THE FLOATING BRIDGE and other bus driver stories

THE FLOATING BRIDGE and other bus driver stories

I have been retired since 2009; memories float and flash with the changing seasons. Before I was a bus driver, I don’t remember ever noticing who drove the bus, or what soap opera event was happening in the travelling theater of the absurd. I just wanted to get on, not be bothered and get off, then go about my business. As a bus driver, every move I made, every word I said, could be called in as a complaint, so most of the time I tried to be careful not to make waves with edgy, anxious passengers.

The bus was equipped with a handy dandy phone that, at times, I did need to use to call the coordinator for help from the police. The rule was to park the bus, wait for officers to arrive, and have them take the disruptors off the bus. The bus sat parked in the zone, doors wide-open, as the passengers waited for flashing blue lights. Trouble-making teenagers also waited. When the cars arrived, they stepped off the bus, and ran like track stars away from the out of shape, over thirty-year-old officers. Oh, it was a sad game to get attention, and a highlight when the police caught and handcuffed a “runner.” Older trouble-makers sometimes made the smart decision to exit before the peace keeping blue-lights arrived. I then needed to call the coordinator back to cancel the police and then continue driving. Sometimes I faked a call, which was okay, when it worked—even while they swore at me, flashing one finger, and stepping off the bus. My hand shook while shutting the door fast, driving onward, trying to act cool as a cucumber.

I drove the route 48 from Ballard to the south end at Rainier and Henderson. The University District was in the middle, driving on 15th, turning past the hospital and stadium, up 23rd by Garfield High School, to Martin Luther King Way. A long route, with odd end-of-the-line breaks—short with little bathroom time, or leisurely with enough time to eat dinner—depending on tight schedules and seniority. At 23rd and Union, I regularly picked up an elderly man, whose pants zipper was always in the down position. I couldn’t think of a way to say, “Hey, Bub, zip it up,” without sounding unsympathetic or snarky. I did watch where he sat, usually alone, or with other older men. Then came my chance, in a heavy rain, the old guy soaking-wet, stood by the fare box, stating, “It’s raining on my parade.”

Smiling, I answered, “If you zipped-up your pants, your parade would be dry.” We both laughed. From that day on, his zipper was up, and “How’s your day?” was communicated, thanks to that right moment, at the right time—a little Seattle raindrop magic.

I was driving an articulated bus, abbreviated to “artic,” a sixty-foot-long bending bus, south on 15th Avenue, a few days after the Fourth of July. The bus was a special summer school trip, full of Roosevelt High School students. The University of Washington was on the left, a true inspiration of higher learning. Hearing a high-pitched noise, I slowed down as a bottle-rocket whizzed past me, hitting the front windshield, ear-pounding firecrackers bang, bang, banged, booming in the back. Smoke filled the bus. I pulled into the nearest zone, opening the doors, announcing in the handy microphone, “Everyone please exit slowly, do not run down the aisle. Stay calm.” The students started to laugh.

Calling the coordinator, my voice was vibrating from nerves while I told him the situation, adding I was done for the day, and bringing the bus back to the base for inspection. One of the students heard me say the bus was being evacuated, and asked, “Aren’t you going to drive us home? What are we supposed to do?”

All I could say was, “You’re in high school, figure it out.” I wasn’t about to reward dangerous behavior with a carpet-ride home. I wrote my report, and if there were any complaints, I wasn’t called into the chief’s office—surprise, surprise. Their mothers had not called in about their “sweet little darlings.”

Years of experience developed one of my favorite mottos, Expect the Unexpected. True words of wisdom. Bad weather was a real driving adjustment. I was on the road November 25, 1990, an all-day grey rainstorm, pouring down hard, like driving for hours through a pounding carwash rinse. Water by the curb reached the bottom step. I needed to be flexible entering every zone, at times unable to open the back door of the artic—I didn’t want any swimming passengers. Feeling like I was driving in a wet, colorless movie, a teenager boarded the bus, informing me, “Do you know the floating bridge has sunk?” One more prankster teen, not funny in miserable weather.

All I could say was, “Yeah, sure. It’s called the floating bridge because it floats.” A short time later the coordinator called all drivers with a public service announcement: “The Lake Washington Floating Bridge is sinking in the storm. Expect slow moving traffic and heavier than usual passenger loads.”

As I reached the University Hospital, southbound, the inside lights shut down. The bus was sunset dark at five-thirty peak hour. I called the coordinator, and he told me to see if the headlights worked. They were amazingly on. I checked the outside panel to see if I could flip some kind of switch to turn the inside lights on. No, nope, no way. The coordinator told me all the maintenance trucks were out on calls—reminding me, it was a traffic nightmare because the bridge had sunk; like I didn’t know. He told me it was my choice if I wanted to drive the route without inside lights.

I had a sixty-foot bus, full to the max, with cramped standing room. I held the microphone, announcing, “I will be driving through this stormy mess. The lights don’t work. Please be kind to each other. This will be a slow trip.” Oh, and the signage was out, so at each stop, I had to announce to wet people, huddled like ducks grounded by a brutal wind, “This is route 48 to Rainier Beach.” Of course fares weren’t even considered—providing a smooth flow of passengers entering and exiting.

I made silly little announcements along the way, “We’ve made it this far. Don’t the street lights look pretty?” On and on. By the time we arrived at 23rd and Jackson, I announced, “Please take turns sharing the seats with people who are standing. Thank you, everyone, for your patience.”

Even if the bridge hadn’t sunk, the roads were flooding in the relentless rain. In the light’s out, watery-misery, the passengers were at times quiet, polite, clapping, laughing, and saying a sincere “Thank you, driver,” when exiting. I do wonder, if the inside lights had been on, would the passengers have been rowdy, impatient, and complaining, like on a normal rainy day, while I drove.

The bridge had sunk, but I’ll always remember the passengers showing their best behavior on a dark, and stormy waterlogged night. When I see buses on the road I smile, experiences rerun with the changing seasons.

Much of Western Washington suffered flooding around Thanksgiving 1990. The PEMCO Storm Index ranks it as the 17th-worst storm in company history based on paid losses for 773 claims.

High winds and rain pounded the region as renovation workers vacated the old bridge to head home for Thanksgiving weekend. And someone had neglected to seal large access holes that had been cut in the sides of the bridge's mid-lake pontoons.

Wind-whipped waves crashed into the holes as rain fell in torrents. Sunday morning, workers found the pontoons nearly submerged. One by one they tilted, snapped off, and sank to the bottom of Lake Washington. (See photo, courtesy WSDOT.) As they sank they also sliced the cables that anchored the new I-90 span in place.

April Ryan is a Washington resident and frequent contributor to Sharing Stories and Poetry Corner.

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