Alcatraz Island

Today we finally got to visit Alcatraz Island — something we missed last time due to everything being booked solid. Tickets go on sale three months in advance and usually vanish fast, so this time we planned ahead. They’re only available online, and thankfully the hotel printed ours off a few days before. It wasn’t particularly busy this time, and plenty of slots were still available. At $30 each, it’s not cheap, but for the history and experience, it’s absolutely worth it.

Alcatraz

Waiting For The Boat To The Rock

We’d booked the 11am slot and took the F-line streetcar, which conveniently stops almost outside Pier 33 — the departure point for the island. With half an hour to spare, we popped into the nearby coffee shop while about a hundred others gathered, tickets in hand, behind the fenced waiting area.

Most visitors go through a security check, but for reasons unknown, we were waved straight through — no complaints there. Entry to the island itself is free, much like the Statue of Liberty, but the ferry crossing is where the cost comes in.

Boarding is efficient, with everyone loaded on in one go. The journey across the Bay takes about 20 minutes, and as the city skyline slipped behind, Alcatraz loomed ahead — stark, craggy and loaded with stories.

The Dock At The Rock

On arrival, we were met near the old guard housing for a brief intro to the island’s layered past. Originally home to the West Coast’s first lighthouse in 1854, it later became a military fort, then a base, and eventually a federal penitentiary from 1934 to 1963. The island held the worst of the worst — prisoners who’d caused problems elsewhere, including the infamous Al Capone and “Machine Gun” Kelly. Interestingly, Robert Stroud, the so-called Birdman of Alcatraz, never actually kept birds here — that part came from his earlier years in another prison.

After Alcatraz closed, it was famously occupied in 1969 by Native American activists claiming it as ancestral land. They held out for nearly two years, drawing national attention to Indigenous rights before being evicted. Eventually, the site was handed to the National Park Service and opened to the public.

The Hole They Dug To escape

And then there’s the escape story. Officially, no one ever escaped Alcatraz successfully — the cold waters, strong currents and isolation made it near-impossible. But in 1962, three prisoners — Frank Morris and brothers John and Clarence Anglin — pulled off one of the most elaborate escape attempts in US history. They chiselled through vents, climbed shafts, slipped out through a utility corridor, and vanished into the night on a homemade raft fashioned from raincoats. They were never found. Authorities presume they drowned, their bodies lost to the Bay — but conspiracy theories still float around, and the case remains open. It adds a fascinating layer to the otherwise rigid history of containment and control.

Jane On The Electric Tram

They call it The Rock for good reason — the climb from the dock to the cell block is steep, rising 300 feet up winding paths. There’s an electric tram available for those who need it, so Jane rode that while I tackled the incline on foot.

Inside the main block, visitors follow the same path new inmates would’ve taken — search rooms, showers, the medical wing — before climbing to the two tiers of cells. The cells are tiny — barely wide enough to stretch — though each prisoner had their own. Oddly, solitary confinement (The Hole) was slightly larger, though shrouded in total darkness. Beneath the main floor lies The Citadel, part of the original fort, used for harsher punishments. Night tours sometimes include it, but the photos alone are enough to put you off.

Inside The Cell block

At the upper level, you’re given headphones and a chunky audio guide which leads you through the prison’s history — routines, security systems, escape attempts, and daily life. It’s narrated by former guards and inmates, which adds grit and perspective. You pass through the blocks, exercise yard, mess hall and workshops, with occasional views out across the water — tantalising reminders of freedom, just out of reach.

After returning the audio gear, you’re free to explore the rest of the island. Views back to San Francisco are fantastic, and surprisingly, there are small gardens scattered around — restored from those originally planted by well-behaved inmates. They feel like little pockets of peace in an otherwise unforgiving landscape.

Jane Behind Bars

After nearly four hours on the island, we headed back down to the dock. With ferries running every 45 minutes, we had time to browse the gift shop — obviously couldn’t leave without picking up a souvenir — before cruising back to the city.

With temperatures hitting around 26°C and sunshine all day, the whole experience felt surprisingly serene given the history packed into every stone. An absolutely brilliant day — gritty, moving and quietly unforgettable.

Sea Lions & Streetcars

Catching The Last of The Sun

We got back to Pier 33 around three o’clock, and with daylight still on our side, took a short walk along the Embarcadero to Pier 39. First order of business: a couple of hot dogs — much needed, especially after discovering there’s no food or drink sold on Alcatraz itself. After refuelling, we had a look around the gift shops before spending a bit of time with our sea lion friends, who were as noisy and entertaining as ever.

By five o’clock, we headed over to the streetcar stop — but, naturally, had to wait ages for one to show up, and it arrived packed to the gills. I’d completely forgotten we could’ve grabbed a bus from one of the side streets. My bad.

Not The Easiest Streetcar
For Jane To Get On

The streetcar that eventually turned up was one of the older ones, which meant Jane had to use the special ramp from the raised platform to get on — but that meant we couldn’t get off at the stop we’d originally planned. I followed her aboard and had to duck my head to get through — apparently, vintage design wasn’t made with tall people in mind.

The stop we did get off at had a pavement lift — helpful in theory — but when it lowered, we couldn’t get the gate open again. Turns out we were trying to open the wrong part. Can’t blame us, really; it had been a long day.

Luckily, there was a Walgreens right nearby, so we popped in to check out their hoodie selection. Even though Walgreens seem to be on every corner, each one stocks slightly different gear when it comes to clothes — but nothing caught my eye this time. We just grabbed the usual bits: bottles of drink, a few snacks, and called it a day.

By now it was nearly dark, so we strolled back to the hotel for a well-earned rest. A warm evening, a full day, and at least the sea lions didn’t shout at us.

Pizza Trek

By the time it hit 8pm, hunger had kicked back in, so I made the trek up the hill to Uncle Vito’s for a large pizza to share. I’d forgotten just how steep that hill is — deceptively short on the map, not so forgiving on the legs. Took a little longer than expected to get there, but I managed to make it back to the hotel before the pizza started cooling. I can’t abide cold pizza — it’s just wrong.

Powell Street To Pizza

By 10pm we were both completely done in, so called it a day and headed for bed. Just before turning in, I glanced out the window and spotted a scene unfolding across the road — a police car had pulled someone over. One officer was stood near the driver’s side, while the other had his gun aimed straight at the passenger. Things escalated quickly — the first officer backed off and grabbed a shotgun from the squad car. I honestly thought shots were about to be fired.

But after about a minute, they lowered their weapons and let the car go. Must’ve been a case of mistaken identity — tense but short-lived.

It was finally time to wind down, listening to sirens roll by throughout the night. They didn’t keep us awake, thankfully — just part of the city’s soundtrack.

Reflections on the Day: A Day of Legends, Logistics, and Late-Night Sirens

Some days feel like they’ve been waiting for you. Thursday was one of them — a long-postponed visit to Alcatraz finally realised under a cloudless sky, with the city sparkling behind us and history looming ahead.

We’d planned ahead this time — no last-minute regrets or sold-out slots. The ferry from Pier 33 was smooth and swift, the skyline slipping away as Alcatraz rose from the Bay like a stone sentinel. Stark, weathered, and humming with stories.

The island’s past is layered and unflinching: lighthouse, fort, prison, protest site. From Capone to the Birdman (who, it turns out, never kept birds here), every corner whispered something — about power, punishment, or the illusion of escape. The audio tour, voiced by former guards and inmates, pulled us through the cell blocks, mess hall, and solitary confinement with a kind of quiet intensity. You could almost feel the weight of time in the walls.

Jane took the tram while I tackled the steep climb on foot — a reminder that even visiting The Rock requires effort. But the views from the top, and the unexpected pockets of garden serenity, made it all worthwhile. After four hours, we returned to the dock, souvenir in hand, ferrying back to the city with sun on our backs and stories in our heads.

Back on the Embarcadero, we made a beeline for hot dogs and sea lions — the former much needed, the latter as gloriously chaotic as ever. Then came the streetcar saga: long wait, packed carriage, vintage design that didn’t account for wheelchairs or tall people. We boarded, ducked, ramped, and eventually disembarked via a pavement lift that briefly outwitted us. Classic end-of-day brain fog.

A quick Walgreens stop yielded snacks but no hoodie treasures, and we strolled back to the hotel under a warm dusk sky. But the day wasn’t done.

At 8pm, hunger struck again, so I braved the hill to Uncle Vito’s for a large pizza — a trek that looked innocent on the map but turned into a calf workout worthy of a Rocky montage. I made it back before the pizza cooled (cold pizza is a crime), and we tucked in with the kind of satisfaction that only comes after a day well earned.

Then, just before bed, a final scene unfolded outside our window: a police stop turned tense, weapons drawn, then lowered. No shots, no arrests — just a flicker of danger in an otherwise peaceful night. A reminder that cities, like stories, can turn on a dime.

We drifted off to the sound of sirens — not jarring, just part of the city’s lullaby. Alcatraz may be a relic of confinement, but today felt expansive: full of movement, memory, and the quiet joy of finally ticking something off the list.