Here’s the story of a place that got used up and spit out, the kind of American tale that doesn’t make the postcards.
Hunter’s Point Shipyard sits on the edge of the bay in southeast San Francisco, and by “sits,” I mean it’s been sitting there contaminated as hell since before my parents were born. This thing started in the 1860s when somebody decided building a drydock was a good idea. By 1903, Bethlehem Steel showed up and built another one, because apparently one wasn’t enough.
Then 1939 rolls around, and the Navy decides they want in. Full operation by ’41, right as the world goes to shit. They start tearing down hills, dumping the dirt into the bay, playing god with geography. And they kept doing it, kept filling in that bay with soil and waste and whatever else they felt like throwing in there, straight through the ’70s. Just kept pouring it in. And the people living around it? The community that had to breathe that air, drink that water? Nobody asked them shit.
Sure, the place fixed ships and submarines. That was the cover story. But here’s where it gets dark: this is where they loaded half the uranium-235 in the entire goddamn United States, worth $300 million then, $4 trillion now, onto the USS Indianapolis. July 15, 1945. The atomic bomb headed for Hiroshima. They wouldn’t even let the ship leave port the next morning until they got confirmation that the Trinity test went boom in New Mexico at dawn. Had to make sure this whole “splitting the atom” thing actually worked before they sent the big one out to sea.
After we dropped those bombs, after Bikini Atoll got turned into a radioactive nightmare in ’46, they brought all those contaminated ships back to Hunter’s Point. Set up the Naval Radiological Defense Laboratory in ’48 so some poor bastards could study what happens when you irradiate everything in sight. That operation ran until ’69. Meanwhile, the families living in the neighborhood, predominantly Black, predominantly poor, they’re just supposed to go about their lives while radioactive materials get studied a few blocks away. Nobody’s telling them what’s going on. Nobody’s monitoring their health. Nobody gives a shit.
The Navy shut it down in ’74. Then, in a move that should surprise absolutely no one, they leased it to Triple A Machine Shop in ’76. Ten years later, Triple A gets indicted and convicted for illegally dumping hazardous shit all over the place. The community’s been complaining about strange smells, about their kids getting sick, about the goddamn dust in the air. They’re ignored. Dismissed. Told they’re imagining things.
The Navy didn’t renew that lease, shocking, and ran some more repair jobs there until ’91. Finally closed for good in April ’94.
After that, artists moved in. Small businesses. A railroad museum. The cops. Everyone trying to make something work in this poisoned shell of a place. Then in 2005, the Navy says “Hey, uh, everyone needs to leave because we need to check if the sewers are radioactive.”
The residents who’ve been screaming about contamination for decades? Still not at the table.
The cleanup started in ’84 when someone finally did an assessment and discovered, surprise, the whole place was a toxic disaster. Oil ponds, industrial landfills, battery shops, electroplating facilities, tank farms, scrap yards, submarine areas. The bay itself. All of it contaminated. Made the Superfund list in ’89. By ’92, the Navy, the EPA, California, and the Water Board all signed an agreement that basically said “Yeah, we should probably clean this up at some point.”
Notice who’s not in that agreement? The people who actually live there. The community that’s been breathing this poison for generations. They don’t get a seat. They don’t get a voice. They get studied, surveyed, and ignored.
And now? Now the developers smell blood in the water. Million-dollar bay views. Luxury condos. “Waterfront living.” They’re lining up with their renderings and their financing, ready to build on top of a century’s worth of industrial poison, radioactive contamination, and God knows what else is buried in that fill.
The cancer? The asthma? The elevated disease rates in the community that’s been there all along? The families who’ve been raising these red flags for fifty years? Minor details. Inconvenient truths that get buried under marketing copy about “panoramic views” and “urban renewal.”
Because nothing says “dream home” quite like a foundation built on uranium, lead, PCBs, and decades of systematic indifference to the people who were powerless to stop it. But hey, you can see the Bay Bridge Bridge from your bedroom window, and the new residents will be the right kind of people with the right kind of money, so it’s probably fine.
Buildings without foundations will inevitably come down.
I can be fooled, but my kids won’t be…
either we will correct what’s wrong,
it will be corrected for us.
James Baldwin, Take This Hammer
The area of Hunters Point Shipyard where the 500 series buildings were located is of significance because the original RADLAB/NRDL facilities were located here. Of note is an anecdotal indication of a spill of Sr-90 (Strontium-90 is a radioactive isotope of strontium produced by nuclear fission, with a half-life of 28.8 years).
The 500 series buildings, that’s where they kept the really good stuff. That’s where RADLAB was, where the Naval Radiological Defense Laboratory did whatever the hell they did with radioactive materials for two decades.
And oh, by the way, there was a spill. Strontium-90. You know, just one of those things. Anecdotal, they call it. Like someone casually mentioning at a dinner party…
BESPECTACLED SCIENTIST
(nonchalant)
Oh yeah, we spilled some Sr-90 over there.
Strontium-90, is as awful as it sounds. James Bond villain shit, it’s what you get when you split atoms. Half-life of 28.8 years. Which means if it spilled in, say, 1962 (Dr. No), it’s still half as deadly today. Won’t be safe for your great-grandkids. But sure, let’s call it “anecdotal.” Let’s treat it like a rumor, like gossip, like something that may or may not have happened, instead of what it actually is: radioactive poison that seeps into bone marrow and never ever leaves.
But hey, it’s just an anecdote.
Seven stories of concrete and steel built in the early ’50s. This was the main event, the headquarters for the Naval Radiological Defense Laboratory. They moved in in ’55, stayed until ’69, doing whatever it is you do when your job is to figure out what radiation does to living things.
The entire building is classified as a “restricted area.” I love that. Not dangerous. Not contaminated. Restricted. Like it’s a members-only club.
Let me walk you through this architectural marvel, floor by floor:
Basement: Support facilities. Which is bureaucrat-speak for “the shit we don’t want to talk about.”
First Floor: Lobby, guard office,because you need guards when you’re playing with radioactive materials,equipment rooms, storage, laboratories. Standard shit.
Second Floor: Health Physics Division. Instrument repair and calibration. Because when you’re measuring radiation, you really want to make sure your equipment is accurate. Wouldn’t want any surprises.
Third Floor: Administration. The paper-pushers. The people who made sure all of this was properly documented and filed away where nobody would ever read it.
Fourth Floor: Nucleonics Division. That’s where the real science happened. Laboratories and offices where they studied the atom and all the fun ways you can split it apart.
Fifth Floor: Biological and Medical Sciences Division. Laboratories. Animal quarters. Think about that for a second. Animals living in a building full of radiation so scientists could study what happens to them. What their organs look like. How long they last.
Sixth Floor: Chemical Technology Division. More labs. More experiments.
Seventh Floor: Here’s the kicker, the only floor with windows. And what’s up there? The cafeteria and auditorium. The place where people ate their lunch, drank their coffee, maybe looked out at the bay and pretended they weren’t working six floors above animals dying in cages and God knows what else.
Only the seventh floor had windows? Everyone else worked in a sealed box. Make of that what you will.
Bay Fill Area. Love that term. “Fill.” Like they were filling a pothole, doing a little landscaping.
What they actually did was dump assorted shipyard waste into the bay. “Assorted.” That’s the word they use. Like a gift basket. A variety pack. Except instead of cheeses and crackers, it’s Radium-226 and Strontium-90 devices. Radioactive isotopes just tossed into the water like yesterday’s garbage.
And here’s the best part: this site was “potentially” used for disposal of waste from Operation Crossroads. Potentially. They’re not sure. Maybe they dumped contaminated material from those atomic bomb tests at Bikini Atoll into the San Francisco Bay, maybe they didn’t. Who’s keeping track? Who’s writing this stuff down?
So let’s be clear about what we’re talking about here: they took radioactive waste, the kind that stays deadly for centuries, and they just… filled in the bay with it. Extended the shoreline. Made more land. And then, decades later, when someone finally asks “Hey, what’s in that fill?”, the answer is essentially a shrug. “Assorted waste. Some radioactive devices. Maybe some contaminated ships from atomic bomb tests. We’re not really sure.”
That’s what’s under the ground. That’s what they built on. That’s what’s still there.
Building 704. Metal-sheathed shop building on the right there. Looks innocent enough.
But check a 1949 map and you’ll see it marked as “Radioactive Material Storage.” Just south of the building, they kept the hot stuff. The dangerous materials. The things you don’t want to be around.
And right next to it? Animal pens. Kennels.
Let that sink in. They stored radioactive materials directly adjacent to where they kept animals. Not an accident. Not poor planning. They knew what they were doing. Animals next to radiation. So they could study what happens. So they could watch.
And there in the background, you can see Sutro Tower. That iconic San Francisco landmark, visible from all over the city. Beautiful. Symbolic. The kind of thing that ends up on postcards.
Meanwhile, in the foreground, radioactive waste stored next to dog cages.
That’s the picture. That’s the contrast. That’s America.
Building 521. A power plant. Concrete. About 7,040 square feet. Pretty standard industrial structure.
Except for one little detail: this is one of two “suspected sites” where they burned fuel oil from Operation Crossroads target ships.
Let me translate that for you. Operation Crossroads, those atomic bomb tests at Bikini Atoll in 1946. They contaminated a bunch of ships with radiation, brought them back to Hunter’s Point, and then somebody had the brilliant idea to drain the fuel oil and burn it.
Burn it. Put radioactive fuel into a power plant and light it on fire. Send whatever was in that oil up into the air, into the atmosphere, over the neighborhood.
“Suspected site,” they call it. Like they’re not quite sure. Like maybe it happened, maybe it didn’t. Like there aren’t records. Like nobody was keeping track of where they burned contaminated fuel from ships that had been exposed to atomic weapons.
Three ships. Fuel oil. Burned right here. And the word they use is “suspected.”
That’s not uncertainty. That’s plausible deniability. That’s a paper trail with convenient gaps. That’s “we probably shouldn’t have written this down.”
Building 351, on the left. Built in 1945, reinforced concrete, three stories with a five-story tower. World War II vintage.
Look at what they crammed into this thing: electronics work, optical labs, Materials and Accounts, Technical Information, storerooms, Office Services, Thermal Branch, machine shop, Engineering Division, and a library. A library. Where you could check out books while people a few floors away were working with radioactive materials. Cozy.
Building 411, center. That big steel-framed structure with the saw-tooth roof. Two levels. This one’s special. They stored radioactive sources here. Just stored them. Like canned goods in a pantry. And right alongside that? A civilian cafeteria. Because nothing says “bon appĂ©tit” quite like eating lunch next to source storage. Also in this building: a radiography shop, shipfitters, boilermakers, ship repair. Everything you need under one convenient roof.
Building 366, on the right. Corrugated metal, 280 by 130 feet. This one reads like someone’s rĂ©sumĂ© that won’t quit. Instrument calibration, administrative offices, Applied Research, Technical Development, Radiological Safety, ironic, Management Planning, Nucleonics Division, Instruments Evaluation, general laboratories, Chemical Research, radiography shop, Boat Shop, Plastic Shop, Navy Project Officers, Management Engineering, Comptroller Department.
Basically, if it had to do with radiation, it happened in this building.
And then, later 29 artists from The Point Artists‘ colony moved in.
Twenty-nine artists. Working, creating, breathing the air in a building that had housed decades of nuclear research. Living the dream in a corrugated metal box that used to calibrate radiation instruments.
That’s not irony. That’s not poetic. That’s just what happens when nobody tells you the truth about where you’re setting up your studio.
Building A. One story, brick, shaped like a rectangle with a rounded end. Kind of looks like a church apse, if you’re feeling poetic. Which you shouldn’t be.
It’s 96 by 56 feet, sitting right there north of Drydock 3, about midway along.
Now, Drydock 3, that’s where they decontaminated the Operation Crossroads ships. The ones that got hit with atomic bombs at Bikini Atoll. They’d bring these radioactive vessels in, scrub them down, wash off the contamination.
And where did all that water go?
Through a channel. A straight line running north from the drydock, through this pumphouse, Building A, straight into the Bay. Into the San Francisco Bay.
Let me say that again: contaminated water from atomic bomb-exposed ships flowed through this building directly into the bay. The same bay where people fish. Where kids play. Where the ecosystem is supposed to, you know, exist.
They just pumped it right in. For years. A straight shot from radioactive ship to open water.
But sure, it’s just a brick building. Shaped like a church. Or maybe a schoolhouse.
.
Building 253. Six stories, concrete frame, glass curtain walls. Built between 1944 and ’47, right when we were figuring out all the exciting new ways to kill each other.
There’s a big gantry crane for hauling equipment up to the upper floors. And a periscope tower shooting up from the roof. Because when you’re building a industrial facility for nuclear work, why not add a little submarine warfare aesthetic?
This one’s attached to Building 211, and it’s where they did Machinery and Electrical Test and Repair. Sounds innocent enough. Also stored Low Level Radioactive Waste. Less innocent.
Inside, they did radiography through 1974, shooting X-rays through metal to look for defects. Also instrument calibration. Making sure all those radiation detectors were nice and accurate.
Then there’s the Gauge Shop. “Probable location of radium paint activities,” they say. Probable. They’re pretty sure this is where they painted instruments with radium so they’d glow in the dark. Radium. The stuff that killed the factory girls in the 1920s, the ones who licked their paintbrushes to get a fine point. Turns out radium eats your bones from the inside. But sure, let’s paint some gauges with it.
Also in this building: Electronics Shop, Optical Shop, Ordnance Shop, Weapons Shop, Electrical Shop. And…Â storage for equipment from Operation Crossroads ships.
Equipment. From ships exposed to atomic weapons. Just stored in a building with windows where regular people worked regular jobs.
CHARLEY MALLOY
Hey, where’d you put that wrench?
JOHNNY FRIENDLY
In Building 253, next to the radioactive equipment from Bikini Atoll.
CHARLEY MALLOY
Cool, thanks.
Just another day at the office.
Building 214, on the left. Standard-issue World War II wooden administration building. Built from cookie-cutter Bureau of Yards and Docks plans. Nothing special. Nothing unique. The kind of thing they stamped out by the hundreds.
Inside: Combat Weapons Systems Office. Administrative offices. Accounting and Bond Office. All very normal, very bureaucratic. And then—casually tucked in there, the NRDL Health Physics counting room. Where they counted radiation. Measured exposure. Kept track of who got dosed and by how much.
But look at those views. Look at them. The city. The Bay Bridge. Absolutely spectacular. Million-dollar panoramas. The kind of vista that real estate agents lose their minds over.
So picture this: you’re sitting in your office in Building 214, maybe you’re doing accounting, maybe you’re counting radioactive particles, and out your window is one of the most beautiful cityscapes in America. The bridge. The water. The fog rolling in. Postcard perfect.
And right below you, in the ground, in the buildings around you, in the bay itself, radiation. Contamination. Decades of radioactive waste.
That’s the thing about Hunter’s Point. The views never changed. They were always gorgeous. Always sellable.
It’s everything underneath that’s poison
Building 205. Single-story, L-shaped, brick. 211 by 61 feet. They tacked on two additions during World War II because apparently the original wasn’t quite big enough for what they had in mind.
This building houses the pumping machinery for Drydock 2.
Drydock 2. That’s the other one they used for Operation Crossroads ship decontamination. Same deal as Drydock 3. Bring in the ships exposed to atomic bombs, wash them down, pump all that contaminated water through this building and out into the bay.
Just pumps. Just machinery. Just doing their job, moving radioactive wastewater from point A to point B. Nothing personal. Nothing sinister. Just infrastructure.
And in the background there, you can see Building 231. The Inside Machinists Shop and Ship Repair Shop. Where regular guys showed up with their lunch pails and did regular shipyard work. Welding, grinding, cutting metal. Breathing the air. Getting the job done.
Right next door to the building pumping contaminated water into the San Francisco Bay.
Nobody told them. Or if they did, nobody made it sound like a big deal. Just part of the scenery. Just another building. Just another pump house.
Just business as usual.
The Gun Mole Pier. Large flat area, also called the re-gunning pier. There’s a 450-ton gantry crane sitting there, originally used to yank gun turrets off warships. That’s the landmark. That’s what you notice.
But here’s what actually happened on this pier:
NRDL conducted a “Radioactive pavement decontamination study.” Think about that phrase. They contaminated the pavement with radiation, then studied how to clean it up. Like a kid making a mess just to practice cleaning it.
They did decontamination studies on NRDL Experimental Barges. More experiments. More contamination. More “let’s see what happens.”
Oh, and they decontaminated a B-17 aircraft. A contaminated B-17. Because apparently at some point they flew a bomber through radioactive fallout and brought it here to scrub it down.
Then there’s the USS Independence. World War II aircraft carrier. One of the six target ships at Bikini Atoll, meaning they parked it near atomic bombs and detonated them to see what would happen to a ship. Brought her back here, berthed her right at this pier.
And this site, this pier, became a loading point for radioactive waste. They loaded contaminated materials here. Shipped them out. Or maybe just dumped them. Who knows?
Who’s keeping track?
The United States Nuclear Regulatory Commission has a statement about all this. I’m sure it’s very official. Very measured. Very careful with its language.
And if you really want to understand what happened here, not the sanitized version, not the bureaucratic double-speak, but the actual human cost, read Lindsey Dillon’s work on the site and the surrounding community. She did the research. She talked to the people. She tells the truth.
Because this isn’t just about contaminated ships and radioactive pavement. It’s about the community that lived next to all of this. The people who breathed this air. The families who raised their kids here while the Navy played with atomic materials on a pier less than a mile away.
But sure, it’s a nice pier. Great crane.
Makes a great photograph.