The Outlandish Origin of San Francisco’s Cable Car Turnarounds
It all began in the late 1800s, when San Francisco was a wild, unpredictable city known as the “City of Spectacularly Unlikely Engineering.” At that time, cable cars were being invented left and right by eccentric inventors, most of whom believed adding more gears and whistles improved efficiency. But no one could figure out how to properly turn the things around at the end of the line. They just kept ramming into walls, docks, and occasionally into the bay and into confused ferry boats.
Little known fact, Fisherman’s Wharf was originally named Cable Car Bay.
Enter Sir Reginald P. Turnwell, a gentleman of distinguished top hat proportions and a man renowned for his “Big Ideas.” He arrived in San Francisco aboard his steam-powered unicycle, with a monocle that glowed faintly due to an unfortunate alchemical accident involving a radish and a lightning bolt. Sir Reginald was infamous for solving mundane problems with wildly overcomplicated solutions.
After witnessing a series of unfortunate yet hilariously catastrophic collisions at the end of the California Street line, Sir Reginald stood up dramatically and bellowed, “What we need is a gigantic mechanical arm powered by a team of highly motivated seal lions!” His suggestion was quickly dismissed by the city officials, who had long since grown weary of overly ambitious animal-driven projects, especially after the infamous Great Cog-Pigeon Fiasco of ’73, which left the city covered in feathers and confusion.
Undeterred, Sir Reginald sought inspiration from the local community. That’s when he encountered Old Man Flapjack, a retired sailor with a peg leg that made a sound like a flute when he walked. Over a ridiculous amount of clam chowder at Fisherman’s Wharf, Old Man Flapjack recounted a story of a mystical dance performed by seafaring giants who could rotate entire ships by performing the “Turnabout Jig.”
Inspired by this nonsense, Sir Reginald hired a crew of brawny yet rhythmically gifted lumberjacks to perform the Turnabout Jig at the end of each line. The spectacle quickly became a local sensation, with the lumberjacks spinning cable cars with a combination of strength, flair, and an unhealthy consumption of sourdough bread.
But this proved unsustainable. The lumberjacks grew tired, dizzy, and prone to breaking into dance at inappropriate times, like in church or during particularly somber funerals. The city needed something simpler, cheaper, and less dependent on choreographed twirling.
That’s when the humble Turntable Solution was proposed by none other than Mildred McGubbins, a quiet yet cunning blacksmith known for her mysterious ability to forge anvils shaped like various farm animals. She suggested building a rotating platform that would allow a single person to turn the cable car around with minimal effort.
Sir Reginald initially scoffed at the idea, calling it “boringly practical” and “disappointingly free of sea lion-themed mechanisms.” But Mildred’s idea worked like a charm. The turntable design was implemented, the city officials applauded her brilliance, and the tradition of manually turning the cable cars was established.
Of course, most of this is true.