131. The Ship Scaler

© 2026 Robert Sickles

In the spring and summer of ‘74, I found work at a couple of shipyards in Seattle. Some of my roommates were already doing that, and they encouraged me to join the Ship Scalers Union so I could get hired at any of the ship builders and drydock companies around Puget Sound. It was decent pay, but for very hard and sometimes dangerous work.

Ship scalers were historically grunt laborers who scraped rust, paint and barnacles off the hulls. Modern scalers perform just about every non-skilled duty.  Basically, if you aren’t a certified tradesman like a machinist, painter, crane operator, welder, pipefitter, or electrician, you’re a scaler.

Ship Scalers Union membership was easy enough to get, just show up, pay nominal dues, and sign in. Each day, men and a few women crowded into the hiring hall for mostly short-term jobs. The competition was stiff and I had to elbow my way to the front of the room to get picked in what seemed like a less-than-random process. The 95% African American membership got preference from their buddy, the hiring boss, while I was usually passed over, left standing among a conspicuous white minority. Plus, I had no labor experience, and I probably looked like I was better suited for a clean, indoor job. Nevertheless, I happened to show up early one day when only five guys were waiting for the call, and we all got in at Lockheed Shipyard.

That job lasted only one day, yet it was a good test for my strength and courage. A medium-sized freighter was drydocked for overhaul, and I met my lead man on the top deck. He told me it was time for me to go to Hell. He pointed to a manhole on the deck where I was to climb straight down a 70’ steel ladder in the darkness of a vast hold, past several levels of scaffolding where workers were sandblasting, grinding, and welding. Terrified, I descended into a loud and choking-hot nightmare, full of toxic fumes and flying sparks. At the bottom, in the engine room, I would be part of a crew mopping up oily bilge so welders could safely work on the supports for new pumps. Sandblast grit and welding slag rained down on us, so I also helped shovel the mountain of debris out a big hole that was cut in the hull.  Yes, it was Hell!

By the end of the shift, I and several others were already laid off.  I asked our lead man why we were pink-slipped. He just laughed and told me, “It’s the way things are in this big company. All the departments are f*ed up. The hiring department is always several days out of step with the working department. Then the firing department has to clear things up so the money department doesn’t get in trouble with the boss department. Tomorrow will be the same thing; I’ll get five or ten more guys I already don’t need. Good luck to you, son… go on and collect your day’s pay.”

Each day for a week or so after, I went back to the union hiring hall until I answered a call from the Foss Maritime company. This job would last a few months and turned out to be a pretty enjoyable gig. That is, except for the first day and the last day.

Day one at Foss. A gigantic barge was brought in to be repurposed. It had previously been used to haul cement, and was all coated inside with loose rust and clumps of cement. The barge was going to be used to transport cars and trucks, so obviously it had to be cleaned out. We ship scalers were on ladders and scaffolding pounding the hull walls and ceiling with sledge hammers, while others tried to shovel out the mess without getting clobbered by falling chunks. My God, my ears are still ringing and I can still wince over how sore my arms were! Lucky for me, that work was finished by other shifts by the time I came back the next day, and I was assigned to another crew.

Founded in 1889 by Norwegians Thea and Andrew Foss who started out with a number of rental rowboats, Foss had become the largest tug and barge operation in the Northwest.  By 1974, they were a major mover of equipment to Alaska during the building of the Trans-Alaska Pipeline. The company runs a fleet of ocean-going vessels, and during my stint there, many loads were readied for the voyage. The pipeline was to run across the whole of Alaska, 800 miles of tundra and remote forest. Everything imaginable had to be shipped in from the lower 48. It was an insane push to provide barges filled with vehicles, portable buildings, road-building machinery, pumps, tanks, miles of pipe and all kinds of supplies before Alaska’s winter freeze.

We scalers moved tons of towing chain and hawser, and readied countless pallets of material to be hoisted onto the barges. Scalers helped lash and cover the cargo above and below decks. After the loads were sent on their way, we cleaned up along the “beach,” their term for the yard around the docks. We also mucked out the tugs, preparing them for their next sailing. I never got to work inside the actual drydocks, which was fine with me, as that looked like the most hazardous job of all. I was told about a guy who got his spine crushed when a ship was being winched into position and he got stuck between the hull and the wall of the drydock.

The whole of my time with Foss was made enjoyable by a couple of kindly co-workers who taught me the best way to do things, smiling and laughing about the job and life in general. As much as I didn’t fit in with the majority of the guys, these two old hands, uncle and nephew, showed me that we all pull together and look out for each other’s safety.  One of the interesting lessons they taught me was to avoid getting fired for coming to work drunk and driving a forklift off the edge of the dock like the guy before me had done! Wow, the things you need to know!

The part about me being a soft-handed whitey among a hardened black workforce never bothered me. But it must have bothered somebody, because on my last day at Foss, it was obvious I was being ousted. An older tug was being put back in service and needed to be scrubbed and provisioned for its run; I and another were cleaning the galley. My companion pointed to a small quantity of dusty canned goods on the shelf, and he asked if I wanted a can of tuna. He said no one would care if I took it since they’d completely restocked the galley for the next run anyway. I took the tuna, and at the end of the shift, found a lay-off notice in my slot at the punch clock, the only pink slip in the rack. Nobody said anything, but I got a weird guilty look from the guy who told me to take the tuna. I’ll call him Judas. I think I was set up to get fired for stealing.

On the bus ride home, I pouted a while. Getting fired hurts. But by the time I walked in my front door, I’d put it together. Most of those workers were lifers. They may have had no further opportunities beyond working on the Foss docks unless they could qualify for a higher-pay union trade. They would assume, quite rightly, that I was just cruising in for kicks.

Also, I think I was too enthusiastic and efficient to fit in. It’s not that I’m claiming to be better and smarter, there were lots of sharp and savvy guys there, and I looked up to them. However, there is a certain pace to that work environment; whether the bosses are watching or not, one should move along in step with the others. I probably opened my mouth about how things could be done faster or better. I was told more than once not to rush it or I’d make the others look bad.  One time, I told the lead man I was finished moving some spools of cable. He said “Are you sure? I say you better go back and work on that some more.”

Here I was, a privileged college-type kid enjoying a bit of life experience, just earning quick pay until the next better thing came along. I might have been taking a job that another guy deserved. Do you think some of them resented me? I don’t blame them… bigger picture, I didn’t really belong there!