John Byrne Barry Brings Sausalito History to Life
Our long-standing tradition of giving a member the mic before our keynote speaker helps us get to know what our colleagues are working on. Our 5+5+5 guidelines (5 minutes of backstory, 5 minutes to read, and 5 minutes of Q&A) help emerging writers polish their professional skills.
Celebrating California Writers Week, we are thrilled to feature a member who writes about California History!
John Byrne Barry will be in the Member Spotlight before our October speaker, Isidra Mencos. Get tickets here.
It’s the late 1970s, and the “houseboat wars” erupt in Sausalito on the site of Marinship, the abandoned World War 2 shipyard. Hippies and squatters living on houseboats in a ramshackle shantytown on the waterfront face off against city leaders and developers who want to clear them out and build a luxury harbor there. When the police try to evict and arrest the houseboaters, they band together and fight back with street theater, civil disobedience, and monkeywrenching — in front of TV cameras. And then someone got stabbed.
In 2023, author/playwright John Byrne Barry wrote and directed a play — “Sausalypso Houseboat Wars Murder Mystery” — chronicling these events, and has adapted the play into a novel.
It’s fiction, but based on true events.
NOTE: John Byrne Barry is a dual member with the Marin Branch of the CWC. A multitalented and enthusiastic longtime member, he also manages the statewide website! Thank you and welcome John!
John Byrne Barry is a writer, designer, actor, director, and crossing guard. He is author of three plays, and four novels, including When I Killed My Father: An Assisted Suicide Family Thriller, Wasted: Murder in the Recycle Berkeley Yard, and Bones in the Wash: Politics is Tough. Family is Tougher.
You can find out more at johnbyrnebarry.com.
Book Excerpt
Sausalito, California
Late 1970s
1. The Desperate Developer Pressures the Crusading Police Chief
SUNDAY
2 pm • The Bar Whose Name We Dare Not Speak
[TIN ALLEY]
You might remember the Sausalito “houseboat wars” from the newspapers and TV. Or heard stories from people who were there.
As for the murder, which went down right under my nose, well, everyone has their take on that.
But do you want to know the true story? Do you?
OK, then.
This is what really happened.
—
Fenton Felton slaps his palm on the tile table and my coffee mug jumps, splashing coffee on his ring finger, where there is no ring, only a band of white skin where the ring used to be.
“You’re not listening,” he roars. “Remove those damn deadbeat houseboat squatters from my harbor. Now!”
He’s in my face, and I back away, flap the air with my hand. God, does he know how gross he smells?
“You’ve been through an ugly divorce, haven’t you?” I hide behind my mug, extend a napkin to him, then sip what’s left of my coffee. He takes the napkin with a glare. Wipes his hand, then the table.
“Is there any other kind?” he snarls. “How do you know about that?” Most people appreciate that I ask questions, but not Fenton Felton.
“Sausalito is a small town,” I say. “Also, I talk to Alice.” His ex.
“Don’t believe a word she says.”
“You mean about how you cheated on her with a waitress half your age?” The music thumping through the speakers is loud so I have to raise my voice or lean closer. I choose to speak louder.
“Never happened,” he says.
“A waitress at this very establishment —”
“We were talking,” he says, “about the eviction raid you’re about to execute. That is, if you want to continue as police chief.”
He thrusts his face back into mine, and I pull away again. Slowly, my eyes on his. He wants me to fear him, but I won’t let that happen.
We’re in the window alcove of the Dare Not, Mayor Sally Cal’s establishment, the closest I have to a home away from home. The window opens to the sidewalk, so we can see passersby and they can see us. Not bad for the police chief to be seen talking with Fenton Felton, given his recent tirades against me. I was tempted to show up in civilian garb, because it’s Sunday, but I’m in uniform. This is duty, not pleasure. My pants feel tight today. I’d better lay off the pastries.
When Fenton demanded a meeting about the evictions, I invited him to the police station. He countered with his office. We settled on the Dare Not, which surprised me. I figured he would hate this place, because of the hippies and the groovy, laid-back vibes. But this is where he met Brenda, a waitress here, so what do I know? I don’t see Brenda here today.
The Dare Not is a quirky mix of café and bar — you can order coffee and breakfast in the morning and booze anytime. They offer a pizza special every night. There’s beer and wine on tap. It’s early afternoon and the brunch crowd is thinning.
“We’re putting together a plan for the evictions,” I say, my voice firm.
“Who needs a plan?” he says. “Evict them all now. What are you afraid of, a bunch of no-good hippies and pretend pirates?” He signals for another drink. “I never supported you for police chief. You fancy yourself some kind of peacemaker.” He spits that word out with contempt.
“I was hired,” I say, calmer than I feel, “because the city leaders of Sausalito support my non-confrontational approach to policing. Which means communicating with —”
“No, you were hired because you’re a woman.”
I lean back in my chair and chuckle. “For centuries,” I say, folding my hands on the table, “women were not hired for jobs like mine because they were women. But Sally Cal is mayor now and it’s a new day in Sausalito. I’ve told the Aquarius Harbor residents that they have to get legal and pay rent or leave and —”
“No, no, no,” he says. “It’s too late for that. I’ve got a dock to build. They can’t live there anymore, rent or no rent. You have to clear out Gate 9. Now!”
Jenna, the waitress this afternoon, is cheery but cool when she arrives with Fenton Felton’s martini. No smile. I admire the effortless way she balances her plates and glasses and bottles. Like she can do it on a tightwire and not drop anything.
When I was hired as a police officer here, four-plus years ago, it was because I was a woman. The first and only woman officer in Sausalito. You can look it up. Sally Cal, who was a city council member at the time, encouraged me to apply.
I met Sally decades ago when I ran away at fifteen from my alcohol-addled mother, and worked in her brothel on Nob Hill in San Francisco. I am forever grateful that she never pressured me to be a working girl. I was not pretty, so it was probably a business decision, but I also think she understood me more than I did. I changed sheets, cleaned toilets, and lived in a cramped, but comfortable room in one of the three turrets of the grand house. Up twelve circular stairs wrapped inside a brick wall.
In my twenties, I was a police officer in the Army, during Korea, and I learned to mediate dicey disputes, not just make arrests. Later, I was a trainer at the Presidio Army Post on the other side of the Golden Gate Bridge..
I thought Sausalito was a peaceful and prosperous suburb, like a sleepy Greek island, and I worried the job might be boring. I was aware of the problems at Aquarius Harbor and knew city leaders had made multiple attempts to clean up and clear out the houseboaters. The conflict simmered for years, but when Fenton Felton bought the property, with the intention of developing a luxury harbor and condo complex, it erupted into a boiling inferno.
That was a year ago, shortly after I became chief.
Now I wish the job was boring.
Between Fenton Felton and his associates, Sally Cal and her coterie, and the motley collection of artists, rebels, and eccentrics in the houseboat harbors, sometimes I feel like I’m the only reasonable and normal person in town, and I’m not that normal.
“The houseboat tenants are sticking together,” I say. “We don’t have the manpower to evict them all at once, and we’ll have an insurrection if —”
“Not my problem. Arrest them all. Sink their damn boats. Whatever it takes.” He laughs, a deep, loud baritone laugh, like a maniacal cartoon villain, and everyone in the Dare Not turns in our direction.
Fenton Felton is short, with broad shoulders and long arms, and he dresses in black and white, like a penguin, sometimes with a black bowtie, cape, and top hat. According to Alice, he was a magician in his younger years, performing for children’s birthday parties, and that’s where his get up comes from. Today he’s left his tie, cape, and hat at home and the top two buttons of his white shirt are open.
“You must know people call you ‘Dastardly Whiplash,’” I say. “That must sting.”
“Because I cackle with glee when I crush my opponents?”
He let loose another demonic laugh. Like he can’t help it.
He’s estranged from both his children. His son disappeared years ago, and his daughter fled across the country for college. She’s back in town now, but refuses to see her father, or so says Alice.
Whenever I get angry or impatient with him, I remind myself I would never want to be him.
“I can’t help how I laugh,” he says. “I was born this way. I’m not a bad guy, I’m misunderstood. Alice has extorted more in alimony than I make and —” He stops and sputters. “It’s so unfair.”
The front door opens and here comes Huck, Fenton’s sidekick.
He’s a large man wearing a gray suit and a Homburg hat with a shiny silver ribbon around it. He hasn’t shaved and the gray stubble on his chin looks like sandpaper.
Fenton Felton gestures from Huck to me. “I believe you’ve met my partner, Huck Henchman? I call him ‘Hic.’”
I shake his meaty hand. “I thought your nickname was Snivel. Or Sniffle?”
“It was,” he says, and sniffles twice. “But then,” and here he stops, twirls his arm in a theatrical flourish, and hiccups violently, knocking himself onto his knees. He gets up as if nothing has happened. He’s more graceful than you’d think for such a burly man.
I nod my head. “I see.”
When Fenton puts his arm around Hic’s shoulders, he squirms away. “Hic is a virtuoso at permits, partnerships, and shell companies,” Fenton says. “Bending the rules without breaking them. What he specializes in breaking,” and here he pauses to lock eyes with me, “is people who are un-co-op-er-a-tive.” He lingers over each syllable and cackles again.
“Yes,” Hic says, “but I learned it all from the brilliant Fenton Felton.” Hic flexes a wooden ruler and sniffles, then almost convulses with an earthquake of a hiccup.
I ask Hic about his wife and family, but Fenton cuts that short.
“Hic is also accomplished,” he says, “at digging up incriminating information about the personal lives of public servants who are un-co-op-er-a-tive. And leveraging that information as necessary. You are an at-will employee of the city.”
Hic bends the ruler so fiercely, it snaps. A jagged piece skitters along the floor, and Jenna, holding a pile of plates above her head, kicks it into the corner.
“You’re going to expose my personal life?” I laugh. “I don’t have a personal life to expose. Unlike you, who —” I give him a silent stare. “Let’s just say, I dig too, like Hic, and I’ve learned a few things.”
“Are you threatening me?” he says.
“I believe it’s you threatening me,” I say. “But you’re probably bluffing.” I fold my hands on the table again and speak calmly. “I will use my professional judgment to determine how best to enforce the law.”
“One more thing, Chief,” he says, handing me a photo of a lovely young blonde. “My daughter Dawn has gotten herself mixed up with those damn hippies down at Gate 9. Follow her and report back to me.”
I push away the photo. “With all due respect sir, chasing after your wayward daughter is not in my job description.”
John’s newsletters are uniquely professional, engaging, and warm, and offer lots of excerpts! Sign up at his website, johnbyrnebarry.com.
Meet John when he opens for Isidra Mencos on Unconventional Book Launches.

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