and the night foreman who ran us out. Eventually, the foreman became comfortable enough with me that he offered legitimate access to photograph the shipyard at night during his shift. Initially, the Indy was off limits, but after a few visits, he allowed us to board the ship and gave us the keys and free reign to shoot both the exterior and interior of the ghost ship.

The night foreman holding his daughter’s “Flat Stanley” at the shipyard

Goodbye Indy

I feel very fortunate to be one of only a few photographers allowed on board one of the last American-built cruise liners before it was too late. The Indy’s survival had become symbolic of an era before air travel enabled most of us to zip across the country and even around the globe in just a few hours. In fact, it is the jet engine that ultimately sealed the ship’s fate.

On February 8, 2008, the Indy was pulled out to sea by tugboat, unable to make the voyage under her own power. Although her destination was muddled in uncertainty and controversy, the ship’s final port of call ended up being a ship-breaking beach in Alang, India.

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View more of my S.S. Independence ghost ship photos »

See Also:

Jon Haeber’s write-up on the ship

360° view of the Hartel Barrier

Background and History

The Netherlands is a low lying county, much of it below sea level. Throughout the ages, many devastating floods have claimed thousands of lives and large tracts of land. In 1570, the All Saints Flood engulfed half of Northern Holland, killing at least 5000 people (and possibly more than 20,000, but exact data is not available).

The first migrants to settle in the Netherlands built their homes on embankments and constructed mounds for taking refuge during high water. Later on, the Romans dug canals and even constructed a dam in an attempt to control the flood waters. It was not until the 19th century, however, that technologies such as steam power and new materials like concrete made it possible to build more resistant dikes. But these structures still could not defend the country from the prowess of Mother Nature.

Large floods occurred in 1906, 1916, and again in 1953—the worst flood in living memory. On January 31, 1953, the sea spilled over its dikes in the middle of the night, flooding 500,000 acres, killing 1835 people, and damaging 47,000 homes, factories, and offices.

“The Eighth Wonder of the World”

That same year, the newly appointed Delta Committee came up with a plan to strengthen the country’s flood defenses. The Delta Act, which was based on the committee’s plan, was signed into law in 1957. Among other things, the Act proposed creating several so-called “Delta Works” in the southwest to shorten the coastline from 700 kilometers to just 25, reducing the number of dikes that had to be raised. The Delta Works system would include dams, sluices, locks, dikes, and storm surge barriers.

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The Delta Project presented enormous challenges. Technologies and know-how to complete such a large scale project were lacking or simply did not exist. In fact, efforts to close off tidal inlets of this size and depth had not been previously attempted anywhere. It would take nearly 30 years and billions of dollars to realize the committee’s vision.

In October 1986, the opening of the Eastern Sheldt storm surge barrier marked the completion of the original Delta Project’s ambitious feat of engineering to protect the Netherlands from future disasters. Building the Delta Works was a colossal undertaking, sometimes referred to as the “eighth wonder of the world.”

The Future

Several more Delta Works have been constructed since 1986, with the most recent coming online in 1997. And due to climate change and relative sea-level rise, dikes will eventually need to be built higher and wider.

360° Bubble Panoramas

• View the panoramas
• Visit Deltaworks Online to see the complete virtual tour and learn more about the Deltaworks.

Sponsors

Photos © 2007 Scott Haefner, Deltaworks Online.

1906 Photo

“San Francisco in Ruins,” by George Lawrence, documents the damage caused by the April 18, 1906 M 7.9 earthquake on the San Andreas fault. Photo from the Library of Congress. Ultra high-resolution, zoomable version of this photo from USGS.

A few weeks after the disaster, Chicago-based photographer George Lawrence saw an opportunity to capture a unique image of the sprawling ruins using his “captive airship,” a hand-built, 49-pound panoramic camera suspended from a series of Conyne kites. The result was a negative measuring 22 x 55 inches, capable of being enlarged to wall-sized prints with astonishing detail. Lawrence’s foresight earned him a small fortune of $15,000 (more than $300,000 today) selling copies of his achievement.

Hasselblad Rig Photo by Ali Fujino

To honor George Lawrence’s feat, and to commemorate the centennial of the 1906 earthquake, Kite Aerial Photographer Scott Haefner and the Drachen Foundation re-shot Lawrence’s panorama using contemporary kite aerial photography techniques in April 2006. The resulting photo, a remarkable achievement in its own right, led the viewer’s eye west down Market Street, just like George Lawrence’s stunning photograph did a century ago. Although it was not shot as close to the city or as high as Lawrence’s photo, it captured the essence of modern day San Francisco, documenting how it has grown and changed since 1906.

2006 Photo

Modern day kite aerial photos (top: Hasselblad XPan II 35mm film; bottom: Nikon D70s 6-megapixel digital) of the San Francisco peninsula, from the Bay Bridge (left) to the Golden Gate and Marin Headlands.

Photo taken on April 17, 2006 by Scott Haefner, Drachen Foundation. Learn how we determined the shooting location.

Camera Rig

Brooks Leffler (pictured below in his Morris Minor) built a custom rig to lift our Hasselblad X Pan II Panoramic Camera, a 35mm film camera that shoots photos approximately 2x the width of conventional 35mm cameras. Although the tilt angle had to be set before launching the camera, the rig allowed me to pan the camera and trip the shutter from the bow of the boat we flew from in the Bay. The rig and camera weighed approximately 3 pounds.

See Also

Disaster Panorama—This Invention & Technology Magazine article details George Lawrence’s accomplishment and mentions our re-shoot.

Also, I wrote an article recounting our adventures shooting the San Francisco panorama in 2006. It was translated by Wolfgang Bieck and printed in Sport and Design Drachen magazine.

Another team of photographers and historians re-shot “San Francisco in Ruins” using a full size replica of George Lawrence’s 22″ x 55″ panoramic camera. Ron Klein, panoramic photographer, led the effort to build the model camera, completing it in less than two months. Because the camera is so large and heavy, they mounted it on a helicopter and positioned it as closely as possible to the original location of Lawrence’s 1906 panorama.