I Cover the Waterfront: Stories from the San Diego Shore

I Cover the Waterfront: Stories from the San Diego Shore

by Max Miller


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“Distinctive, original, fresh in in tone and manner, with a quaint whimsicality of feeling and expression.”—The New York Times

Life on the Western waterfront has always fascinated Max Miller, a special reporter for the San Diego Sun. Embraced by all the waterfront folk, he has joined them on their cruises, has learned the mystery of their crafts, and knows them like brothers.

Max himself has become a part of the waterfront. Not a fishing boat ties up to the wharf without Max Miller getting the story. Not a submarine comes in, or an airplane soars out over the water without Max Miller being invited to go. He is one of the first men to climb up the ladder of the Pacific lines, especially when celebrities are aboard.

A combination of newspaper reporter, philosopher and poet, the author writes his charming sketches in his “studio” upstairs in the tugboat office, where he can look out over his domain. But reporting is not simply a job with Max Miller, it is the greatest pleasure of his life. He delights in setting down his impressions of the Western shore, where life is a constant flux and reflux, seasonal, immutable and yet ever exciting—the departure of the Sardine Fleet, the hunt for elephant seals for the zoo, the sailing of the California fruit liners.

I Cover the Waterfront was first published in the early 1930s and has since gone on to become a classic. It is as memorable for its unique stories as it is for its individual style—so keenly sensitive to the personalities of men and to the romantic environment of the harbor and deep-sea life.

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Product Details

ISBN-13: 9781629144542
Publisher: Skyhorse
Publication date: 09/02/2014
Pages: 208
Product dimensions: 5.50(w) x 8.20(h) x 0.60(d)

About the Author

Max Miller, was a reporter for the San Diego Sun and, after the publication of I Cover the Waterfront, a prolific author who wrote about the military, Southern California, and Baja California. He lived in La Jolla with his wife and died in 1967.

Read an Excerpt


I HAVE been here so long that even the sea gulls must recognize me. They must pass the word along about me from generation to generation, from egg to egg.

Former friends of mine, members of my old university class, acquaintances my own age, have gone out to earn their six thousand a year. They have become managers, they have become editors, they have become artists. Yet here am I, what I was six years ago, a waterfront reporter.

True, I am called a good waterfront reporter in this city, as if the humiliation were not already great enough in itself. I shudder at the compliment, yet should feel fortunate in a way that so far I have escaped the word veteran. When I am called not only the best waterfront reporter but also the veteran waterfront reporter, then for sure all hope is dissolved. And I need look ahead then, only to that day when the company presents me with a fountain pen and a final check.

I am nearing twenty-eight, and should I by accident be invited to a home where literature is discussed, or styles, or Europe, the best I could do would be to crawl into the backyard. There I could sit tossing pebbles into the fountain until the hostess found me out. If she compelled me to come back into the house and join the conversation, my topics would have to be of sword-fishing, or of lobstering, or of hunting sardines in the dark of the moon, or of fleet gunnery practice, or of cotton shipments. The predicament has passed beyond my control. I am one of those creatures who remain permanent, who stay in one place, that successful men on returning home may see for the happiness of comparison. I am of the damned and the lost, and yet I do know more than I did six years ago when I first came here, a graduate in liberal arts.

I existed my first season on this waterfront buoyed by that common hope of mankind that by next year I would write a book, a novel composed of the characters I met. Quite tidily, too, I would insert my own silent sufferings, such as eating at the lunch counter downstairs where the sugar bowl is always chucked with brown lumps. These fishermen will dip coffee spoons back into it for the third or fourth helping. But instead of writing of this, I learned instead to take the lazy man's course and drink my coffee without sugar.

The second year blended into the third. The characters I had picked out for my novel gradually became more blurred to my complete understanding. Nobody was definitely good, nobody was definitely bad. The more I knew of them the less positive I became of which stand to take, and for a novel a writer does need a villain; a writer needs several of them. Even Evangeline, the brown-haired waitress, proved a disappointment to my plans. I had selected her to be the waterfront harlot. I had a drab death already prescribed for her, a death in which she would fling herself from the tugboat pier with only the silver moon as witness. The gentle bosom of the bay would cleanse her of her sorrow, would baptise her anew, and she would be carried by the tide to sea with a look of peace upon her world-wronged face. But unfortunately Evangeline does not need cleansing. In fact she has a home and a husband, rather a nice chap. He is a quartermaster on a destroyer based here. And even now I can hardly forgive Evangeline for this trick on me.

Of course if a writer were really desperate for harlots there are plenty of them around here. They follow the fleet from port to port as regularly as the wake of the vessels, but a person has to be an expert to distinguish them. I see the girls come down to the float where the shoreboats land, but often enough they turn out to be dutiful wives or high-school daughters. And the sailors, especially, are wise enough to keep their mouths shut until they know for sure.

At any rate the original characters I selected for my book never did show up. I have yet to see them. I do not know what has happened to them, but I have waited six years. I can wait no longer; I am getting too old, so must go ahead with what I already have on hand.

My studio, by the way, is upstairs in the tugboat office. The room is not mine. It belongs to the publicity agent of the deep-sea fishing barge. Until this book he has been a critic of all I write. When my news stories concerned his fishing barge he clipped them out. He keeps a scrapbook to show his employer at the end of the season. Some of my writings are being saved. I under-estimated myself.

The walls of this room are decorated with pictures of bluefin, yellowfin, skipjack, barracuda and mackerel. These are my inspiration. They are the left-over pictures he could not peddle to the papers. Men are holding the fish. The pictures where women are holding the fish are peddled. They were printed. He has none of them left but he keeps the others here.

The shingles of the roof show through the ceiling. The roof slopes so low on the south side that a person cannot stand up there. The room is quite small, and in summer stuffy with a sort of cobweb stuffiness.

Frequently the tugboat operators come up to see the publicity agent, my lone encouragement. They have questions to be answered, yet mostly they desire to read his library. The book in it is Rabelais, illustrated. He keeps it locked in the middle drawer to the right. The operators must not take the book downstairs to the pier, but must read it in the room, and first must see that their hands are wiped of grease. He keeps an eye secretly on them as they read; he is deathly afraid that one of them with a pencil might some day add insulting shadows to the naked ladies. And all this, then, is the ultimate of my literary environment. I who would have consented six years ago to have done book reviews while waiting for the job of theatre critic.

The two windows, small and unmovable, furnish a clear sweep of the harbor through their film of dirt. The sea gulls come and perch near the window ledges. The birds stare in at me and I stare out at them. During these interviews we both carry rather silly expressions, for neither of us seems to know what he is going to do next. They act as if they, too, have read up on the universe around us and are wise to the fact that in this jumble of orbits we are foolish to have ambitions, that we are foolish to do anything all day long except eat. In a million million years the whole show will be ended anyhow, and so why should they or I acquire wrinkles trying to amount to something. Whereupon, we merely stand and stare, passengers on the same boat.

The pelicans now are different, specially the old pelicans which perch on the pier-heads beyond the windows. The pelicans have worried so much about life that the tops of their heads are gray. They have worried and worried, yet have arrived nowhere either. They do not even bother to look in the window at me. Each day has become as much a burden to them as their heavy bills. They are tired, so tired they have forgotten how to make a noise. They are so tired they no longer can be bothered scrambling for food.

At first they must have despised the sea gulls for all of their squawking and for all of their swooping for scraps and for their greedy habit of robbing the nests of the cormorants. They must have regarded sea gulls much as I regard committee people, and yet the pelicans in time must have grown up, which is more than I can do. They must have forced themselves to consider the sea gull in its better moments, when its stomach is stuffed to the limit, when it is content to sit by these windows staring in at me as though it too is filled with reasoning. All sea gulls, I think, would ultimately like to be pelicans, but so far are too earthy to overcome their; appetites.

And so I do have my acquaintances, after all, in my studio upstairs on the tugboat pier.


EACH year we go after elephant seals for the Zoo. Sometimes we go in the navy's tugboat, Koka, sometimes in the Navy's Eagle boat 34. We cruise to that Mexican island of Guadalupe.

There on the sands the monsters are awaiting us. They comprise the only herd of their kind in existence, and they are too contented with themselves to be angry at our intrusion.

They have basked in the sunlight of those islands for hundreds of years now, and who are we? We are a pestilence of germs to carry them away. Only they do not recognize germs. They fear nothing they cannot recognize.

From the vessel we float the sides of a cage ashore through the surf. The frames are covered with paddock-fencing of the strongest. On the beach we put the cage together, leaving the shore-end open.

We walk through the herd selecting the member we want, although all look healthy enough. Their black eyes are as doorknobs, their sea-washed hides catch the Mexican sun and radiate it back at us. Their long noses are like sawed-off elephant trunks, and they turn these noses up at us as we walk past. We do not belong here. They can tell this by sniffing.

We select the one we wish, not because of his size, but because of his convenience to the cage. We shoo him backwards into the cage. We threaten to hit him in the snout if he does not back up, yet he weighs a ton and a half; he weighs as much as all of us twice over.

When he is in the cage, and the cage is secure, we wait for the tide to rise; then we float the cage out to the vessel. The ship's crane hoists the load aboard, and the ship's pumps are turned upon the captive to keep him wet. If he is not kept wet he moves about scratching himself and fretting.

Sometimes we bring back three at a time. We can bring back as many as we have room for, as the herd must number half a thousand. Sometimes we see them swimming far offshore long before we reach the island. They are so big that you imagine you are looking at some sea-monster these many years extinct.

But fifty years ago there used to be lots of elephant seals around here, old fishermen say. The elephant seals used to come as far north as Southern California. Everybody thought the herd had all been killed off until these were found at Guadalupe. The Mexican Government does not permit them to be killed now, and the expedition has to get permission from Mexico City before making the capture. This always takes a long time.

The only syndicate stories I am ever sure of selling are about elephant seals. Nobody seems to be anxious to buy my short stories or my opinions, but I can always market copy on elephant seals. They are my lone entrée into literature. Nor are my words sufficient in themselves. My stories must be illustrated. This fact used to humiliate me four or five years ago, but now I am hardened, and I am grateful for any outside check.

For other reasons, too, I consider myself quite an elephant-seal expert; I am the elephant-seal editor. I know that the only time the bulls are the least bit vicious is during May and June. This is mating season for them, and as each bull is fond of collecting a harem the fighting among the bulls is terrific. They bunt each other against the sharp rocks of Guadalupe until one or the other gives up and dies. They do not bite. Their mouths are not built for biting. They simply slam each other without mercy; then for the remaining ten months are on the best of terms with all the world. To bear their calves the cows go away into hiding on the opposite side of the island. Some caves are there and cows like to be around caves.

On these expeditions I like to pretend that I am far away on the other side of the earth and am really doing something for science. The desolate island with its bleak cliffs helps me play the secret little game. But the game is always short-lived, for in actuality we are only a night and a day away from the city, and we are back in port before we know it. Even our captures are no surprise to the city, for the success of the expedition had been radioed on ahead to the Zoo, Trucks and a crane are on the pier to meet us. The trucks parade the giants through the streets to the Zoo tank, and always the creatures are so large that their tails drag along the cement, and persons stare.

The Zoo officials thank us in such a way that I always leave the grounds feeling a little silly. The officials know there is no danger connected with the capture, but I wish they didn't.


EACH two weeks a liner from New York arrives, and we three waterfront reporters go out in a shoreboat to meet her before she docks.

We are three agents of Heaven sent out ahead to inspect the latest shipload of souls before they land.

But of course our inspection is only secondhand, as the passengers have been graded and labeled before they left New York.

Their names have been sent overland by the line's publicity service, but we must make sure they are still aboard, that they did not get off at Panama, and besides, our papers want pictures of them.

I used to feel mortified at the task of meeting liners, but now I do not mind. I used to believe what I read in books about all passengers considering ships' reporters a nuisance, but now I do not know for sure. Or perhaps habit has deadened my nerves. As a reporter I may have become what I most feared I would become, "typical."

Outside the channel we board the liner as soon as the quarantine flag goes down. We climb a Jacob's ladder, a camera-man with us, to the first hatch.

The passengers bend over the starboard railings to watch us. The three of us, or sometimes there are only two of us, are that "flock" of reporters which famous beings are always encountering in novels. We are the "flock" of reporters from whom famed beings are always hiding. When novelists get real mean they have us entering rooms with our hats on, and they have us diving for the sandwich plate with both hands and a pocket. And they have us persisting with our questions until finally the hero hauls off and knocks us out.

We, then, are these reporters. We swing aboard, and the line's publicity agent swings aboard with us. The ship's purser says hello to us, and he calls us by name, and he tells us which stateroom belongs to us. Sometimes when he is not too busy he comes with us to the stateroom, bringing a passenger list with him. He rings for a steward who brings into the stateroom refreshments taken aboard during the vessel's stop at Havana. The steward also brings three bottles of soda water.

"Not much," we say, "because we're working." Or sometimes if the liner has arrived too late for the day's edition, we do not say this. He tells us who is aboard who would make copy. If we have our doubts, the line's publicity agent goes on deck and finds out. The camera-man goes with him, and we three reporters stay and talk with the purser, and sometimes the chief engineer comes in and talks too. The chief engineer on one of the liners always wants to know if we can get him tickets to the fights held in the city each Friday night. Sometimes we can, and so we sit there talking and sipping the fumes from Havana, and the purser and the engineer tell us about the women aboard. This always seems their duty, to take care of the women aboard who travel alone and after the first week get lonely. The purser and the engineer like to tell us about them. And after a while the line's publicity agent comes back into the stateroom.

"Well, I got a few items," he will say. "But a deader ship I've never seen. It's terrible."

He pours himself a bit, then recites the items and names to us and we copy them on our copy paper. Or sometimes the office has told us to get a special story on a special passenger. Then we talk with him ourselves, and the bigger he is the easier he is to talk with. And often we find that we, and not the passenger, are the ones being interviewed. They ask us as many questions as we ask them, and sometimes they like to come along with us back to the stateroom for a bit of the bottle, and to talk with us there about the city they are entering. The liner continues sliding through the channel toward the pier. This always takes at least an hour as the gangway is a slow thing to handle even after the lines are on the dock.

If I were given all New York to cover for a week I doubt if I could run into as many honest conversations with as many honest big men as I have experienced in this little bay of sunlight. The days on the ocean coming up from Panama have rested their minds, I believe, and they are not so eager to be distrustful of all human faces. They tell us any number of secrets which we know they do not want printed, and so we do not print them. Nor do years blur the memory of these conversations.

I can recall as if yesterday the half-cloudy morning Jack Dempsey told us he came to town to get married, and would we hold off the story until he bought the license. We went with him, and he introduced us reporters to Miss Taylor. Not one of us had the heart to violate such courtesy, but to the contrary we felt as if we were confederates with him in the plot for secrecy.


Excerpted from "I Cover The Waterfront"
by .
Copyright © 1932 E. P. Dutton & Co., Inc..
Excerpted by permission of Skyhorse Publishing.
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