“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!