Well over a year ago, I approached various industrial companies operating inside interesting and historical buildings with the intent of securing permission to photograph and document locations that I had deemed to be too active to attempt. Several were outright refusals, one told me they would get back to me, every time I called for a month, and yet another entangled me in so much liability and insurance requirements it would have cost well over a thousand dollars for the priviledge of setting foot on thier hallowed grounds.

Having attempted the proper way and being quite rudely and effectively stonewalled, it became clear that the safer, more cost-effective route turned out to be the one I had already been following. The adage "it is easier to beg forgiveness than ask permission" proved to be especially poignant, considering the fact that asking forgiveness requires being discovered in the first place. The first  few accesses of the structure in the attached photographs were at night, without a single light source provided and a great hesitance to use anything larger than my LED torch in the hazardous condition the normal operations of this facility presented.



After returning well before sunset, I was delighted by the amount of light I had to work with. A building I had only known engulfed in perfect darkness was on display. seeping through every dingy and cracked windopane to expose the secrets I had only known as shadows and objects that  bruised my shins.

Trekking through Stanley Park long after sunset, Tide is out and the crashing of waves is quite distatnt from the pathway. It's raining lightly, the  hike we've undertaken makes for a sweaty and overheated jacket environment. Our destination is a patch of rusty brown iron plate directly adjacent to a small parking lot serving a slightly pretentious tea room. Cars still occupy the stalls and waiters can be seen through the large bay windows. We're forced to sit idle in the shadows while the area sliowly  releases its vehicle and possibiy nosey waiter population.  Two hours of waiting, with only a slightly curious raccoon to keep us occupied. We're thoroughly soaked and shivering due to inactivity.



The last interior lights go out, and the final car departs, trailing poor quality music in its wake. Bulging backpacks spew out lentghs of rope, harnesses, flashlights, cameras, and tripods. Our ancher is a park bench, firmly bolted to the conrete pavillion.  Tie off, check knots, double check them,  and then carefully lower yourself into the opening that little iron plate was concealing. 20 feet below is a stairwell landing covered by 5 feet of incredibly clear water. We lower ourselves a few feet below theconcrete cap, and swing horizontally to catch a galvanised steel handrail. This floor of the world war II gun emplacement is simple, a long hallway with stairwells going upwards at each end, only  now they end in a concrete cieling. One side of the corridor has four square rooms, each with a door and a window access. Iron bracing and hinges suggest there used to be heavy shutter on the windows, and reinforced doors would have barred the rooms, but not today, for they are only a memory. Directly below our path of entry is access to the lower floor, with its tunnels leading to the gun emplacements themselves.  60 years of groundwater seeping have flooded this level completely with crystal clear groundwater, passage is impossible without Scuba equipment. The structure itself is simple and rather unimpressive, but the history behind it and the difficulty of access makes for a very challenging and rewarding night.



Fast forward through the day of  microbrewery touring with 4 pitchers to kill between 8 tourists, and a bathtub ferryboat ride back to the hostel. We find ourselves in another closed off greenspace, at night, in the rain, aching backs loaded with gear. This time the ropes weren't need, as a sturdy iron ladder descended us into what is currently the largest underground space I have been in. easily the size of a football field, with the arched roof strecthing at least thirty feet above,we are extremely thankful the water is not high enough to flood our thigh waders. Constructed when building something meant making it beautiful. and abandoned when something better came along, these underground reservoirs kept its citisens hydrated and sanitary.

Car doors slam shut, crunchy gravel is muffled by the continuously falling rain. Limned with barbed wire, one fence is quickly but quietly scaled. Tide is out. safe passage is assured accros slippery shoreline rocks, hidden by a tidal erosion embankment. Cover ends at the pier head, lights illuminate the ashpalt tarmac. An occupied guard booth watches over a completely exposed  and well-lit three hundred meter distance.
Head down, gear strapped tightly to our frames,  panic welling. Jump up onto the tarmac., blind run to the darkness of the open cargo bay.

Did they see us? Catch your breath, peek out, the outline of the guard is distant but oblivious to our presence. Slip out of the cargo bay onto a narrow running board spanning the entire lentgh of the vessel. over a hundred meters distant and barely a foot wide. Hand over hand, a flimsy nylon cord the only ally against a quick fall into frigid waters.Reaching the end of the horizontal running board.  our foothold takes on a 45 degree angle up towards the main deck. The Nylon hand rail has given up on us, and our fingers painfully jam themselves in a gap between hull plates and each footstep is triple checked for traction, lest one careless slip result in a quick bath, and a hundred meter swim to safety.

The vehicle deck, is warm and dry, virtually spotless save for the accumulation of time. Shiny stainless steel Halon Fire suppression pipes reflect our torchlight. Up a stairwell onto the passenger deck, rows of brightly upholstered chairs and booths would have provided comfortable passage.
I am irritated that the concession is noticeably lacking my favorite soft drink, and the service was definitely sub-par.

An alarming beeping echos from a stairway designated "authorised personal only". After quickly authorising each other, we ascend and track down the pesky sound. All but one of the monitors on the bridge are dark, and the beeping is emanating from the only illuminated screen. "vehicle deck man door accessed" is blinking on the screen, Our passage will be noted, but discovered only when someone bothers to patrol the ship proper. A rope cannon and Parachute flares found in the emergency room stimulate images of shenanigans, but are respectfully left in thier proper storage lockers. a dull roar of idling engines and motors becomes louder as we descend into the guts and engine rooms. everything is well maintained and ready to go should the need arise, but given that it's been over 8 years standing at attention, these boats aren't going too far too soon.