The truth behind the tales people tell about Toronto.

In 1964, when Raymond Moriyama received the commission to design what was then known as the Centennial Museum of Science and Technology, the young architect told the Star, “I think it’s important to give every building the personal touch.”

When it came to the first big project of his fledgling career, he meant this literally. Rumour has it that he actually built his name into the museum’s roof.

At the time, Moriyama’s star was still rising. He had already created buzz with his design for the Japanese Canadian Cultural Centre on Wynford Drive.

Prior to the cultural centre, Moriyama’s most recognized public commission had been the Garden Pavilion at Edwards Gardens. The Centennial Museum of Science and Technology—which we now know as the Ontario Science Centre—would turn out to be a milestone in his career. Soon the architect would be receiving accolades for the designs of many now-iconic structures around the city, the country, and, eventually, the globe.

Perched atop the Don Valley, the Science Centre consists of three linked structures. Moriyama’s design envisioned patrons entering a grand temple-like hall, crossing a 70-metre, glass-enclosed bridge connected to a trillium-inspired Tower Building. From there, patrons would descend to the Valley Building on a series of escalators.

In September 1969, after a delay of two years, the Science Centre opened to rave reviews. At the same time, word began to spread that Moriyama had surreptitiously imprinted his name on the roof of the Valley Building. At roof level, however, nothing was visible. Had Moriyama included his name in some inconspicuous location?

Nothing could have been further from the truth.

Moriyama had actually incorporated the four Hiragana characters of his surname into the roof surface itself. He accomplished this by using various hues of roofing aggregate.

Aerial photograph of Valley Building in 1970 showing Raymond Moriyama’s original roof design. Image courtesy of the City of Toronto Archives.

Like crop circles, the arrangement was only visible from the air, or from the rim of the valley. You can see it in the image above. (The characters are written abstractly, in the lighter areas.)

In an email to Torontoist, the self-effacing Moriyama said the goal of the clandestine undertaking was to prove it was possible to break up the monotony of a flat roof without additional spending. The design was reminiscent of Bonseki, the Japanese art of creating miniature landscapes using sand and rocks. The unique creation was also a nod to the ancient Tibetan art of sand painting.

Aside from enhancing the visual aspect of an otherwise plain roof, Moriyama told us he also wanted to rouse the curiosity of those who would eventually discover this enigma.

“My intention was to…provoke a question or two. What does it mean? Who was the culprit?”

Shown a Google Earth image of the rooftop today, the renowned architect was disappointed to discover alterations to his original design have erased all traces of the Hiragana characters.

Alterations to other parts of the Valley Building—including the addition of unsightly steel cladding—go a long way toward destroying Moriyama’s overall vision for the squat building.

“Some parts of the roof now look bland, even boring,” Moriyama wrote.

Aerial photos show the rooftop design lasting until around 1988. After this it fades considerably. Between 1990 and 1991 it vanished completely. Of the numerous buildings Moriyama later designed, the Science Centre rooftop was the only structure on which he accomplished this unique feat.

Asked about the one-of-a-kind detail, Science Centre director of communications Anna Relyea told Torontoist, “The markings…are long gone, having not been repeated when the roof was redone.”

Additional material from the November 26, 1964 edition of the Toronto Star.

Photo by Edward Brown/Torontoist.

If your exposure to Toronto graffiti is limited to walls in Kensington Market or rooftops along Queen Street West, Kathy Toth’s new photo collection, Hidden Toronto, will be an eye opener. The book, released earlier this month, nicely documents graffiti’s transformation from a predominantly downtown phenomenon into a citywide one.

Hidden in concrete spillways, colossal drainage basins, and other unexplored locations, the compendium reveals the fact that the resilient art form has gained a strong toehold in suburban Toronto.

We met up with Toth along a busy rail corridor in the city’s north end, where we explored a six-metre-tall, graffiti-strewn sound barrier.

Out here on the fringes, Toth, who works by day as a commercial photographer, is in her element. A former graff writer herself, she remains ever vigilant, simultaneously scanning the tracks for approaching freight trains while commenting on the newest addition to the impromptu graffiti gallery parallel to the tracks.

Periodically, she interrupts herself to capture an image with her ever-present camera.

The notion of making something like Hidden Toronto came to Toth around the time Mayor Rob Ford, a vocal graffiti opponent, took office. At the time, Toth was beginning to notice graffiti spreading into previously unblemished regions of the city. Venturing to the suburbs, she witnessed the expansion firsthand.

Hidden Toronto‘s cover image.

Toth attributes some the spread of graffiti in Toronto to Ford’s crackdown, which has resulted in unprecedented numbers of tags being targeted by City inspectors. The last thing graff writers want is their work buffed. With the City labouring to paint over pieces as quickly as they appear, it stands to reason that writers are seeking out remote locations to ensure their work’s longevity.

These new locations are well off the beaten path. They’re deep in—and in some cases under—the suburban landscape. During her exploration, Toth discovered a series of monstrous drainage basins decked out with graffiti.

Toth believes City Hall’s strategy backfired. Like a classic game of Whack-a-Mole, for every piece of graff City workers buffed, several more sprung up, many in the suburbs.

Traipsing around out-of-the-way pockets of the City, Toth informed graffiti writers of her intention to put together a visual record of their work’s creeping tendrils. The writers’ response? Why bother? Everyone knows these locations already.

True enough for graffiti writers. The general public, meanwhile, has no idea how far afield the graffiti community had migrated. (Toth chose not to identify the majority of locations depicted in Hidden Toronto.)

As a result of Toth’s efforts, the book is a stylized collection of images boasting a level of quality that online graffiti photos can’t match. The scale and magnitude depicted in her work is remarkable. A recurring water theme gives many photographs an inexplicably human quality. And, intentionally or not, Hidden Toronto also depicts some truly remarkable examples of municipal infrastructure, many of which the average person would otherwise never encounter.

Thanks to Toth, now they will.

Photographs from Kathy Toth’s Hidden Toronto.

The truth behind the tales people tell about Toronto.

Photo by photocrastinating, from the Torontoist Flickr Pool.

More often than not, when youth are the perpetrators of crimes and misdemeanors, a hue and cry goes up demanding curfew laws. Proponents argue a citywide curfew would prevent young people from getting into mischief at all hours. Opponents claim curfews cast upstanding young citizens in the same light as ne’er-do-wells.

Although no city bylaw exists, both sides may be surprised to learn Toronto police already routinely enforce curfew laws. Yes: they’re already on the books.

Curfews have always been contentious. Toronto has been struggling with the issue for more than a century.

Local councils believed nine o’clock was an appropriate time to clear the streets of children. In 1894, city fathers in Toronto Junction passed a bylaw requiring those 12 and younger to be home no later than then. Firehouses announced the start of curfew by ringing tower bells. The bells pealed again at seven the next morning, lifting the nightly lockdown.

The practice of ringing bells to commence curfew wasn’t unique to Toronto, though. In fact, curfew bells date back to the middle ages.

Torontoist was unable to verify either the effectiveness of the Toronto Junction bylaw or how long it remained on the books.

With juvenile delinquency on the rise in the 1960s, the idea of a curfew was once again in vogue. In one instance, former mayor and city councilor Allan Lamport suggested imposing one in the Yorkville area, which at that point in time was a counterculural enclave. In a 1967 Toronto Star article Lamport described Yorkville as “A haven for criminals and undesirables.”

In Lamport’s view, an eight o’clock curfew for youth would have shielded teenagers from the influence of pot-smoking hippies. The recommendation went nowhere.

An inordinate number of gun crimes in 2005, plus last year’s brazen shooting on Danzig Street reignited the curfew issue. Councillor Giorgio Mammoliti (Ward 7, York West) continues to be a curfew proponent.

Claire McWatt, chair of Toronto Youth Cabinet, said her organization was unaware curfew legislation was currently in place in Toronto. McWatt said the idea “seems like an archaic solution to a bigger problem,” and would do “nothing to protect youth and enrich communities.”

If there’s no curfew bylaw in Toronto, what legislation are police enforcing when officers stop and apprehend curfew violators?

Section 79(5) of Ontario’s Child and Family Services Act states that youth 16 and under are prevented from loitering in public places and places of entertainment between midnight and six in the morning, if unaccompanied by a parent or an authorized person 18 years or older.

So if you’re out after midnight and under 16 without adult supervision, and you happen to bump into Toronto’s finest, the curfew bell tolls for you.

Additional material from the Toronto Star, September 5, 1894 and August 4, 1967.

The truth behind the tales people tell about Toronto.

Rosalia Bambo and son, Santiago, observing the whale vertebra at the ROM. The bone was unearthed in 1988 during construction of Harbourfront LRT.

Prior to breaking ground for the new Harbourfront LRT in 1987, construction crews were told to keep an eye open for historical artifacts unearthed while digging into a landfill that a century earlier had been under water. The discovery of centuries-old military relics or First Nations artifacts was a real possibility.

Imagine backhoe operator Jose Resendes’s surprise when he spotted what at first was assumed to be an 11,000-year-old whale vertebra protruding from fill in the bucket of his machine. The remains of a saltwater mammal buried in the freshwater sediments of Lake Ontario was a geological game changer.

Or was it?

This was not the first time TTC construction crews had unearthed an antediluvian relic, either. Twelve years earlier, nearly to the day, crews excavating the future site of Islington Station dug up the 12,000-year-old fossilized remains of an undiscovered species belonging to the genus Rangifer.

If whales had inhabited the waters off Toronto’s shoreline as Resendes’s find appeared to indicate, portions of North America’s glacial history needed tweaking.

Until the Queen’s Quay whale bone appeared in the sediment, it was assumed the saltwater shoreline of the ancient Champlain Sea, a temporary Atlantic Ocean inlet caused by the weight of retreating glaciers, reached its westerly limit around Brockville, Ontario.

The brownish-white whale vertebra weighing approximately 4.5 kilograms, along with soil samples from the former lakebed, was transported to the Royal Ontario Museum for further analysis.

For a brief time the story had a global audience. The Los Angeles Times ran a piece under the headline “Bone discovery could have whale of impact.” Immediately following the initial media reports, however, the Toronto Star was contacted by an Orillia historian, Allan Ironside. Ironside claimed the prehistoric whale bone was actually part of a display from a zoological garden once located in the vicinity of the present day Fairmount Royal York Hotel. Ironside theorized that after the whale became too degraded for display purposes, portions were disposed of in the lake.

Plausible, yes. Scientifically sound? Not really.

It was true, in the 1880s former city alderman and entrepreneur Harry Piper operated a zoo at that location and for a time displayed a dead whale for the public’s enjoyment.

While ROM paleontologist Kevin Seymour was hard at work unraveling the truth behind the find, armchair historians quickly latched on to Ironside’s speculation. A year later when Seymour published his findings, Ironside’s theory explaining the vertebra’s origin had become firmly entrenched in the city’s psyche.

A replica of the Queen’s Quay whale vertebra held in storage at the Royal Ontario Museum.

Seymour’s research, including carbon dating and pollen analysis, proved equivocally the bone was neither prehistoric nor part of a local late-nineteenth-century menagerie. DNA testing revealed the bone belonged to a killer whale. Orcas generally grow to six to eight metres, nowhere near the 16-20 metre leviathan reportedly displayed by Piper. Pollen analysis dated the find to the 1840s, coincidentally around the same time as Piper’s birth.

To this day Ironside’s theory continues to overshadow the archaeological facts about the bone. We may never know why the historian, now deceased, so quickly concluded the vertebra had once belonged to Piper’s whale.

Toronto-based documentary filmmaker Peter Lynch deserves the final word regarding this murky urban legend. Researching the vertebra’s origin, Lynch nearly became as obsessed with the Queen’s Quay bone as Melville’s Captain Ahab did in pursuit of Moby Dick.

Scouring North America for clues, Lynch’s exhaustive quest is documented in A Whale of a Tale.

After investigating the subject baleen to fluke, the award-winning director concluded the specimen now on permanent display at the ROM Crystal was likely a discarded souvenir tossed into the harbour nearly two centuries ago for reasons unknown.

Additional material from Rotunda (Volume 22, no. 1)

A warning sign on the gate in the driveway indicating the presence of police dogs doesn’t quite provide a complete picture of what goes on inside the squat, steel-clad Toronto Police Service building at the bottom of Beechwood Drive in the Don Valley.

Even inside, it’s easy to mistake the easygoing staff, inquisitive barking, and constant doggie praise as typical fare for any dog kennel.

Police-issued dog collars, well-used bite suits, and safes containing narcotics, explosives, and other nefarious items tell another story. There’s nothing typical about Toronto’s Police Dog Services compound—not when life-and-death loyalties are at stake.

44 Beechwood Drive serves two purposes: it is both a training facility for elite service dogs and a police station from which TPS dispatches dogs and handlers.

Police Dog Services falls under the same administrative umbrella as the mounted unit. Established in 1989, the dog squad was originally located in a residential neighbourhood overlooking Scarborough Bluffs. As the number of dogs grew, so did noise levels. To avoid finding itself in the doghouse with neighbours, the canine unit moved to its current secluded location, sandwiched between the Don Valley Parkway and the Don River.

The six-acre facility has space for twenty-one dogs and handlers. Canine quarters can get loud, especially when lead trainer Sergeant Paul Caissie, or another handler, appears. Talk about dogged determination: when the dogs realize they’re being pressed into service, a yelping frenzy ensues.

Above a cacophony of barks and yelps, Sergeant Caissie explains, “The dogs are all sociable and have a high retrieve drive. It takes very high-energy dogs to do the work they do here.”

No kidding.

Recognized as a world-class academy, the facility is the only canine law enforcement unit in the country operating around the clock, seven days a week. Not even the RCMP’s canine unit can boast this.

The relationship between handler and dog is intense. On duty as well as off, officers and their four-legged partners are inseparable. By no means considered pets, service dogs nonetheless reside in their handlers’ homes. As veteran police constable and dog handler Todd Garbutt told Torontoist: “There has to be a bond between the handler and the dog, otherwise handler protection wouldn’t work. The dog has to love the handler so much it’s willing to put down its life for that handler.”

Garbutt confesses he averages more time with his dog then he does with his children.

Poop-and-scoop duty is an obvious drawback, but Caissie and Garbutt recite several benefits that come with being paired with a dog. Among other things, they say, the dog doesn’t eat your lunch, and you don’t have to buy it coffee.

Dogs range in price from free to thousands of dollars. Pricier dogs are purchased from breeders. Gratis dogs have been donated from the community. Once in a while, a citizen will contact Dog Services offering to donate a dog they believe possesses the right stuff.

The majority of offers are declined.

“99 per cent of the time,” Garbutt says, “the dog will never pass our testing.”

The other 1 per cent? Garbutt recounts the fortuitous tale of deputy dawg Eli. One day, a dog arrived stowed in the back of a pickup truck. Friendly as heck, with energy and curiosity to match, Eli was deputized after rigorous testing, going on to become an exceptional general-purpose police dog.

Matching dog and handler is a delicate process. A turbocharged dog is best paired with an officer that has a laid-back disposition, and vise versa. Out on patrol, their opposing personality types will counterbalance one another.

Toronto Police Service’s roster of dogs shouldn’t be mistaken for attack dogs. They’re never dispatched as a crowd-control measure. Unlike police agencies in other jurisdictions, TPS usually uses a method of deployment known as bark and hold—as in, hold your ground instead of a perpetrator’s limb.

Service dogs average about ten years on the force. Training for all breeds—from general purpose dogs to detector dogs, who sniff for narcotics, explosives, missing persons, and cadavers—begins in puppyhood. Breeds range from large German Shepherds to mid-sized Springer Spaniels. One feature all share is their alpha-dog personalities.

The Beechwood Drive facility also provides classroom instruction to officers, who learn when to radio for the dog squad and what to do when backup arrives. Sergeant Caissie explains that when the canine unit is called out, the scene they encounter often resembles a dog’s breakfast. Handler and dog must respond quickly and effectively. Regardless of rank, a handler never forfeits command of their dog to a superior. Not even Chief Blair can tell a handler how to deploy their charge.

In the bad old days, an officer risked injury chasing down a suspect. With canines at the ready, a general patrol dog can be called upon to flush a suspect out of hiding. This, officers say, has diminished the number of violent encounters during apprehension.

Canine crime fighters don’t always adapt well to retirement. Ideally, as Garbutt puts it, the dog “goes back to being a dog and loving it.” But because they never really lose their unwavering work ethic, even after being decommissioned, they want to accompany their human partners to work. It’s difficult for the retired dog to accept that a pup has filled its position. This affects the handler’s psyche, too. Garbutt accepts this adjustment as part of the job. He’s grown used to telling his former, tail-wagging partner, “Sorry buddy, I have to go with my other partner now.”

The truth behind the tales people tell about Toronto.

Photo by Jason Michael, from the Torontoist Flickr Pool.

Ever find yourself breaking out in a cold sweat, developing a splitting headache, and tearing a strip off a complete stranger all while craving a cigarette Tim Hortons’ double-double? If the persistent urban legend is true, these fits may be the result of a sinister ploy by the coffee company to ensure that customers return, by adding nicotine to the coffee.

Bean struggling (get it?) to kick the coffee habit? Tim Hortons isn’t to blame. There’s not an ounce of truth, or nicotine, to the legend.

The yarn goes something like this: While visiting family in Toronto for the first time, an American tourist makes frequent trips to the nation’s most recognized coffee house, becoming inexplicably enamoured of Canada’s famous brew. In a tamer version of the legend, the sorry sod returns stateside green around the gills. A visit to the doctor reveals nicotine coursing through his veins. Since the tourist is a nonsmoker, his doctor is baffled. Further tests reveal that a copious amount of nicotine-laden coffee ingested during his romp north is the source of the health scare.

In a more sinister version, the American meets his demise in a Tim Hortons. Deathly allergic to nicotine, a single sip brings on cardiac arrest. Another version has a teenage girl’s heart bursting the instant her extra-large combines with the effects of a nicotine patch.

Tim Hortons is aware of the legend. They address it directly, here. Michelle Robichaud, public relations manager for Tim’s, told Torontoist unequivocally, “There is in fact nothing added to our coffee. We believe that our guests are addicted to consistency.”

Supplementing coffee with nicotine would not only be illegal, it would be extremely unhealthy.

Nicotine is derived from members of the nightshade family of plants. Scientifically known as Solanaceae, these include tobacco, of course, but also some edible plants, like potatoes and bell peppers, both of which have been found to contain vanishingly small amounts of nicotine.

In its purest form, nicotine is more potent than toxins like strychnine, cyanide, and arsenic. It can be used as an agricultural insecticide.

Yuck!

It’s clearly implausible that Tim Hortons would deliberately poison its customers. So how did the rumour get started? Finding the source of an urban legend is impossible. Tracing its propagation, however, is easier. Urban legends relating to nicotine have a history. In the ’80s, there were tales about McDonald’s adding nicotine to hamburgers. In the ’90s, Pokémon cards were rumoured to be laced with the substance. Today in the U.S., Starbucks coffee has its own nicotine legend.

Why Tim Hortons? Possible explanations include envy.

No one denies that caffeine, a naturally occurring stimulant found in coffee beans, is addictive, but it’s nowhere near as potent as nicotine. Even so, Tim Hortons has been wildly successful at selling caffeine. Founded by the late NHLer in 1964, the business has grown from a few Hamilton outlets into a force to be reckoned with. Nationwide, 80 per cent of all single servings of coffee purchased today are poured from a Tim Hortons’ carafe.

No doubt some would like to see Tim Hortons spend time in the penalty box, just ’cause.

If it’s nicotine you crave, light up a cig. On second thought, butt out and get your jolt from a mug of joe. Caffeine is less addictive, and it’s not nearly as unhealthy. You’ll have a nice, long life to spend contemplating urban legends.

The truth behind the tales people tell about Toronto.

Photo by {a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/44782411@N05/"}tcmrubberneck{/a} from the {a href="http://www.flickr.com/groups/torontoist/"}Torontoist Flickr Pool{/a}.

The only thing murkier than the supposedly bottomless depths of High Park’s Grenadier Pond is the origin of the pond’s name. From drowned foot soldiers to pranksters frightening the bejesus out of the city, stories concerning the pond’s moniker abound.

Further muddying the waters, we outline a filet-o-fishy explanation of our own.

The 35-acre pond is a one-of-a-kind geological feature in Toronto. Wave action on Lake Ontario combined with sediments that washed down Wendigo Creek accumulated over the ages at the creek’s mouth, eventually blocking the watercourse and creating Grenadier Pond behind it. A fuller explanation of its formation can be found here.

The notion of a build-up of sediment explains the pond’s muddy base. Grenadier Pond isn’t as bottomless as it’s said to be. It’s just really, really mucky.

There are a number of urban legends about how Grenadier Pond came to be named. The version with the most traction concerns the watery demise of an unspecified number of grenadiers attached to the Eighth Regiment of Foot, based at Fort York during the War of 1812.

The story goes that during the Battle of York in 1813, while in hot pursuit of retreating American troops, several members of the regiment broke through the icy surface of Grenadier Pond and drowned.

There really was a charge across a frozen surface involving grenadiers from the Eighth, but it occurred months earlier and hundreds of kilometres away.

Known as the Leather Hats, the Eighth, a regiment of the British army, was established in 1685. During the War of 1812, its first large-scale engagement with American forces occurred in February 1813, at Ogdensberg, New York. Braving a fierce snowstorm, the grenadiers led a successful charge across the frozen St. Lawrence River, capturing the upstate New York village.

Fast forward two months. After US forces initiated the Battle of York, the Leather Hats were among the first troops American soldiers encountered. Unlike at Ogdensberg, the conflict at York didn’t go well for the Eighth. They were outnumbered. Their feeble bayonet charge was soundly defeated.

No records from the battle indicate that a single one of the Eighth’s grenadiers drowned at Grenadier Pond. The battle in question happened well into spring, so it’s possible the pond wasn’t even frozen at the time. Even more damning for the drowning-grenadier theory is the fact that the Battle of York happened years after records indicate that Grenadier Pond got its name.

Another possibility is that Grenadier Pond was named in honour of soldiers who frequented High Park. Fort York militia, grenadiers among them, often fished the pond’s waters.

Come wintertime, soldiers enjoyed skating on the pond, as did the rest of the local population. For a time, ice pageants were a common occurrence at High Park. According to a January 31, 1936, article in the Toronto Daily Star, the highlight of an ice show during the winter of 1800 was the on-ice appearance of 18 Royal Grenadiers sporting scarlet jackets and bearskin busbies. The regiment reportedly executed a series of drills and manoeuvres while on skates.

If no grenadiers ever drowned in the pond, what explains reports of ghostly sightings in the area? They could be the result of a prank gone awry. A prominent page-two story from an April 22, 1913, edition of the Toronto Daily Star said police had been alerted to the existence of a phantom arising nightly from the pond’s swampy depths.

April Fool’s was three weeks past. This was serious reportage.

Several eyewitnesses claimed the phantasm appeared first as a gathering mist, then coalesced into a towering figure mounted upon a white nag. Some swore they heard nighttime groaning around High Park. Others observed the apparition passing unimpeded through solid objects. Two weeks later, a follow-up story buried on page nine reported several pranksters armed with flashlights had been discovered to be the cause of the haunting.

Considering the dearth of information (neither Friends Of Fort York, nor Heritage Toronto, nor the Swansea Historical Society could provide an explanation of where the pond got its name), we propose a theory of our own.

Besides being the given name of grenade-toting foot soldiers, a grenadier is also a kind of fish. Unfamiliar with the type? Think Filet-o-Fish.

With its bulbous head and tapered body, the gilled version of the grenadier resembles the outline of the west-end pond.

Coincidentally, the smaller West Pond, adjacent to Grenadier Pond, is refereed to as Catfish Pond, which is another bottom-dwelling fish.

Admittedly, we’re casting a wide net, but if you’re willing to be reeled in by ghosts of grenadiers past, why not consider our fishy version of how Grenadier Pond came to be named?

Additional material from the Toronto Star, April 22, 1913. Side photo courtesy of the City of Toronto Archives.

The truth behind the tales people tell about Toronto.

Photo by {a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/phillykevflicks/183947496/"}kchbrown{/a} from the {a href="http://www.flickr.com/groups/torontoist/"}Torontoist Flickr Pool{/a}.

For $175 you can venture up the CN Tower, get harnessed into a bulky, red jumpsuit attached to a safety track and take a 20-minute walk on a steel gangplank hundreds of metres above Toronto. They’ll even throw in a DVD recording of the entire acrophobia-inducing experience.

Been there, done that?

How about ditching the jumpsuit, the harness, and all common sense, and instead stowing a parachute in a garbage bag, climbing another 90 metres to the Space Deck by means of a ladder pitched on the roof of the CN Tower restaurant, shimmying across the boom of a construction crane, and jumping down to earth?

A harebrained scheme like that just isn’t possible. Or is it?

In the autumn of 1974, when the CN Tower was only halfway completed, steelworker William Eustace did precisely that. The reckless stunt cost him his job—and, nearly, his life. For his efforts, Eustace (“Sweet William” to friends) became the only person in history to make an unauthorized leap from the tower’s concrete antenna. (There was later an authorized one, by stuntman Dar Robinson, in 1980.)

The feat may not have been as out there as this, but Eustace’s name—for a brief time, anyway—became legendary.

There was once a time when steelworkers had a reputation for acts of derring-do and seeming recklessness. Photographs from when the CN Tower was under construction show labourers poised on steel girders, hundreds of metres above the ground, sans safety belts. When Sweet William pledged to co-workers he would parachute from the tower before its completion, his claim barely raised eyebrows.

Making the claim was one thing; following through was another entirely. Access to the crane was a problem. Not all employees were allowed up to that level of the structure. One thing working in Eustace’s favor was that he was on friendly terms with one of the tower’s two crane operators, Winston Young. The two men had parachuted together in the past.

Not much is known about Eustace except that he was originally from Newfoundland. He settled in Toronto in 1962, and found work in the construction trade. Previously, he had done a four-year stint in the Canadian Armed Forces, where he learned to parachute. Upon leaving the service, he continued jumping recreationally.

Eustace started on the CN Tower site when construction began in 1973, earning $8.01 an hour as a signalman. Using a walkie-talkie, he was responsible for communicating lift instructions to the crane operator. About 18 months after the structure began to rise above the Toronto skyline, Eustace had tired of the job. Besides disliking his work and bosses, he had also clashed with some co-workers. Instead of simply up and quitting, he devised a far more dramatic exit strategy.

The forecast for Friday, November 8, 1974, promised clear skies and above-seasonal temperatures. Those were ideal jumping conditions. To avoid fellow workers being implicated as co-conspirators, Eustace didn’t share final details of his plan with anyone. At noon, he placed two garbage bags into the bucket of the crane. They contained a brown-and-green silk chute, as well as a motorcycle helmet emblazoned with a maple leaf.

Eustace waited until the afternoon shift change before making his next move. A temporary hoist carried him up the central shaft of the tower to the Sky Pod level, where his gear awaited him. Helmet and chute donned, he climbed a series of ladders, some inside and others outside the tower, until he reached the crane at about the 450-metre point.

As anticipated, the crane’s cab was unoccupied. Facing strong autumn gusts, Eustace shimmied across the crane’s latticed boom. There was no turning back. He connected the parachute’s static line to the crane’s rigging. Balancing himself, he stood, taking in the unobstructed view. He later told reporters, “It felt so beautiful.… It was a great feeling.”

Sweet William Eustace stepped off the crane.

The static line opened the chute immediately. Wind gusts pushed Eustace directly toward the Sky Pod below, where a bundle of live high-voltage power lines protruded. Relying on years of jumping instinct, Eustace avoided electrocution.

Descent was swift. Having avoided smacking into the tower itself, Eustace still had to deal with other hazards, one of which was slamming into lower structures. Avoiding vehicle and train traffic was also a concern. Miraculously, he made a soft landing in a mound of soil hundreds of metres east of the tower’s base, near Front Street.

Wide-eyed pedestrians couldn’t believe what they had witnessed. Few photographs of the infamous descent are known to exist.

Still sporting his dive equipment, Eustace gathered the silk parachute, bunching it under his arm. He hiked to the nearby construction trailer, were he was promptly dismissed.

Sweet William hadn’t prepared for what happened next. Because he hadn’t sought permission to make the jump, he was changed under the federal Aeronautics Act for illegally parachuting in a built-up area, in controlled airspace.

The charge was serious. Eustace faced as many as six months in prison and a $5,000 fine. In the end, his punishment wasn’t too serve. A judge ordered him to pay a fine of $50. He walked away a free man.

For an individual who survived a leap from what was then the highest freestanding structure in the world, Eustace appears today to have fallen off the face of the earth. Where is he now? This musical tribute dedicated to his jump seeks the same answer.

Contacted in Sugarloaf, Newfoundland, relatives of Eustace could not say where he is, or whether he’s still alive. All that is known is that on an autumn afternoon 38 years ago, for not too much longer than the duration of his descent, Sweet William Eustace become a legendary figure.

Additional material from the Toronto Star and the Globe and Mail, November 9, 1974. Side image from the Toronto Star.

The truth behind the tales people tell about Toronto.

For decades, visitors have come to Cherry Beach to engage in activities, legal or otherwise. Photo by {a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/58609798@N00/6992641052/"}BruceK{/a}, from the {a href="http://www.flickr.com/groups/torontoist/"}Torontoist Flickr Pool{/a}.

Viewed after dusk from the south end of Cherry Street, the wharves, cargo ships, long shadows, and Toronto skyline resemble a scene from a James Ellroy novel, or the setting of a classic noir film. Conjure up a couple of beefy, take-no-guff cops and one ne’er-do-well punk from central casting, and you have the makings an intriguing pulp-fiction narrative.

Known as the Cherry Beach Express since as far back as the 1950s, the isolated area has a notorious history. Stories have circulated about Toronto police officers escorting perps on after-hours rides to this stretch of underpopulated Port Lands real estate to mete out rough justice with the business end of a billy club.

Have a lawyer on speed dial, because we’re going on a ride in the rear seat of a squad car, in search of the truth of these rumours.

There was a time when Cherry Beach, located at the foot of Cherry Street, was as popular with East End Torontonians as Sunnyside Park is with West Enders. For years after Alderman Harry Clarke convinced city council to designate the beach as parkland in 1934, families arrived in droves.

In recognition of his initiative, the beachfront was named Clarke Beach Park. But this name never took. In 2003, city council officially altered the name to reflect this reality.

A good thing, too, at least as far as this urban legend goes. “Clarke Beach Express” lacks a certain On The Waterfront appeal.

Today, the area is popular with dog walkers, kiteboarders, and soccer moms. For years the beach has also been a popular haunt within the gay community.

Torontoist made an effort to obtain the official police take on the lingering urban legend. As expected, the cops weren’t talking. For what it’s worth, in 1984, when the new-wave band Pukka Orchestra released their single “Cherry Beach Express,” police brass took immediate steps to block its airplay.

Tracking down individuals with firsthand experience of being horsewhipped by police in the Port Lands proved frustrating. It wasn’t hard to find those with low opinions of our men and women in blue, but ask them for specifics regarding the Cherry Beach Express and our cadre of layabouts will admit only to knowing of a friend of a friend who had gone on a midnight ride.

There is at least one famous case. A homeless man named Thomas Kerr accused several police officers of taking him to Cherry Beach and beating him, in 1996. In 2003, he settled with Toronto Police for a reported $750,000.

And there’s also a fictional take on the legend: R.D. Cain’s novel, aptly titled Cherry Beach Express.

Besides authoring a cop-based murder-mystery series (part two in the Steve Nastos series, Dark Matter, has just been released), Cain is a police officer.

Cherry Beach Express is not exactly Serpico, but it’s nonetheless a good read. And Cain adds an unexpected twist. Instead of a down-on-his-luck scoundrel getting roughhoused by police, the novel sees an innocent—and, for the most part, honest—detective framed for a gruesome water’s-edge slaying.

Though entirely a work of fiction, the novel is a window onto a certain strain of police thinking. At one point, a commanding officer contemplates that “He didn’t mind cops doing what they had to do, but embarrassing the service while doing it ruined it for everyone.”

If this legend is in fact based in truth, a daytime visit to the Port Lands makes it clear why police would choose this area as a place to deliver street justice. Shabby even when busy with commercial traffic and beachgoers, the place is also isolated. This would only be compounded during the winter.

It’s also uniquely cut off from the mainland. Though hundreds of acres in size, Cherry Beach and surrounding environs have only two overland access routes: Leslie Street from the east and Cherry Street from the north.

Cherry Street's Strauss Trunnion Bascule Bridge. Photo by Edward Brown/Torontoist.

Access is further reduced when the menacing steel-and-concrete Strauss Trunnion Bascule Bridge is drawn.

Whether you’re innocent or otherwise, being handcuffed in the cramped rear quarters of a police cruiser is frightening. In the dark of night, even for a hardened criminal, the distinctive sound of the patrol car’s tires passing over the grated surface of the medieval drawbridge would be downright terrifying.

Among ruffians contacted by Torontoist, all agreed the unproven systematic practice of police brutality occurring at Clarke Beach Park ended for good after Thomas Kerr’s case started making headlines.

In the end, Torontoist was unable to authenticate, or disprove, this disturbing urban legend. If it ever did occur with regularity, let’s hope the barbaric practice is now a thing of the past.

The truth behind the tales people tell about Toronto.

The Wheat Sheaf Tavern has been a favorite watering hole since 1849. {a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/grantd/6330938433/"}Photo by enedkl{/a}, from the {a href="http://www.flickr.com/groups/torontoist/"}Torontoist Flickr Pool{/a}.

For enlisted men based at Toronto’s Fort York back in the 1800s, nothing could be better than stealing away for a night of carousing at a local public house after an arduous day on the parade square. Under the watchful eyes of their commanding officers, and posted as they were in a backwoods town like Muddy York, such an expedition would have been all but impossible, right?

A secret tunnel that could spirit soldiers away to a nearby watering hole sure would have come in handy.

A rumour persists that soldiers billeted at Fort York burrowed a half kilometre north, surfacing inside the basement of the Wheat Sheaf Tavern, all without raising the suspicion of military keepers, citizens, or town fathers.

Did this actually occur? Not likely. There is, however, a more plausible theory that’s even more adventurous.

The Wheat Sheaf has been pouring pints since 1849, making it the city’s oldest pub. According to co-owner Maria Tsakiris, the legend of the tunnel has been around for at least 50 years. Patrons are continually inquiring about its existence. Though there have been some spirited discussions about the reality of the subterranean booze tube, Tsakiris confirms that no physical evidence of the tunnel exists on the premises today.

Waitstaff confided that among pub employees, there are whispers that at one time the tunnel was accessible through a basement storage area that currently houses the women’s bathroom. A little ironic, considering females were prevented from entering the Sheaf for its first 120 years of operation. Women were first allowed inside in 1969.

After some coaxing, Torontoist was granted access to the lady’s loo. Tapping walls proved futile. If a portal did exist, it is now well hidden behind mirrors and ceramic tile.

The basement women's bathroom at the Wheat Sheaf Tavern. Photo by Edward Brown/Torontoist.

Exploring the mythical tunnel’s southern entry point proved inconclusive, as well. Stephen Otto, co-chair of the Friends Of Fort York, explained that his organization is aware of the fabled tunnel. To date, archeological digs and extensive renovations on the grounds have turned up nothing resembling a beer-run passageway.

Otto has heard of only one Fort York tunnel. It was built during an incident he says took place early in the 20th century. Apparently, miscreants attempted to penetrate the munitions cache by burrowing under one of the fort’s ramparts. Authorities apprehended the culprits before the situation became explosive.

The tunnel theory began to seem even less believable when Otto explained that soldiers were actually provided with a daily ration of beer and spirits. As well, Dylan’s Tavern, a popular drinking house, was located a bottle cap’s throw from the barracks, at what is now Front and Bathurst Streets. Considering this, if soldiers had the mind to tunnel, why not just prairie dog it to Dylan’s Tavern? Less tunnel time equals more time for rabble rousing.

After the British established New Fort York in 1841 (later known as Stanley Barracks) on the present-day grounds of Exhibition Place, the original Fort York—the one in the shadow of the Gardiner Expressway—had little military usefulness.

(Proving how malleable an urban legend can be, a version of the story has soldiers tunnelling from Stanley Barracks to the Sheaf, a distance of nearly two kilometres! The redcoats would have been mighty thirsty after a dig like that.)

As for Muddy York’s unblemished reputation, the truth is it wasn’t so wholesome. True, the temperance movement was alive and well, but imbibing among soldiers was the norm, as was the presence of prostitution at the garrison’s gate. In Historic Fort York 1793–1993 author Carl Benn tells how soldiers from the Rifle Brigade ambushed constables sent to arrest prostitutes plying their trade on garrison commons.

Burrowing hundreds of metres would have been an engineering marvel. Depending on when the tunnel was completed, the soldiers would have needed to breach at least one rail bed. Geography also worked against such an endeavour. Tunnelling to the Wheat Sheaf would have necessitated excavating underneath Garrison Creek.

And herein is a possible explanation for the Fort York–Wheat Sheaf express. At eight kilometres in length, Garrison Creek once flowed into Lake Ontario just east of original Fort York. (Back then, the shoreline was much closer to the fort.) Beginning in the 1880s, the watercourse was diverted into sewers. Encased underground, a rivulet known as Fort Reach would have been easily accessible to adventurous soldiers.

Hypothetically, soldiers could have entered this particular sewer and trekked north underground, resurfacing a few paces west of the Wheat Sheaf at Walnut Avenue and King Street.

So what if the stench of sewage clung to their wool tunics? A night on the town in ’ol Muddy York may have required some sacrifice.

Photo by {a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/alfredng/727568625/"}alfred ng{/a}, from the {a href="http://www.flickr.com/groups/torontoist/"}Torontoist Flickr Pool{/a}.

After years of planning, construction on Ryerson University’s $112 million student learning centre, located on the former site of the Sam The Record Man flagship store at 347 Yonge Street, began in May. Unfortunately, the iconic neon signage, synonymous with the location, has been left out of the design equation entirely.

Nonetheless, Ryerson remains obligated to display the heritage signs (there are actually two) somewhere on the premises when construction is complete in 2014. In the meantime, the iconic neon records gather dust in a warehouse.

How the university will eventually incorporate the mammoth, energy-sucking devices into its ultramodern new building remains to be seen.

Four years have passed since the Sam signs—which consisted of one set of two enormous, neon vinyl records, and another set of three less-enormous ones—last illuminated Yonge Street. Back then, before realizing they would cost approximately $250,000 to restore, Sheldon Levy, president of Ryerson University, made a show of removing the final neon tube.

He went so far as to harness himself into a scissor lift so he could perform the honour.

Back in 2007, before a single light bulb had been unscrewed, the signs received a reprieve when the city designated them with heritage status, which protected them from destruction with the force of law. Soon after, Ryerson entered a contract with the City. It required the university to incorporate the signs into the still yet-to-be-designed learning centre.

This never happened.

With the sign crated and shipped to a storage facility, the university changed its tune. By November of 2011, Levy was telling the Toronto Star, “There must be a better way to both use our money and to create the memory that people want.”

As things stand today, nobody seems to know what will end up happening. Michael Forbes, a Ryerson public affairs officer, told Torontoist recently that, “[The signs will] wait in storage until we come up with a final plan for what we’re going to do.”

In the meantime, Forbes said the university intends to recognize the Yonge Street strip’s contribution to the city’s historic music scene by creating a website on the subject. A music historian is writing content. Archival photographs are being gathered.

As for the other party in the contract, the City remains optimistic. Heritage Preservation Services is confident Ryerson will not renege on its commitment. Though staff have not recently been in discussion with Ryerson, Mary MacDonald, acting manager with Heritage Preservation Services, is confident the university will eventually meet its legal obligation.

Concerning the eventual placement of the signs, MacDonald said, “There is a location that is identified [in the agreement] and an alternative location.”

The agreement between the City and the university says Ryerson has the right to veto the City’s suggested locations. If this occurs, Ryerson is required to provide a third, City-approved location during the design phase of the student centre.

With the design phase apparently over, that’s no longer a viable option.

Citing safety concerns, the university declined Torontoist’s request to visit the facility where the sign is stored.

Heritage officials are taking Ryerson at their word. In the meantime, iconic pieces from Toronto’s past remain locked away.

An etch bath by SPUD.

The art world has had its share of dustups. Matisse and Picasso were known to quarrel; a tormented Van Gogh took a swipe at Gauguin with a razorblade.

Inevitably, practitioners in every artistic genre will clash. Graffiti writers are no different.

Biting, or copying another writer’s style, can arouse the ire, as does crossing out—when a lesser talent intentionally paints over the work of a respected writer. Of all the tensions within the graff community today, one of the most contentious is the issue of scratchiti.

Scratchiti is two pronged: scratching surfaces such as glass, plastic or metal with a sharp object, and etching glass with an acid bath. Due to stylistic limitations, scratchiti is not a primary creative outlet for most writers. Dedicated adherents of scratchiti use a carbide tipped tool called a scribe; otherwise, lava rocks will do. These lightweight, sharp-edged stones meant for use in gas barbecues and landscaping make perfect scratching instruments. Sandpaper, blades, pumice stone, keys, and even drill bits are employed as gouging tools, as well.

Scratching is one thing, acid baths, or etch baths, are an entirely different caustic kettle of fish. On account of its highly corrosive nature, acidic etching is hazardous. (A main ingredient is sulfuric acid.) Materials are expensive, too. Because of it proliferation (in 2012 the Oxford English dictionary’s online edition made scratchiti an official entry), many retailers now store etching kits behind the counter. Undeterred, some graff writers resort to theft and even alchemy in pursuit of their art. Using a mixture that includes boiled urine, Coca cola, battery acid, lemon juice, and ink, dedicated etchers brew up their own concoctions. (At right, a sign left on a bus shelter at Glenwood Crescent and O’Connor Drive. Photo by sniderscion from the Torontoist Flickr Pool.)

If executed properly, the results of an etch bath on glass can be striking, leaving a permanent, ghost-like image. When mishandled, the results can range from severe skin irritation to blindness.

Scratching, etching, and bombing his way into notoriety, the graffiti writer SPUD has carved out a permanent place in Toronto.

Most people can’t tell a Manr from Mizu, but a SPUD is pretty recognizable. The prolific, self-taught writer has left an indelible imprint on the city: between his arrest, his visceral dislike of the mayor, and his well attended exhibitions, he’s penetrated into mainstream awareness more than most writers ever do.

Traditional SPUD graffiti.

Creative in a number of media, SPUD isn’t a diehard scratchitist. He views the graffiti subgenre as, “Just…another means to get up.” This view isn’t roundly accepted within the graff community. “There are [many] who really do not agree with it. I guess it is just a matter of personal opinion. It’s a tool.”

Ironically, more than a few graffiti artists consider scratchiti vandalism. A profuse tagger in his own right, Tapr recently told Torontoist, “Maybe I’m just a little old school, but among my circle… [scratchiti] is looked down upon.”

Influenced by the works of H.R. Giger, SPUD got his start in traditional aerosol graffiti a little more than a decade ago. Soon he was scratching his graff name onto various glass surfaces. “I was always taking the bus everywhere and it just seemed like the thing to do.”

Preferring to leave the mad science to amateurs, SPUD safely mars glass surfaces using correct etch bath methods.

Arrowhead by SPUD.

Before Mayor Ford’s pledge to run graffiti out of town on a rail, SPUD’s scratchiti could be seen in many places. He had inscribed his name into bus shelters, public washroom mirrors, and transit vehicle windows. The ideal location for an ultimate etch? Without hesitation he replies, “Somewhere highly visible.”

And transparent, too? Best keep an eye on the Crystal, ROM.

Photos by SPUD.

UPDATE: JULY 17, 6:55 PM Since this article was published we have been advised that all charges against one of the three people who were arrested have been withdrawn, and that this incorporated no admission of any wrongdoing on his part.