Its own culture [Homer's Spit Rats]

Its own culture

http://homertribune.com/2010/07/its-own-culture/

Spit evolved into busy summer playground

This is the last in a five-part series exploring the Homer Spit and
how it has evolved over the years. From its original formation via
eras of glacial advance and retreat, to its simple years as a
coal-shipping hub, to its now-complex existence based on tourism,
fishing and arts, the Spit continues to be a vital part of Homer's
economy, industry and overall personality.

by Naomi Klouda and Sean Pearson
Jul 14th, 2010

In seemingly direct contrast with the early days of the Homer Spit ­
where Stephen Penberthy was the lone inhabitant of a small settlement
at the end of the Spit for a number of years ­ today's Spit has
evolved into a summertime mecca of tourist activities and offerings
that produce a thriving seasonal commerce.
Even as late as the 1970s, the Spit witnessed an entirely different
culture than the one noticed today. Instead of the giant Winnebagos
heaped with bikes and boats, the place held the bustle of a
commercial fishing village.
The emphasis on commercial fishing meant supplying canneries with
shrimp, king crab, salmon and halibut, recalled Lance Petersen, whose
position producing plays at Pier One Theatre in 1973 meant he could
watch it all.
"In those days, it was quite different because of the cannery. We had
a huge population of college students who came for adventure and to
work in the cannery. The fishing industry was the dominant thing.
Fishermen went out on day trips ­ they pulled crab pots in the
morning and came in in the afternoon," Petersen said. "Now it's wall
to wall aluminum, Winnebegos, campers."
The young cannery workers didn't always bother with real tents. More
often, they erected posts and strung Visqueen over that, recalled
Findlay Abbott.
"Then the city decided they shouldn't do that anymore, they needed to
use real tents," he said.
Before there were many tourists, Pier One Theatre jumped into the mix
and made the cultural life of the Spit more eclectic by hauling out
Shakespeare now and then. They started in a city-owned warehouse that
was located by the Alaska State Ferry dock now. Each summer, they
cleared out the cannery's shipping boxes and rebuilt the stage. When
they staged productions, taking stock of the audience ­ where they
came from ­ was part of the interaction.
"Some of the young people made it their mission to list license
plates from all 50 states. But Hawaii always presented a problem,"
Petersen said.
Pier One went off on roaming productions across the Kenai Peninsula
for a number of years. "Then in 1985, the Homer city manager got in
touch and asked us to come back. One thing we don't have, he said, is
a performing arts menu on the Spit."
The City of Homer gave them the red building now used, for $1 a year,
surrounded as it is by campers on all sides ­ a ready audience to
pack the house every play night.
Down the road, the Salty Dawg and Land's End Resort anchored another
kind of cultural life: the nomads of the Homer Spit brought out
guitars and supplied a steady source of sometimes talented music. As
tourism picked up speed, Homer's reputation as a famed destination
meant an opportunity to develop more businesses, and boardwalks grew
from a small collection established by Land's End owner Earl
Hillstrand. The City got in on the boardwalk business by leasing to
private companies wanting to build the distinctive waterfront kiosks.
The legendary 'Spit Rats'
In the 1970s, young people began arriving to work at canneries. These
"hippies" created tent cities on the Spit, believing that Homer had
metaphysical powers, according to local lore.
Those who came to town looking for summer work usually had no other
place to stay except a tent on the beach and the Homer Spit happened
to be free, recalled Michael Kennedy and others who landed there as
young people.
"In those days you could put your camper there and no one would come
around to collect rent," Kennedy said. "Anyone who lived on the Spit
at the time was considered a Spit Rat. I lived on the Spit, but
didn't work on the cannery."
When "hippies" first got here in the 1970s, conflicts arose between
"red necks, old timers and hippies," Kennedy said. A kind of
prejudice occurred with the townspeople sometimes thinking of the
'Rats' as smelly, unwashed interlopers. In fact, many were from
well-known universities around the country.
"Then, as the hippies became fishermen, the lines became blurred and
no body could tell who anybody was any more," Kennedy said.
The name was coined at the Salty Dawg, then jackets and a flag
emerged. In town, the bars were divided by cliques, but the Salty
Dawg was a mixing pot, he said.
On July 1, 1998, a fire destroyed the Icicle plant, and the large
number of campers slowly began fading away.
"Aren't there still Spit Rats there?" Kennedy asks. Maybe so, if the
definition is of young people spending lots of time hanging out at
campfire parties where people played guitar and grilled fresh seafood.
A card left behind, preserved in plastic sheets at the Salty Dawg,
tells the rules for becoming a member of their proud band: One had to
spend one full year living in a tent, including winter, on the beach.
They even had their own jackets emblazoned with the Spit Rat logo.
Steve Zimmerman, another Spit worker who incorporated into what Homer
became, still owns his.
Salty tales
No one is quite certain how the Salty Dawg came to be the busiest
little bar on the Kenai Peninsula. The landmark is synonymous with
its location.
"It's the mixture of people," said Dawg owner John Warren, who grew
up nearby on the Spit and watched the pub grow in fame. "I'm sure the
location has something to do with it. People come because they feel
comfortable here."
Bartender Hollyn Smith, a walking encyclopedia on all things Dawg,
answers the same questions day after day, but she's patient. The
dollar bills lining the bar's walls compose a small fortune at the
end of a year. What do they do with them?
"We take them down and make a charitable contribution to the
Fishermen's Memorial or to go for maritime scholarships," she said.
"Does the bank accept the bills with all the writing on them?" a customer asks.
"Yes, they do," Smith said.
The curious relics tucked off in murky corners contain the history of
the building from when Charles Abbott started it up in 1957. Findlay
Abbott, who spent some of his youth sweeping the floor for his uncle,
points out paintings of four pirates Abbott commissioned, a famed
nude in the back, even the original cash register and a ship's cable
still on the wall. He was able to uncover an itemized list his uncle
created prior to 1960 that spelled out these assets.
A human skull and a foot hanging from the walls give rise to rumors
now and then that the place is haunted, the perfect backdrop for the
stormy sea shanty tales told there now and then.
"But I've never felt any spirits. I don't think the bar is haunted,"
bartender Smith said.
Time hasn't changed all that much from the days when the Dawg
provided one of the only public places to get out of the wind and
rain. Like the days when a young Hobo Jim entertained patrons at the
piano, musicians still come by and offer to play in exchange for beer.
The Dawg is really made up of three buildings. One was a cabin from
Bishop's Beach relocated to the Spit by Abbott to expand his bar. The
lighthouse was built onto it, providing a home for previous Salty Dawg owners.
The main section, established with its seven bar stools by original
owner Abbott, reputedly dates back to 1897 when the coal company used
it. If so, then its walls once held the Spit's lone caretaker,
Stephen Penberthy. He might even be considered the original Spit Rat.

.