Thunderboating - A Personal Memoir - Chapter 1

By Fred Farley - Unlimited Hydroplane Historian

Seattle was the place to be in the fifties if one was a hydroplane fan. Those were the days when the Gold Cup race location was determined by the yacht club of the winning boat. Any threat by an out-of-town entry to wrest the Gold Cup from the Seattle Yacht Club became--in the words of SEATTLE POST-INTELLIGENCER reporter Emmett Watson--“a matter of civic nervousness and economic concern” to the Pacific Northwest.

Only twice during the fifties were the Seattle boats defeated in the Gold Cup series--by Detroit’s GALE V in 1955 and by Las Vegas’s MAVERICK in 1959. Both defeats generated a cultural shockwave. Possession of the Gold Cup meant an awful lot to local residents. Indeed, in those days, the common man had a personal stake in the outcome of the race.

After the Gold Cup was put up for bid, starting with the 1963 race, the sport was never the same. There was still plenty of good competitive racing, but an important element was missing.

Looking back, I can see why the rule change was made. (The IRS was breathing down the sport’s neck.) The owners had to professionalize Unlimited racing or else. George Simon’s landmark tax case of 1963 saved the sport from extinction. Simon demonstrated how campaigning an Unlimited was a legitimate business expense within specified guidelines and thereby tax deductible.

But the old days when the Gold Cup race location was determined by the winning yacht club, I still sorely miss--even after all these years.

The fifties were my personal golden age of Unlimited racing. To my child’s perspective, “my SLO-MOs” were unbeatable. From 1951 to 1954, I wasn’t too concerned about the eastern challengers--although, in retrospect, I should have been. Chuck Thompson and the MISS PEPSI from Detroit were indeed formidable during 1951 and 1952 and turned the first-ever Gold Cup heat at over 100 miles per hour (in 1952).

When Fageol flipped the SLO-MO-SHUN V during qualification for the 1955 race, that was a wake-up call for Fred Farley. All of a sudden, I realized that nobody wins all the time. Even those who are “the best” can be vulnerable. An “off-day” can happen to anybody.

And August 7, 1955, was definitely an “off-day” for Seattle Gold Cup fans. I seethed with rage when GALE V took the race back to Detroit for 1956. Joe Taggart and SLO-MO-SHUN IV caught fire and slowed heartbreakingly to a halt, two laps from victory in Heat Three. And MISS THRIFTWAY, driven by an inexperienced Bill Muncey, ended up an overall second--despite having won two heats. That was because GALE V was 4.536 seconds faster than THRIFTWAY. This entitled the GALE and driver Lee Schoenith (the man I loved to hate!) to 400 bonus points and victory--despite not having won a single heat!

To my youthful mind, the unpopular 1955 Gold Cup denouement played like a preview of the Watergate story--complete with “dirty tricks.” Seattle had been blatantly “screwed”--somehow--I was absolutely convinced.

Many years would pass before I was able to admit that GALE V had won the race fair and square. I now acknowledge that the rookie Muncey just plain “blew it” in 1955 by slowing way down on the last lap of the race. Muncey forgot or ignored the critical factor of total elapsed time. Bill allowed the distance between himself and the GALE V to dwindle, while Schoenith maintained his same steady previous pace.

It took me until 1985--thirty years after the fact--when I could finally walk up to Lee, shake his hand, and congratulate him on his victory. “You did everything that you were supposed to do,” I assured him. “You deserved to win.”

Following the 1955 Gold Cup, I was irrevocably ensconced in my Thunderboat obsession--much to the dismay of my parents (although they eventually came around to my way of thinking).

My family was not sports-oriented. I played Little League baseball and posted a zero batting average. I served as equipment manager for my Bellevue High School basketball team, since I was too uncoordinated to be a player.

I followed the Seattle Rainiers and the New York Yankees to a degree, but nothing compared to my love for the boats. In school, I constantly daydreamed about Unlimiteds. No wonder that my brainy kid brother was a straight-A student, while I was a perennial C+. Somehow, I managed to graduate from the University of Washington with a degree in English Literature.

Most people choose to know a little about a lot of things. I prefer to know a lot about a few things. For me, being an Unlimited fan and a movie buff are enough for one lifetime.

No one under the age of 40 can possibly imagine what it was like to live in “Hydro Town, USA,” which is what Seattle was in the fifties. Even persons not otherwise inclined to sports of any kind were inevitably caught up in all of the hoopla and had an opinion about it.

The core of all this enthusiasm was the Gold Cup and the possession of same. This was a matter of regional pride. Even the 1979 Seattle Sonics--the kings of basketball--had nothing on the boats.

I lived in the environs of Seattle for the first 55 years of my life. I’ve witnessed only one other local phenomenon that compares to the hydro mania of the fifties. And that was the incredible outpouring of civic emotion that occurred when the Seattle Mariners came alive--after 19 years of mediocrity--and dominated the American League West in late-season 1995.

A franchise that had been a public embarrassment and beneath contempt was celebrated as the toast of the town--just as SLO-MO-SHUN IV and MISS THRIFTWAY had been in 1955.

Until I was 17 years old, the most important thing in my life was who was going to win that next Gold Cup race. My birthday coincides with Seafair. But celebrating it was always the farthest thing from my mind in those days. The boats came first.

I rooted for whoever drove the SLO-MO boats: Joe Taggart, Lou Fageol, Ted Jones. And after the SLO-MO crew transferred en masse to Edgar Kaiser’s HAWAII KAI III, I cheered for Jack Regas. Then there were Bill Muncey, Mira Slovak, Bill Cantrell, and Ron Musson. They, too, were boyhood heroes of mine. And Chuck Thompson was a very exciting guy to watch. (Even though I was from Seattle and Chuck represented Detroit, I respected him enormously as a competitor and as a person. In my pre-pit pass days at the Seattle Seafair races, that man would talk with me when others wouldn’t. And for that, I’ll always be grateful.)

The Unlimiteds were not my only focus. I also paid attention to the smaller classes of APBA. My Dad would take me to the annual Sammamish Slough Outboard Marathon on the Slough River, which connects Lake Washington and Lake Sammamish. We also watched the Inboards race on Lake Sammamish and Green Lake.

Over the years, I’ve always made it a point of keeping an eye on the Limited ranks. They are, after all, a part of the big picture. Too many Unlimited fans look at the Unlimiteds in isolation. Where power boat racing as a whole is concerned, these people have tunnel vision. They don’t appreciate that the other categories have something to offer as well.

When a new driver steps up to the Unlimited level, I’m usually already familiar with his background. And, more often than not, I’m already on a first-name basis with the guy.

I knew Steve Reynolds long before he ever set foot in an Unlimited. I’ve known the Weber brothers--Mark and Mike--for many years. Their Dad, the late Ray Weber, was Inboard Commissioner. Ray was one of the most conscientious men that I’ve ever known in APBA racing. His sons are cut from the same cloth.

One of the neatest developments in recent years is the advent of the Unlimited Lights, which evolved out of the old 7-Litre Class. The ULs are the logical training ground for the next generation of Unlimited personnel. The Lights are also an exciting show in their own right.

In 2001, I was asked to serve as Historian for the Unlimited Lights, just as I’ve been for the Unlimiteds since 1973.

I first walked around an Unlimited pit area in 1956. I talked my folks into taking me down to the old Leschi Pits, north of the old Floating Bridge, on Saturday afternoon, before the Seafair Trophy race. The main pits in those days were the Mount Baker Pits, just south of the bridge. Passes were required for admission there. But the general public could walk right up to the boats at Leschi. Only two hydroplanes (SCOOTER TOO and HAWAII KAI III) were headquartered there at the time that my family visited. But it was a for-real pit area. And I was in heaven.

The following year, 1957, Seattle had the Gold Cup back. That was also the first year for the Stan Sayres Memorial Pits. But only the privileged few with connections could gain access to the new facility. Even the outer pits were off-limits in those days. (Not until 1959 could the general public get in for a closer look at the boats and the participants for the cost of a Seafair Skipper pin.) But in 1957, I lucked out.

The grandson of my Dad’s boss was a member of the Seattle Yacht Club and a race committee member. He was able to obtain some one-day pit passes during qualifying for my Dad, my brother, and me.

Never before had I been around that many boats at one time. It was the Leschi experience times ten, a highlight of my young life.

Somehow, I had to figure a way to be in the pits full-time. But that would take a few years.

The new 3-mile Lake Washington course, which served as the Unlimited venue in Seattle from 1957 to 1973, was a fast track indeed. But it was out in the middle of the lake, whereas the previous Seattle courses had been a lot closer to shore. Unless one was on the official barge, anchored a few hundred feet offshore, it was impossible to get an adequate visual perspective of the entire course.

Moving the course was a mistake. In my view, this was the first step that led to the erosion of interest in boat racing by Seattleites.

Until 1965, I spent race days at home in front of the tube. This was during the heyday of KING television--Channel 5. KING technicians had introduced their fabulous 100-inch camera lens, which seemingly put the viewer in the driver’s seat of the speeding hydroplanes. And then there was all of that exciting commentary by the inimitable Bill O’Mara, whose enthusiasm for the sport was contagious.

When it came to bringing the race right into one’s living room, KING-5 was the best seat in the house.

O’Mara eventually left KING Broadcasting but continued to announce the race on a local radio station. In 1963, I set my portable radio on top of the television set, which had the volume turned down. This way, I could enjoy the superb KING visuals and the O’Mara play-by-play, just as in days of old.

In my pre-pit pass days during the late fifties and early sixties, I was a denizen of the Sayres Pits. Along with just about every other kid in Seattle, I collected programs, photos, autographs, newspaper clippings, and souvenir buttons.

Those were the days when one could assemble a fairly complete button collection and stay current without going into debt. Buttons rarely cost more than fifty cents. And many were available for free.

I’ve collected buttons since 1957, although I don’t consider myself to be a “button collector” per se. I rarely go out of my way to buy them. It’s just that I attend so many races--and I’m in the right place at the right time often enough--that I usually end up with a lot of the buttons as they become available.

Some people look down their noses at those who accumulate hydro buttons. But I have always found it to be an enjoyable hobby and never regretted my involvement in it. And a lot of the buttons are very attractively done.

The button-collecting pastime took a major “hit” in the early seventies when a Seattle photographer produced a series of high-price photo buttons, consisting mainly of spectacular overhead shots taken from the Owensboro Bridge in Owensboro, Kentucky. The photographer in question charged outrageous prices for his product in the twenty-five and fifty-dollar range.

Within a few years, it became economically unfeasible to maintain a collection with a reasonable degree of completeness. Of course, no one was forced to buy any button that he or she didn’t want. But a lot of people quit collecting buttons because they could no longer afford it.

To this day, I haven’t forgiven the photographer for exploiting--and effectively destroying--a really fun hobby.

My good friend, the late Roy Pedersen, was the premier hydro button collector of the world. Roy got in on the ground floor when the button phenomenon really got rolling in about 1959. His single most cherished collectible was a 1920 MISS AMERICA pin that he obtained from a past-Commodore of the Detroit Yacht Club.

Roy was living proof that one need not be a one-man clearing-house to be a successful collector. He was an outspoken critic of the above-mentioned photo button rip-off scandal and argued against the recognition of said buttons as legitimate hydro collectibles.