[CW] “Sparks” on the Great Lakes By Ralph C. Folkman (W8AF ‐ SK)

[David J. J. Ring Jr.]

“Sparks” on the Great Lakes By Ralph C. Folkman (W8AF ‐ SK)

According to an old logbook that I have maintained throughout the years, 
I heard my first “wireless signals” on Christmas Eve, 1916. On that 
memorable night, I put the finishing touches on a homemade receiver and, 
using a bedspring for an antenna, tuned in NAA at Arlington, Virginia 
sending time signals and press dispatches. For the remainder of that 
winter, I heard dozens of ships at sea, and in the spring of 1917, 
listened in on ships of the Great Lakes as they tuned-up their spark 
transmitters for the coming season.

Attending East Technical High School at the time, I naturally became an 
ardent member of the school’s wireless club. One day, while listening on 
the marine frequency in the club's “shack,” I happened onto WCS, the "SS 
Alpena" handling message traffic with VBE, Sarnia, Ontario. A close 
friend of mine was operator on that vessel and this incident inspired me 
to become a ship operator. Subsequently, I studied hard, acquired the 
necessary commercial license, and was assigned to the freighter Peter 
Reiss. I felt a tinge of importance as I scrambled up her ladder, having 
been told that my arrival would trigger their sailing (they couldn’t 
depart without a wireless operator). From that day on, I was called 
“Sparks.”

As we left Buffalo bound for Green Bay, Wisconsin, I got my first look 
at the shipboard installation, awe-inspiring to the novice, with its 
switches, push buttons and gadgets that I’d have to become acquainted 
with. For some days, we plowed northward, with me practice 
message-handling procedure - all this, of course, with the vessel’s 
antenna disconnected so that my synthetic messages would not actually 
get on the air for other stations to hear.

I had been warned to “count to five” after starting the transmitter to 
permit the rotary spark gap to reach full speed before I pressed the 
key. “You’ll be sorry, they had said, “if the gap is running too slow, 
it will do damage and probably blow the Leyden Jar condensers (Editor. 
“capacitors” is the modern term).” I forgot to count to five and, you 
guessed it, the shack was rent with an earsplitting crash and filled 
with blue smoke! I was off the air until repairs and replacements could 
be made. The delay in finally handling that first message took the wind 
out of my sales and put a dent in my pride as the Peter Reiss operator.

Later that season, I found myself aboard the "SS City of Erie" passenger 
ship plying between Cleveland and Buffalo. This was a far cry from the 
freight job and necessitated a natty blue uniform instead of overalls. 
Experiences too numerous to relate happened on the Erie. The "SS City of 
Buffalo" ran exactly opposite to us, passing our ship each morning at 
two AM, at which moment we two operators would “hit the key” in friendly 
salute.

I had noticed that when the "Buffalo"’s operator pressed his wireless 
key, a section of lights on their freight deck brightened considerably. 
I told the operator about this strange phenomenon, and he said he would 
check it. Later, he revealed that the ship’s electrician had put a 
voltmeter on the freight deck lights and found, when the transmitter key 
was pressed, those lights went up seven volts above the normal voltage! 
Apparently, this circuit was somehow tuned to accept the ship’s 
transmitter frequency and was receiving the additional voltage by 
“wireless.” Nothing serious came of this except for the fact that the 
bulb burnouts were more frequent in that part of the Buffalo’s lighting 
system.

One season followed another and each spring found me sitting in the 
rooms of RCA, Intercity Radio, and other offices where operators awaited 
assignments to ships. Eventually, I racked up a second stint on the 
"City of Erie, two tricks on the "Seeandbee", the "Goodtime", and the 
"Tionesta", then back to freighter life aboard the "Cletus Schneider", 
"Angeline", "Frontenac", "G.A. Tomlinson" and the "William G. Mather".

While on the "Seeandbee", I saw the transition from the original spark 
transmitters to tube equipment, the latter permitting radiotelephone 
conversations with other ship and shore stations, as well as code. Along 
with this modernization in marine communications, the crystal detectors 
(with their famous “cat’s whiskers”) disappeared as more sophisticated 
receivers took over.

I never had to send an SOS, but served as “traffic cop” in connection 
with one. In 1925, I was summoned ashore from a ship assignment to work 
the night shift at WTK, Lower Lakes link with shipping, located on the 
tenth floor of the Cleveland Hotel. My first night on watch (first hour 
in fact) there was a faint SOS on the air. Mechanically, I kicked in the 
big generator for the first time and piped down all ship activity in my 
area after learning that the vessel in distress was off the Virginia 
coast. Couldn’t afford any unnecessary interference at a time like this. 
I kept curious lake operators muffled, policing the air under my 
jurisdiction until some hours later when the distress was cleared. I had 
kept a complete log of my activity.

Incidentally, my chief operator, Hank Grossman, was the individual who, 
aboard the "Alpena" about seven years before, had inspired me to become 
an operator. He relieved me after the exciting night shift and asked to 
see the log. His eyes bugged as he demanded “all right, now let’s see 
the real log.” When he finally realized that I had been involved in this 
distress emergency, he blurted out, “Wow! First hour on watch in his 
first coastal job-and he hits the jackpot!”

But shore-station operating somehow lacked those elements I had enjoyed 
so much aboard ship. It wasn’t too long before I was again underway, 
breathing fresh air and seeing a different port every few days. Looking 
back, a number of incidents stand out in my mind, like the time when a 
devastating tornado swept through Lorain, Ohio, and it fell to me to 
serve as relay link between the freighter "Grand Island", pinned behind 
the twisted bridge in that city, and the outside world. With no wire 
service out of the crippled city, the "Grand Island" operator fed his 
messages to me on low power, and our freighter, off Cleveland at the 
time, passed the information on to the Red Cross and others.

Another thing I well remember is the unexpected run of jumbo perch off 
the dock in Little Current, Ontario, where I tied into 270 of them. Our 
crew ate fish for about a week. I remember numerous times we carried ore 
from the Upper Lakes to the hungry furnaces of the Ford Motor Company at 
River Rouge, near Detroit. We proved to be an important factor in Ford’s 
lofty aim of a new car every fifty-five seconds.

I’ll never forget July 4, 1924, churning southward across Lake Superior 
from Fort William to Marquette, Michigan. A sudden drop in temperature 
and a heavy snowstorm coated us with thick ice. I repeat, this was on 
the Fourth of July!

Not to be forgotten is the time I slipped into the ship’s refrigerator, 
tiptoeing past a sleeping cook in search of a between-meal snack. The 
big door slammed close behind me and the light went out, leaving me to 
shiver for what seemed like an eternity until I was “rescued.” I almost 
got pneumonia from that deal. On June 12, 1924, about 2:00 AM, my ship, 
WFS, was called by WSBN. “What ship is that and where are you bound, the 
operator asked.

“This is the great ship Seeandbee and our destination is Buffalo,” I 
pounded on the key. Thumbing through the ship dictionary, I found WSBN 
to be the "SS Leviathan", who by now, was asking for a repeat. “The 
great what?” the operator sarcastically keyed. “Forget it,” I came back. 
After all, who’s going to boast to the largest ship afloat about being 
great.”

Very few employees of the C&B Lines were ever summoned to appear before 
T.F. Newman, general manager, unless they were in some kind of trouble, 
but when this radio operator got the summons, it proved quite different. 
“You’ve been with us for a few years now,” said Newman, “and although 
your ships have been noted for carrying newlyweds to Niagara Falls, you 
yourself didn’t make it to the falls on your honeymoon.” With that, he 
presented me with a pair of tickets, all expense in scope, for me and my 
omparatively new wife to visit Niagara Falls in style. “Everything on 
the house,” he beamed. Most of those sailing the C&B Lines had him 
pegged as a “whip cracker.” I found that he had a heart of gold.

Radio operating aboard the Goodtime proved to be a paid vacation. 
Federal law stated that this ship had to carry wireless for the safety 
of its passengers on pleasure trips to Cedar Point, Put-In-Bay, and on 
moonlight rides out of Cleveland. Very few messages were handled.

The acquiring of the vessel by the C&B Lines permitted the busy City of 
Erie to again return to its Cleveland-Buffalo night run. The "Goodtime" 
had call letters WCP, which someone said meant “Wireless Cedar Point.” 
She carried a 500-watt quenched gap spark transmitter, not unlike the 
"Erie" and the "Buffalo". The operator was also responsible for a PA 
system that picked up the band on the forward dance floor and blared 
with big bull horns toward the pier when the "Goodtime" was departing or 
arriving.

But finally, I succumbed to becoming a landlubber, writing for the 
Cleveland Plain Dealer newspaper, as associate radio editor, and serving 
as operator at Station WHK, which was owned primarily by the newspaper. 
At the time, the city was dickering with WHK todevise a police radio 
system for Cleveland (Editor. Detroit deployed the first successful 
police radio system). Singled-out for this task, I worked through the 
summer of 1929, designing such a project. In September of that year, the 
fruits of my labor were installed at Central Police Station – with six 
radio cars on the road. I officially moved from the WHK control room to 
the new one just installed by the police department, staying on after 
joining the department for a lengthy career. Along with “calling all 
cars,” the system eventually added radiotelegraph for communications 
with other police departments in most major cities of the US, bringing 
together on this net numerous ex-ship operators. I personally found a 
few of my shipmates pounding brass for the police across the country.

Then, in 1965, with but three more years to go for police retirement, I 
was bit by the old “sailing bug,” and requested a leave of absence from 
the department. Shortly, I was serving as operator on the "SS South 
American", luxury Great Lakes cruise ship. Once on board, I found that 
what had been “wireless” had changed to sophisticated “radio.” From 
spark transmitters and crystal detectors it had progressed to RADAR, 
ship-to-shore radiophone, direction finders, a PA system that utilized 
thirty-two loudspeakers, and many other innovations too numerous to 
mention. It was like learning the radio operating profession all over 
again, and at my age, it wasn’t easy!

southamerica.jpg
PHOTO OF "SS SOUTH AMERICA" the last of the Great Lakes cruise ships.

At the beginning of the season, we carried high school seniors on three, 
four and five-day cruises. One of these trips catered to exchange 
students from Mexico, Brazil, Uruguay, Chili, and Peru. Plenty of 
guitars came on board with these southern kids and, needless to say, the 
talent shows held nightly were glorified by them.

A whole book could be written on just the exciting experiences of the 
last Great Lakes cruise ship. The "South American" was an excellent 
feeder. Once the ship was the recipient of a national award for the best 
food-ashore or afloat! Waitresses, galley help, bus boys, in fact most 
of the crew consisted of college students working their way through 
school, and all were required, when they were employed, to have some 
special talent that could contribute to the ship’s entertainment of 
passengers. The young fellow that saw to it that I had fresh ice water 
and warm biscuits at dinner proved to be another Fred Astaire on the 
ship stage. A dishwasher in the galley, who I later learned was a 
graduate of the Detroit Institute of Technology, looked and danced like 
Bill Robinson. The "South American" was loaded with such surprises.

One of my closest “brass pounding” buddies passed and I became heir to 
his Vibroplex telegraph key. Ellis Smith had more than once expressed a 
desire to serve as operator on the South American but never made it. His 
key did, however, because I carried it aboard with me to use while 
handling message traffic. I’m sure he would have liked that.

I soon learned that the present day radio officer was treated as just 
that - an officer and a gentleman. Whoever made up the crew roster 
certainly had both ends of my welfare in mind. They had me eating in the 
dining room with the ship chaplain, and abandoning ship, if need be, 
with the bartender. One who became a buddy to me was the vessel’s 
photographer, Harry Wolf, who would amble about the decks, snapping 
candid shots of passengers, everyone of which came out a masterpiece. 
Many of his photos filled my files, awaiting those days when I would 
mull over the old experiences.

I won’t forget the “big-shot” passenger who made a $9.95 phone call from 
the ship to his office in Detroit. He later made the grueling climb back 
to the radio shack to get change he had coming - I think it was a 
nickel. In the last hour aboard before flying back to Cleveland and my 
old police job, I went to the pilothouse for the captains signature on 
my license, attesting to my service on board. I got the signature all 
right, and a fringe benefit too. “A pleasure to have had you aboard, 
Sparks,” from Captain Barney Olson.

I got in the required three years to complete my time at the Cleveland 
Police Department before retiring. With ship operating and thirty-eight 
years of police radio behind me, I spent my time watching the mailman, 
reading newspapers, working my ham station W8AF, and doing a bit of 
cartooning. I forgot to mention that my cartoons were part of the 
Fraternal Order of Police publications from 1944 through the late 1970s, 
and later, I would draw for the Society of Wireless Pioneers 
publication, the group having been a worldwide organization of old-time 
operators, mostly shipboard, who have saltwater in their veins. In my 
case, however, it was freshwater from the Great Lakes!


=30=

The above was copied from "QNI Newsletter", January 2023 issue.

73
DR
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