Splash, Slurp & Bang

John C. Fremont named the Golden Gate. “The Pathfinder” considered the San Francisco Bay inlet our imperial equivalent to the Golden Horn of Constantinople—Rome of the eastern world. From that moment in 1846 when America took possession of California visionaries cited the inevitable—that the Bay would be bridged in one or more places. Even Emperor Norton I demanded construction begin.

While both the Bay and the Golden Gate Bridges were constructed simultaneously in the 1930s, it was the gracefully poetic one spanning the entrance to the Bay that piqued the world’s fascination. What once became the longest single span bridge in the entire world, was, in its initial design a butt-ugly cantilevered abomination. We can all be thankful this design was deep-sixed.

Instead we admire that bridge generally considered the most elegant the world has yet to produce. For seven decades the Golden Gate Bridge has been the inspiration for those with dreams aplenty, a source of pride for natives of the entire Bay Area, as well as that most popular place in the entire world to commit suicide.

Not to make light this terminal subject, but in keeping with our region tending to wackiness, some suicide doozies may be told of that bridge.

Like the 70-something gentleman who left this note before taking the plunge back in 1959: “Survival of the fittest,” it read. “Adios—unfit.”

Harold Wobber, suddenly stopped midway across the span, removed his jacket and told his new found friend, “This is where I get off.”

Ten years earlier the “Black Widow” jumper, an Oakland man going through contentious divorce proceedings faked his death and fled to Illinois. However, his presumptive “Black Widow” didn’t take the bait. She tracked her ex-man down and made him pay. In 1973, with 499 suicides from the bridge already, a man raced across it with the magic “500″ pinned to him like a marathon runner. Then there was the woman who tried to jump from the bridge 8 times, to no avail. However, she did receive a few minutes of psychiatric counseling on each of these occasions. One day she made three attempts, but alas, her every attempt was foiled. Bridge authorities were not amused.

And then there was the case of the chance-met stranger. Dr. Louis Naylor was a physician visiting the City by the Bay from Connecticut. He struck up a pleasant conversation with a man while the two walked the bridge back to the City. The man, one Harold Wobber, suddenly stopped midway across the span, removed his jacket and told his newfound friend, “This is where I get off.” His plunge was the first recorded suicide from the Golden Gate Bridge, which to this day has the dubious distinction of being the most popular spot in the entire world to voluntarily end it all.

But the strangest story regarding suicide and the Golden Gate Bridge entails a suicide protest.

He was knee high to a cockroach and already preachin’ back home in rural Ohio. As a young man our prodigy preacher sold monkeys. That’s right – he was a monkey man. And oh-boy, did he love Elvis! Just ask any plastic surgeon. While destined to be lauded a civil rights activist, his pappy trod a different path. Pa was a proud member of the KKK.

Did Pa know his son had become a powerful San Francisco civic leader, oft in the news for this or that good deed doing? Junior’s liberal political allies adored him, and showered him with praise and accolades. After all, they could bank on him for votes.

In 1977 he shepherded some 600 of his flock onto the Golden Gate Bridge. Each protester brandished a black armband, upon which the name of a suicide victim was written. With well over 1,000 having already taken the plunge, each protester had lots of suicides to choose from. The idea behind the march was to cow bridge authorities into constructing a suicide barrier to, well, save lives. This was, indisputably, one noble and righteous cause.

Imagine our surprise when, 18 short months after said march, news-flashed that our compassionate preacher had ordered the assassination of our very own U.S. Congressman Leo Ryan (as well as his entourage), and then presided over dispensing cyanide-laced Kool Aid to 800 loving, trusting followers – deep in the jungles of Guyana.

Some claim the whole mess stunk to high heaven of CIA involvement. Perhaps our good buddy Dr. Stanley Gottleib (of MK-ULTRA fame) was involved? Whether he sucked the gun of his own volition, or someone whacked him, the Rev. Jim Jones lay dead from a bullet in a pool of his own blood.

So for anyone planning a holiday excursion across the ol’ Golden Gate I paraphrase pioneer broadcast journalist Edward R. Murrow’s patented wrap: Good hike, and good luck.