I’d set aside three days for business meetings in San Francisco, but everything was wrapped up by late afternoon on the second day. Not being a fan of red-eye flights, I decided to spend the third day sightseeing.
Having been fascinated with Alcatraz since I saw it portrayed in gangster movies as a kid, it was number one on my list. When I stopped at the concierge desk in the hotel lobby to book a tour of the prison there was a young couple ahead of me doing the same. We were told a bus would pick us up at ten o’clock the next morning to take us to the ferry. The next morning the young couple and I were the only people waiting for the bus.
“You’re going to Alcatraz too,” the young lady said, “I saw you yesterday at the concierge.”
“Yes,” I acknowledged.
From her accent I figured they were from Australia or New Zealand, so I asked, “Are you on your holidays?”
“No,” the young man proudly answered, “we’re on our honeymoon.We’re from New Zealand. What about you?”
“I’m from Canada,” I replied. “I’m here on business, but I have some free time. I’ve been interested in Alcatraz since I was a kid so I thought a tour would be interesting.”
The bus was crowded but we managed to find seats, although not close together. But aboard the ferry I found myself standing at the railing beside the honeymooners, so we again engaged in conversation.
“Do you know what Alcatraz means?” the young bride asked.
“It’s an American Indian word meaning ‘pelican,’ ” I told her.
When we were close enough to the island to read the graffiti “Indian power” on the outside prison wall the groom asked. “What’s that about?”
“A few years ago,” I answered, “after the prison closed, a band of Indians occupied it for quite a long time. Most of the graffiti was cleaned up, but for some reason that remains.”
“How do you know so much about Alcatraz?” the bride asked.
Unable to resist the temptation to be naughty, and thinking I’d give them something to talk about back home, I said, “My father was a prisoner here.”
“Good Lord!” the groom exclaimed. “What was his name?”
Wishing now I hadn’t said a damn word, because I either had to admit I’d lied or tell another one, I chose the cowardly option and compounded the lie. I knew I couldn’t get away with saying my father was Robert Stroud (the famous birdman of Alcatraz), but I remembered reading a book about the prison a couple of years before titled “On The Rock,” which was probably how I knew the meaning of the word and the origin of the graffiti. The book had been written by a former convict named Alvin Karpis. I should have said “Ralph Jones,” but being caught off guard I blurted, “Alvin Karpis.”
An announcement advised we’d be docking momentarily so we should move to the back of the ferry. My little white lie now being not so little nor so white I decided avoiding any further contact with the honeymooners might be the end of it. I was badly mistaken.
As we stepped off the ferry we were handed maps of the prison and a small cassette player. We were moved to a staging area where a guide gave a brief outline of the tour. She would guide us as a group, but if anyone wished to, after the first stop it would be fine to go at our own pace using the map and listening to the cassette. She emphasized that if we did so we had to be back at the dock in an hour-and-a-half. Then she asked if there were any questions.
Someone asked, “Was Alcatraz a state or a federal prison?”
The guide replied, “It was a federal prison. and only the most dangerous prisoners were housed here.” Then she went on, “You may be interested to know that, even though Alcatraz was a United States federal prison, the longest-serving prisoner in the history of the institution was a Canadian by the name of Alvin Karpis.” My stomach did a flip.
“What was he in for?” someone inquired.
“Murder and kidnapping,” came the guide’s reply. Then added, quite unnecessarily I felt, “He was really a very dangerous man. Even the other prisoners were afraid of him. They called him Creepy Karpis.”
“How long did he serve?”
“Twenty-six years,” was the answer.
“Did he have any children?” someone else asked.
My stomach did another flip when she said, “Yes, one son.”
I edged to the back of the crowd amidst a ripple of whispering and furtive glances in my direction. When we arrived at the first stop, many of the group moved away from me. One of the group sidled up to the guide and whispered to her. She activated her walkie-talkie and spoke to someone for about a minute.
When the group moved on I decided to take advantage of the go-at-your-own-pace option and stayed where I was. As I was synchronizing my map and the cassette’s narrative, another guide quickly approached me. I held my breath, wondering if anybody else had ever been thrown out of Alcatraz.
“Good morning, sir,” she said, “would you like me to accompany you on the rest of the tour?”
I said, “No, thank you. I’ll just follow the map and the cassette from here on.”
“OK. Do you have any questions or any particular cells you’d like to see? They aren’t all on the tour. And, if you like, I can show you where the bakery used to be.” I didn’t understand the bakery reference, but didn’t ask why she mentioned it
“No,” I reassured her, “I’ll be fine on my own.”
“OK,” she said and handed me a walkie-talkie. “If you do have any questions just activate the ‘talk’ button and I’ll answer. You can return this with the cassette player when you’re leaving.”
I saw everything I wanted to and got back to the starting point a good half-hour before the rest of my group. While I was handing in the devices the helpful guide again approached and said, “I hope you saw everything you wanted to.” I assured her I had. Then she said, “Your group’s ferry won’t be leaving for about half an hour, but there’s another one just about to leave which you can catch if you hurry.” I happily did and was the last one to board, wondering who was more pleased: I, to get off “the rock,” or the prison staff to be rid of me. Once aboard I fervently swore off naughty little white lies. But I had to opine that I’d given more than the newlyweds something to talk about.
On the wharf where we docked there was an Alcatraz kiosk at which I was able to pick up a copy of Karpis’ book. Re-reading it I discovered that his job in the prison was in the bakery.