Riverboat Pirates

A short story by Dave Howe         July 14, 2026

It was 1969. I was out of the Army and back in college. Our fraternity adviser called us together. Mr. Wilkins was a big shot with the Sacramento Yacht Club. It was Friday afternoon.

“Fellas, I need your help,” he said. “You ever heard of the Delta King riverboat?”

Blank stares all around the room. Nobody answered.

Wilkins shook his head. “Unbelievable. Back in the 1930s, she and her sister ship were the grandest steam boats on the West Coast. Huge paddle wheelers carrying passengers between Sacramento and San Francisco every night. Now? The Delta King’s been wasting away in the port of Stockton for the last ten years, rotting in the mud.”

He leaned forward against the table, his eyes locking onto us. “We just bought her. We’re bringing her home to Sacramento tomorrow night, but we have to move fast before the Stockton historical society tries to block the transit. We need a crew. You boys are invited.”

I heard myself say it before I thought about it. “I’m in.”

Right at nine o’clock Saturday night, four cars pulled up in front of the frat house. Twelve of us piled in, ready for action. I rode with Mr. Wilkins in his Lincoln Continental. Frank, our freshman pledge, rode with us. We arrived in Stockton a little before eleven. It was pitch dark.

The chain link fence was open and Mr. Wilkins walked right through. “You boys spread out and get ready to untie the boat when I give the signal,” he said. “Throw the lines onto the boat and get yourselves aboard as fast as you can. Keep the noise down.”

We gazed at a monster of a boat. It was longer than a football field and four stories high. The boat was painted white and in the back was a giant red paddle wheel. We spread out along the dock, one of us every 25 yards or so. I was at the bow.

Out of the mist came two tug boats. No lights. They maneuvered onto each end of the boat and attached heavy duty lines.

Mr. Wilkins flashed a light, the signal. I rushed to untie my dock line and jumped aboard just as the boat drifted off the dock.

Once on board I traced the walkway along the waterline until I got to the grand entrance. My flashlight beam caught dust motes dancing over the rotting red carpet. Even stripped down and dark, the brass fittings and cavernous ceiling felt more like a grand hotel than a riverboat.

I could feel the boat swing around and start moving down the San Joaquin River, away from the port. Finding a side door I stepped outside and there was most of the team watching Stockton fade into the distance. One tug was in front and one was behind.

The tugs were shining search lights towards the shore. They were following the deep water canal heading straight west.

Frank asked Mr. Wilkins “Why are we heading west? Sacramento is north.”

“We have to follow the rivers. Right now we’re heading west down the San Joaquin deep water channel. We’ll round the bend past Antioch and hook right into the mouth of the Sacramento.”

The floorboards groaned under our feet as the massive hull began to drift sideways out of the channel. Just then, Mr. Wilkins’ walkie-talkie squelched. A voice crackled through the static. “Wilkins! Get some guys up to the pilothouse to help Matt. Now!”

Frank and I followed Mr. Wilkins upstairs to the pilothouse. There we met Matt. “I’m the pilot assigned to the boat,” he said. He was struggling with the wheel. “I can’t get control of the boat, the rudders aren’t responding. If we can’t control ourselves we’ll end up in the mud.”

“What do you want us to do?” I asked.

“Take the walkie-talkie and get to the stern. Tell me if the rudders are actually moving. I’m spinning the wheel here and getting zero resistance.”

I grabbed the walkie-talkie from Mr. Wilkins and took off running. Frank was hot on my heels. As we ran I bumped into Martin, an engineering major. “Come with us,” I shouted as we ran by.

In the back of the paddlewheel there were six rudders, spread across the stern. “I can see the rudders move from side to side,” I radioed. “I see the problem. The paddlewheel is stuck and just dragging through the water. It is causing so much turbulence the rudders can’t get a bite on the water.”

“We disconnected the paddlewheel from the steam engine so it should be freewheeling,” Matt replied.

Martin piped up. “I’ll go see if I can figure it out.”

I followed him to the engine room. We followed the linkage from the massive steam engine to the paddle wheel crank. Everything was disconnected, the paddle wheel should be free to turn. As the big boat moved forward the paddlewheel was holding us back.

I spotted a rope tied around one of the paddlewheel blades and back to the boat. “I think this is the problem,” I exclaimed.

Martin wedged his knife against the taut hemp line. With a sharp crack, the fibers parted under the strain. The massive steel crank shuddered, groaned, and then slowly began to roll. As the wheel turned freely the water smoothed out and the rudders bit into the current.

The walkie-talkie squelched. “That did it. She’s responding to the rudder now.”

We moved along at about six knots, continuing west in the deep water channel on the San Joaquin River. We passed the mouth of the Mokelumne River where the channel widened. As soon as we went under the Antioch bridge we turned right up the Sacramento River.

By dawn Rio Vista drifted past. I went back to the pilothouse with Frank. Frank panicked. “We just missed  our turn.”

I looked out and saw the river fork into two branches. “How do you know?” I asked Frank.

“Dad used to take me fishing here. The first opening takes us up toward Walnut Grove, but we’re swinging wide into the second channel.”

Matt smiled. “We’re taking a short cut through Steamboat Slough. It’s the traditional way between Sacramento and San Francisco.”

Massive valley oaks leaned low over the narrow slough, their tangled branches nearly scraping our upper decks as the tugs lined us up. We plowed on and after another hour we reached the Steamboat Slough Bridge. The bridge opened with a groan and we squeezed under. Once under the bridge we turned left, up the Sacramento.

The diesel engines of the tugs roared louder, their deep thrum vibrating through our hull as they fought the heavy spring current of the main river.

By eleven o’clock we had crossed under three more bridges and could see the Golden Tower Bridge in Sacramento. As the bridge raised people along both banks began to cheer. A big sign said, The Riverboat’s Coming.

FAST FORWARD

        Today the Delta King, fully restored, sits proudly at the Sacramento docks, thanks, in part, to the Riverboat Pirates of Phi Kappa Tau fraternity.