I’m not a fan of crowds. I won’t be caught dead in them…or alive. Especially after walking across the Golden Gate Bridge on Sunday, May 24, 1987. It was the 50th anniversary of the Golden Gate Bridge and in celebration the bridge was closed to all vehicle traffic. My friends and I decided to walk the length of it. The problem was people from far and wide, and from across the globe, decided to do the same thing.
We joined the crowd at the bridge’s South Side entrance. People were festive, happy and in awe that we could walk on the road rather than on the pedestrian walkway. The crowd included a band, at least one guy in a tiny Speedo, lots of weirdos, families along with my red-haired friend, Elaine, a nurse with a mouth like a truck driver and an infectious laugh that came from her gut, her husband (an old boyfriend of mine) and my
husband No.4.
At some point we lost the husbands. Elaine and I carried on, certain that we’d meet up with them at some point. That never happened. As Elaine and I reached half way to the South Tower (San Francisco side), all forward movement stopped. It took a while before we realized we were gridlocked. Elaine was in front with me very, very close behind. So close that her massive bunch of red hair was in my face. I liked Elaine, but the hair not so much.
“Please move so I don’t have to eat your hair,” I said to her.
“I can’t” she said as she tried to turn.
She couldn’t move, no one could. We were all shoulder to shoulder with a bunch of strangers.
I looked at the crowd around us and prayed that no one would lose their cool. In fact, I looked over at the side of the bridge wondering who’s face I’d have to crawl over to escape a crush in order to jump from the bridge.
Not a pretty thought but I had to think of survival at that point.
We were stuck there for five hours. Five freaking hours. I don’t know what we talked about, or if even we talked. I can’t call her up to ask her because she died some years later, from cancer. I do remember feeling bad for the children on the bridge who were short amongst the taller crowd and wonder how they were breathing. I wondered what all the bicyclists did with their bicycles. Did they toss them over the side of the bridge?
Could they even get to the side to toss them? What about the families with strollers?
There was no room for strollers. No room for even Elaine’s stupid hair!
My eyes landed on a woman about 30 people away from me. We locked eyes and I saw her about to lose it. It scared me to death. I called to her that everything would be okay, to not worry, to calm herself and take deep breaths. The connection between us did the trick, she calmed down. It kind of calmed me, too. Kind of.
At one point we were shoved and pushed into each other. I looked at the people pushing me, about to object but realizing I had to stay on my feet rather than object as everyone was getting pushed. What was going on? Is this when it all happens?
Looking across the sea of people, I saw that it was a motorcycle cop who caused the crush, trying to make way for himself and his motorcycle to reach the South entrance. What was the emergency? I doubted that he made it, he probably got gridlocked like the rest of us.
I could feel the bridge move up and down. A bizarre feeling. We all felt it. It was as if we had collective thinking, a collective brain that thought of what was best for the group.
It was reported later that the massive crowd of over 300,000 actually flattened the bridge. CHP reported that there were at least 800,000 who stepped on the bridge.
Officials said it wouldn’t collapse under the weight of that many humans.
San Francisco police were blamed for not controlling the amount of people who showed up for the “Bridge Walk.” The crowd was praised for how orderly everyone was and how no was one hurt; except for those who vomited or passed out. The day was difficult and at times horrifying but at first the atmosphere was one of celebration at being able to walk by foot across the 1.7 mile bridge. Something that will most likely never ever
happen again.
What’s a girl to do?…avoid crowds like the plague, which I’ve done, except in India…but
that’s for another day.
Lucy Llewellyn Byard is currently a columnist for the Record-Bee. To contact her, email
lucywgtd@gmail.com
