ON NOVEMBER 7,1940, LEONARD COATSWORTH, A REPORTER FOR the Tacoma News Tribune, earned a small place in history as one of the last people on the Tacoma Narrows Bridge. In the four months since its opening, the bouncy bridge had become a bit of a tourist attraction. People came from miles around for the thrill of driving across the galloping span. But Coatsworth was no tourist, just a local toting a earful of beach gear and his daughter’s cocker spaniel. And that morning the bridge was no fun at all. Usually, on windy days, the bridge would heave up and down like a dying fish gasping for air. On that morning, though, it was thrashing like a swordfish at the end of a line—angry, strong, and very much alive.

Coatsworth got about halfway across before he lost control of the car and had to stop. He leaped from the swaying auto, slamming his face on the pavement in the process, and began a panicked half-walk, half-crawl to the end of the bridge, leaving the cocker spaniel in the car. Hands swollen, knees bleeding, gasping for breath, Coatsworth finally made it off the bridge. He then stood by the toll plaza with a group of observers and watched the bridge tear itself apart and collapse into the Narrows. One of the observers, Professor F. B. Farquharson of the University of Washington, captured the spectacle on film, documenting for posterity the death of one great suspension bridge and one small dog named Tubby.

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