The Islands of the Bay
By JORDAN IKEDA
RAFU STAFF WRITER
Saturday, March 21, 2009

A trip from Los Angeles to San Francisco to uncover and revisit the past.

Photos by JORDAN IKEDA/Rafu Shimpo
A woman stands next to the bell monument on Angel Island that marks the base of the pier where detainees arrived before being processed at the immigration station.

A photo of my great grandfather, Koriyo Nakatsu (top left) and my great grandmother, Tomi Aizawa (bottom left) with unidentified friends circa the early 1920s.

Cell block C, also known as "Broadway" on Alcatraz Island.

My wife and I had previously planned a trip up to San Francisco a couple of months ago. She had earned some extra money doing translation work (that I assisted her with as the typist), and we wanted to use some of it to get out of Los Angeles for a weekend.

We had booked plane tickets and a hotel, booked an Alcatraz tour and
determined the places where we wanted to dine. All the essentials.

Fog ended up ruining our venture. Fog so thick that airplanes weren’t allowed to take off or land in either direction. Fog so thick that when you walked outside you could barely see the person next to you. Blast that Burbank fog.

Anomalies aside, we didn’t make it out to Frisco that weekend. Instead, we sulked home, rented "Escape from Alactraz," watched Clint break out of the very place we had been looking forward to touring and moped for a day and a half eating ice cream and Thai food as the sun shone brightly outside.

Fast forward a month and it’s interesting how things can work out. The reopening of the Immigration Station at Angel Island State Park gave us the perfect opportunity to recoup what had been robbed from us.

On a tighter budget, but one partially work-funded this time, and with iPods, senbei, and raingear packed, the two of us set out on our journey via a rented car—a perfectly horrible Chevy Cobalt. Hard seats. Clunky design. Weird steering wheel.

The one cool feature about the car, a button on the wheel that cycles through tire pressure, oil life, miles traveled, miles per gallon, etc., sure made me think about all those things constantly through the trip.

Two days past never have I ever considered my car’s oil life. For me it’s always been 3000 miles and re-up. So watching the Cobalt’s oil life decrease from 97 to 89 percent left a pall of uneasiness over the nearly 900 miles up and back.

But the button did add a bit of fun to the trip. While my wife slept, I’d play a game I invented called "Dr. Oil Oppressor vs. Mr. Going Green." The game handily used the miles-per-gallon meter and consisted of me flooring the gas pedal (0-60 in two weeks!) and watching my MPG drop to 8 before letting off the gas and seeing it shoot up to 99.

Ah, the highlights of road-tripping.

Weather, ironically enough, almost nixed this trip as well. Forecasts of heavy snows blocking the Grapevine were being phoned in to us from our friends, co-workers and local news reporters. Luckily, we followed the Cal Trans website that assured us the 5 was snow free.

It was 35 degrees passing through Tejon Pass in the Tehachapi Mountains, but the sun shone brilliantly through the puffy, grayish white clouds and sparkled brilliantly off of the fresh snow-covered mountains.

I wanted to take a picture, but the highway was dry and I didn’t want to stop and give all those reports of snow time to actualize.

Once out of the mountains, flat farmland stretched into the horizon. From a city, okay, a suburban boy’s standpoint, there is an odd, peaceful beauty to agricultural nothingness.

On this particular Friday the 13, the horizon provided patches of dark, ominous clouds spliced by shafts of sunlight. It was as if transient, heavenly beings were shining flashlights down upon earth. In between the cumulonimbus clouds, there were pockets of UCLA blue and gold sky.

We drove headlong into this hodgepodge of nature, following the one line of consistency—the manmade I-5.

Like a rollercoaster, the sun-filled, azure skies would abruptly give way to stretches of bloated clouds that would spill bullets of rain down on the car.

Sun. Rain. Sun. Rain.

For about 50 miles, we drove through this cinematic pattern. Our soundtrack—the Beatles, the Roots, Etta James, Elvis, Beethoven, Andrew Lloyd Webber.

Past grapevines and orange groves, a literal city of cows (that left our car
smelling, like, well, cows), past pastures, past small towns, and into the fading light of day we drove.

The I-5 eventually branches off into the 580. We passed through Oakland shortly after dusk. I scrolled through my iPod and found some 2pac—a perhaps misguided attempt at paying my respects—and thumped "Str8 Ballin."

Our hotel was not in San Francisco but rather north across the Golden Gate Bridge in a small town called Tiburon because that was where we would catch a boat out to Angel Island. We continued north along the 580 rather than cross into Frisco via the Oakland Bay Bridge.

Tiburon, Marin City, Milli Valley, Larkpur, Belvedere, and Sausalito, from what I could see, are all very affluent neighborhoods surrounded by leafy green forests to the west and the chill waters of the bay to the east.

As we pulled into the Courtyard by Marriot of Tiburon (there’s only one) rain continued to drizzle down on us.

We found a nice Thai food restaurant, ate some spring rolls, glass noodle soup, and drank lime juice.

That night, sleep was tough thanks to our heater growling like a lion sporadically until the hazy gray light of dawn tapped against our hotel window.

• • •

The next day, quasi-well rested, we headed out to San Francisco in a slight drizzle. Crossing the bridge (which costs $6 going in, but is free going out) was pretty exciting. The comic book geek in me couldn’t help but envision the film "X-Men 3" when the villainous master of magnetism, Magneto lifts the red, steel bridge with his powers and carries it to Alcatraz.

We took some pictures on the bridge, where my wife told me about the efforts going on trying to prevent suicide jumpers.

Above us, the graying clouds rapidly coalesced then swiftly divided as they moved across the sky. Looking out across the bay, we could see the large, faded emerald green of Angel Island and the tan and rockish hues of Alcatraz protruding from the choppy blue of San Francisco Bay.

We would soon visit both.

• • •

On Valentine’s Day, I took my wife to the most romantic place in all of San Francisco. Sean Connery and Nicholas Cage eat your hearts out.

A tour of Alcatraz costs $26. Seniors and children have a reduced rate. It’s highly suggested that you order your tickets in advance (at least a week), especially if you want to take the night tour. Last minute cancellations are rare, unless, for whatever reason, the Bob Hope Airport is doused in soupy thick fog.

Ferries to Alactraz take off from the Pier 33 and last maybe 15 minutes. On the boat, there’s three types of seating: inside, upper deck and perimeter deck.
All give great views of the bay, the city, and the bridge.

Once you land on the island, be prepared to walk. While there is a tram tour, walking while listening to the self-guided audio tour (in Japanese as well) is the best way to truly get a feel for the former prison. The audio contains sound bites from actual prisoners and guards as well as a wealth of interesting information.

When we docked on the Rock, we were greeted with a horizontal flurry
of windswept rain that flipped umbrellas inside out. As if the nature of what Alcatraz represents was not uninviting enough, mother nature was chiming in with her take on the matter as well.

The Rock.

Where records dictate not a single escape success. Where Al Cap one, Machine Gun Kelly and the Birdman were caged. Where 1,576 men were incarcerated over 29 years.

The tour takes you back in time, guiding you through the mess hall, through the cell blocks, and finally to the Warden’s office. The cells are no bigger than walk-in closets (not the MTV Cribs’ kind either) ornamented with a toilet, sink and a flat metal cot.

As you walk through the audio tour, voices of the past recreate what life was like. You can hear the hopelessness in their words. Hear the physical toll prison had on them.

In the visitor section of the prison, my wife and I stood on either side of the window partition n o bigger than a piece of paper. Two inches of glass separated us, but, even in practice, it felt like lifetimes apart.

Alcatraz was a prison system ’s prison where most of the prisoners were those who refused to conform to the rules and regulations at other Federal institutions, who were considered too violent and dangerous and/or who were escape risks.

Many found their way to the maximum security ward or D Block. The tour allows you to literally step into the isolation cells located on D Block, cells that are devoid of light and sound—a truly sobering experience.

Among the men who spent time on the Rock, was one I discovered only
after I had left the island. A man not mentioned on the tour.

O n November 5, 1 953, Tomoya Kawakita was sentenced to life in prison
on Alcatraz. Kawakita was a Japanese American from California who was
living in Japan during the Pearl Harbor bombing. He subsequently worked as an interpreter at a Japanese prison camp where he reportedly tortured American prisoners.

When he returned to California following the war, he was recognized by an
army sergeant, arrested and convicted of treason.

Among all the prisoners on the Rock, he was an outcast. And being a California JA, I felt a certain connection to him.

As I walked around the various sections of the island, I tried to channel my inner Eastwood and imagine the exhilaration of escape after months of planning and patiently waiting and then finally submerging myself into the icy cold waters of the Bay with the sole purpose of swimming out into freedom.

The bodies of Frank Morris and John and Clarence Anglin were never found, though, articles belonging to the prisoners washed up on Angel Island.

Ironically, this most famous Alcatraz escape attempt occurred and ended at the same place and in the same year (1962) the Chinese American community successfully lobbied to desig nate the immigration station on Angel Island as a state landmark.

• • •

After spending a nice evening eating toro, ebi and sake at a pretty good
sushi restaurant near our hotel (my real Valentine’s Day present), the next day, my wife and I headed for the dock in Tiburon where we set sail for Angel Island.

The idiom "rain or shine" certainly applied to the reopening day festivities
that represented the culmination of over 40 years of planning and hard work.

Dark clouds filled the sky. Temperatures hovered in the 30-degree range and rain mercilessly pelted the docks and caused the SF Bay’s waters to become choppy. Everyone was dressed in rain slickers and multiple layers.

We were greeted at Angel Island with the same sort of windswept, horizontal rain that welcomed us to the Rock. The immigration station is a couple miles up and in so we boarded a small bus and made our way into the lush green forest. I turned to my wife and started to hum the theme to Jurassic Park.

For 30 years, from 1910 to 1940, the “Ellis Island of the West” processed approximately 1 million Asian immigrants entering into the U.S. due to the Chinese Exclusion Act of 1882, which allowed the exclusion of immigrants, specifically Chinese, into the U.S. for up to 10 years.

It is estimated that anywhere from 6,000 to 19,000 Japanese picture brides were processed through Angel Island. My great grandmother, Tomi Aizawa wasn’t a picture bride. Her marriage was arranged by her brother’s friend who acted as baishakunin (person or persons who arrange a marriage).

My great grandmother came to Angel Island to meet my great grandfather, Koriyo Nakatsu, and marry him on February 14, 1914, exactly 95 years and a day before I set foot for the first time on the same shores.

While I traveled several hundred miles to study the past, she crossed the Pacific, traversing several thousand, to create a new future.

Walking through the rebuilt barracks, I couldn’t help but think how cramped the living conditions must have been back when Chinese, Japanese, Korean, Russian and Filipino immigrants were etching poetry and letters in the walls.

The bathrooms, big enough for maybe 20 people, were used by nearly a hundred, and the original pipes produced salt water pumped straight from the ocean.

In many ways, prisoners on the Rock had it better.

And while my great grandmother was one of the lucky ones who was off the island within a few days, thousands of others, were not as fortunate. Some spent as long as two years waiting for their papers to clear.

Before returning back to Tiburon, I stood at the bell monument that overlooks the bay and San Francisco. The bell marks the base of the pier where detainees arrived before being processed.

As I stood there, I realized that my life as an American, nearly a century ago, began at that exact same spot.

• • •

Angel Island and Alcatraz both represent important landmarks in American West Coast history. They represent the history of the outcast and the unaccepted. They provide gateways, links, historical markers to the lives of our forefathers and mothers and give us templates for appreciating what we enjoy today.

There was certainty on Alcatraz. Grim certainty, but certainty nonetheless. The men who found themselves stranded there by all means earned their way. You murder a man, you rape, you steal. You sleep in a 5x9 cage.

But those who landed on Angel Island, they were free men and women who were subjected to tiny bunk cots, forced to stay in near-prison-like conditions. Theirs was uncertainty. Uncertainty of their immigration status. Uncertainty of their future in America.

From both islands, you can see San Francisco clearly. It seems so close. The city, with its rolling hills filled with houses and apartments, buildings and stores, where life and hope and freedom abound. Indeed, one section of the cell blocks on Alcatraz faces San Francisco. It was explained to me that if the wind blew the right way, the prisoners could hear laughter and music—freedom carrying on from the mainland.

So close.

For inmates serving time, San Francisco represented the past. For newly arriving immigrants and those forced to wait, the city represented the future.
Regardless, it was something everyone wanted to experience, for the first time, or for just that one final taste.

And having visited Frisco, relished the sourdough chowder bowls on the wharf, felt the crisp wind blowing through my hair atop Coit Tower, experienced the novelty of a trolley ride, taken in the symmetry of the bay from the towering, crimson bridge, I could completely empathize.

• • •

We loaded onto a tram that ushered us back to the Angel Island dock, boarded a ferry and returned to Tiburon. Rain-soaked, cold, and a tiny-bit seasick my wife and I began our drive back to L.A. Weather and news reports indicated that the 5 was closed, which meant we headed south down the 101.

We stopped at our favorite eatery up north, Phil’s Fish Market in Moss Landing and enjoyed clam chowder, cioppino and calamari. Literally the best seafood, American-style anyways, we’ve ever had. With bellies full, we once again hit the road.

We drove nine hours home, mostly in the rain. Monday morning was a holiday, but Tuesday was back to work, back to writing. Over the course of the trip we listened to over 70 years of music, from Louis Armstrong, to Sinatra, to Frankie Valli to Mos Def to Girl Talk.

And, as if to celebrate our return, I even snuck in some Flo-Rida.

Put your hands in the Ay—er, Ay, Ay—er.

The Chevy Cobalt made it back in one piece despite the declining oil life.

Back to North Hollywood.

Back to our apartment.

Back home.

From doorstep to doorstep.
=====
For more information on Angel Island, check www.rafu.com/en/2009/0308/topnews.htm or www.angelisland.org. For more information on the Alcatraz tour, visit www.alcatrazcruises.com. For more information on Phil’s Fish Market, visit www.Philsfishmarket.com. The ideas expressed in this column are not necessarily those of the Rafu Shimpo.