Bennie Jeffries maneuvers his Oldsmobile through a network of train tracks and one-way streets under the shadow of the looming West Seattle Bridge as we head towards the Port of Seattle Pier 18 at 10:30 o’clock on a Friday night. Lining the roadway along the water are stacks of cargo containers, called “cans,” their sides reading “Hanjin,” “Costco,” “Hapag-Lloyd,” and various other manufacturers’ names. When we arrive at the pier’s main office, we move from Jeffries’ car to a “SSA Terminals” van, which functions as an intra-dock taxi service for workers at the pier.

“Going to the North Gate,” Jeffries tells the van’s driver. We disappear into a maze of cans and forklifts that mark the entrance into the heart of Pier 18.

“You wouldn’t want to be here during the day,” Jeffries warns me. “Men and trucks everywhere; it’s crazy, and even worse in the summer.”

A barge is being loaded as we arrive at the water’s edge. Trucks line up for hundreds of feet waiting to unload their cans, while the crane looms like a giant orange monolith overhead. An arriving truck positions itself in the center of the loading area as the crane attaches its arm to the can, waits for the green “go-ahead” signal, and slowly lifts the can into the air. The “Hanjin” can is suspended momentarily 75 feet above us before the crane’s arm pivots and the cargo is unloaded onto the waiting barge.

“See that?” Jeffries asks, pointing to a small lighted box near the top of the crane’s middle beam. “That’s where I sit. The crane is a big toy . . . but it’s also a privilege. You lose control of that thing and you can kill somebody.”

As a port city, Seattle has a rich history of longshoring, the work of loading and unloading ships’ cargoes. When Washington’s economy began to boom in the 1840s as a result of railroads and developments in the logging industry, a new generation of workers made their way to the emerging state. During the summers, when work in the forests was slow, loggers migrated westward to Seattle and found work unloading incoming ships. The work was physically exhausting, the hours were long, and jobs were not steady. These features are still characteristic of long-shore work, but port workers now enjoy the union benefits and protections that came out of some 125 years of labor struggle.

The first Seattle Longshoremen’s Union (SLU) was established in 1886, and made significant strides in augmenting working conditions. The union raised wages, and abolished the practice of workers riding port-to-port with a ship under unsanitary conditions. The SLU also affiliated with the American Federation of Labor (AFL) to develop a stronger front against unfair employment practices. The unions were young, however, and were often manipulated by employers who formed alliances to combat the rising unionism. The tensions between dock workers and employers mounted in the coast-wide maritime strike of 1934. Known in labor history as the “Big Strike,” it was marked by open warfare in San Francisco and led to one of the few general strikes in U.S. history.

The widespread support and awareness of the Big Strike helped organizations like the International Longshoremen’s Association (ILA), the AFL, and innumerable locally organized unions come together in 1937 and form the International Longshore and Warehouse Union (ILWU). Since then, the ILWU has been committed to such principles as improving working conditions, ending hiring discrimination and educating workers about their rights.

Today, the ILWU consists of about 42,000 members in 60 local unions. Their commitment to their work and fellow dock workers is embodied in the famous Wobbly slogan that ILWU adopted from the Industrial Workers of the World (IWW). The slogan: “An injury to one is an injury to all.”

Jeffries proudly displays the slogan across his chest as he sips a Dewar’s Whiskey on the rocks and tells me about his work at the port. Jeffries has dedicated 27 years of his life to Seattle’s ports. Although his father had worked as a longshoreman all his life, Jeffries spent his first 10 years at the docks as a “casual,” the lowest class of worker at the ports, last in line for every job and excluded from union membership and benefits. Each day the casuals gather at the Union Hall for “cattle call,” in which the Pacific Maritime Association (PMA) posts job openings for incoming ships. For each job, there is a pegboard with a list of workers eligible for that day’s position. Casual workers are always last on the list.

“My friend is one (a casual),” said Jeffries. “One time, he went to cattle call for five days before he got any work.”

Casual laborers travel up and down the West Coast looking for work, especially during the summer when the ports are flooded with cruise ships. By working casual jobs, they hope to earn permanent jobs and union representation.

“You’re giving them your sweat and blood and all you get is a paycheck,” commented Jeffries on his work as a casual.

Jeffries gave it his all, working literally every job at the docks from unloading cans to “lashing” (chaining down) cargo to driving trucks. Eventually he found himself at the top of the longshore hierarchy, an “A-man.” Once “A-man” status is achieved, a worker is guaranteed 40 hours a week, receives full union membership and benefits, and is able to choose his or her jobs.

A “B-man” occupies the next highest rung on the ladder. Though B-men are entitled to union benefits and representation, they have less job autonomy and professional power. Below the B-men in the longshore hierarchy are non-union casuals who work wherever and whenever they can in the hope of augmenting their status.

Jeffries enjoys the freedoms afforded to him by his “A-man” status, and he knows that he has truly earned them. “I like working at night because it’s quieter,” he says. “And I love the crane because it’s good to go. I get up there, I put in my four or five hours, and I don’t have to put up with no one’s shit.”

Although they are ineligible for many of the benefits and privileges of unionized members, casual worker still experience the strong sense of pride and accomplishment that is characteristic of many dock workers.

“I love working here,” says Aaron Peterson, 22, of his work at Alaska Marine Lines (AML), a company that handles cargo coming from and going to Alaska. “No matter how small of job you’re doing, you’re still crucial in the situation.”

During his three-year tenure at AML, Peterson has worked every job at the dock. Truck-drivers, forklift operators, and cargo handlers wave familiarly at him as Peterson takes me on a tour of the dock and warehouse. On the roadside of the dock lie dozens of flats, which are wooden cargo carriers used for large or oddly-sized shipments that cannot fit into cans. Bins full of rusty “hard chains” and “soft chains” (depending on their size) sit next to the flats. The chains are used along with connecting pieces, called turnbuckles, to lash cargo onto the flats.

“This is the break bulk area, where I started out,” Peterson explains as we tour the section of the dock used mainly for lashing. “I got a pile of soft chain dropped on my head one time working out here – shit almost knocked me out.”

Peterson was hired on in the summer of 2002 as a part-time employee, which meant working the hardest jobs and longest hours. Summertime is a busy season for AML, with multiple barges arriving daily, carrying up to 500 containers each. The duty of Peterson and the other workers at AML is to unload the cargo in the most time-efficient and safest manner possible. Workers can spend up to 10 hours unloading one barge. The weather plays a crucial factor in the workers’ environment. A hot sun beating down on miles of pavement and steel cans can add to their exhaustion.

“During the summertime, you live at work,” Peterson says. “It’s a slow, meticulous process and you’re there until the work is done. That’s eight to 10 hours in the direct sun.”

Peterson’s father drives up in a forklift to greet his son. He offers us a ride in the “Svetruck S1150,” the largest forklift the company owns. We crawl up a small staircase on the left side of the forklift and hang onto the guard rail. The driver steers the machine toward a stack of four or five cans and lines up the forklift’s two steel prongs with a set of congruent holes in the can’s side. The prongs slip effortlessly into the can, and the can is lifted about 10 feet above our heads. It sways side to side in the harsh wind ricocheting off the surface of the Duwamish River.

“I used to ‘run bulls’ (operate the forklift), too,” Peterson says, watching the driver maneuver the can onto a waiting truck. “It’s a stressful job; every container you pick up, you have the potential to kill someone. It’s a very dangerous job, that might be what gives you a little of the pride, too.”

Peterson now works in the warehouse on the “forest-side” of West Marginal Way, loading outgoing cargo for shipment to Alaska. A small group of men work in the warehouse, filling dozens of cans each day with everything from satellites to soda to surfboards. As we stand in the cold warehouse, the men diligently stack and arrange cargo as if they were working on a life-size jigsaw puzzle. Their brows are furrowed and dripping with sweat.

Some of these men have dedicated more than 20 years of their lives to AML, explains Peterson. That includes his own father. Despite the technological and medical advances of the last century, the life of a longshoreman is still rooted in physical labor and demanding hours. The dock workers’ shirtless backs burn and peel in the summers, their numb fingers persevere in the harsh Seattle winters. But these workers all seem to retain a sense of accomplishment in what they do.

“It’s tough work,” says Peterson as he finishes loading his last truck of the day and watches its reflection along the glassy surface of the Duwamish River, which will undoubtedly yield to AML another shipload of cargo by the time Peterson returns at 9 a.m. the following morning. “But you take pride in what you do. It’s something you can bring home at the end of the day.”