March 11, 2025
I met George last week in front of the SS United States, that grand old dame of the seas. It had just completed its last voyage, being towed out of its longtime berth at Pier 82 on 2201 South Christopher Columbus Boulevard, in the South Philadelphia. I found George at the end of Charleston Street in Mobile, Alabama.
I was on my way back from Brownsville, Texas having finished photographing the eighth launch of SpaceX’s Starship at Starbase. Brownsville is also home to the Port of Brownsville where the USS John F. Kennedy (CV-67), often nicknamed “Big John,” is currently to be dismantled and scrapped. George though, was not here just to photograph an old rusty ship; he was here to remember her in all her regalia and was eager to share stories.
His hands trembled slightly—not from age, though he’s pushing 80, but from a quiet fury that seemed to bubble up every time his eyes looked up from the crumbling pavement and mud puddles to observe this once luxurious passenger ship, now moored in the muddy waters of the Mobile River with only sparks from grinders and acetylene torches to light her ball rooms. The SS United States, you see, wasn’t just a ship to George. It was a time machine, a floating cathedral of mid-century optimism, and he’d sailed on her three times—each crossing a chapter in his life he’d never forget. Now, with her final voyage over, she is destined to become the world’s largest artificial reef off Florida’s Gulf Coast, George is grieving a loss that feels personal, and frankly, I can’t blame him.
George first boarded the SS United States in 1955, a wide-eyed kid of 10, clutching his mother’s hand as they crossed the Atlantic to visit family in England. “It was like stepping into the future,” he told me, his voice softening with the memory. The ship, launched in 1952, was a marvel—963 feet of American engineering, built to outrun anything on the water. She still holds the Blue Riband for the fastest transatlantic crossing, a record set on her maiden voyage when she sliced through the waves at over 35 knots. George remembers the polished wood, the gleaming brass, the hum of the engines that felt like the heartbeat of a giant. “It was my first taste of something bigger than my little world,” he said.
Its design incorporated innovations in steam propulsion, hull form, fire safety, and damage control, reflecting mid-20th-century maritime engineering. However, by the late 1960s, competition from jet aircraft, financial difficulties, and labor strikes led to its withdrawal from service on November 14, 1969. Following retirement, it was laid up in Newport News, Virginia, where it was sealed and dehumidified by the US Navy to preserve it. In 1994, its interiors were stripped during an auction, and in 1996, it was towed to Philadelphia, where it remained docked for nearly 30 years.
His second trip came in 1962, a young man in his late teens, chasing a girl he’d met in New York who was studying abroad. “I spent every penny I had on that ticket,” he chuckled, though the laugh didn’t reach his eyes. The SS United States was still in her prime then, ferrying over a million passengers across her 17-year career—presidents, movie stars, immigrants like George’s family. He danced with that girl in the ship’s ballroom, under chandeliers that sparkled like stars, and though the romance fizzled, the memory of those nights stuck with him.
The SS United States has left a cultural footprint, featured in films like “Gentlemen Marry Brunettes” (1955, Gentlemen Marry Brunettes), “West Side Story” (1961, West Side Story), and a 2013 Hollywood thriller (Hollywood Thriller). Documentaries such as “SS United States: Made in America” (2013, Made in America) and “Lady in Waiting” (Lady in Waiting) have chronicled its story, while books like “A Man and His Ship” and “Crossing on Time” provide detailed accounts.
Ownership changed hands multiple times: sold for $7 million in 1980 to Richard Hadley, auctioned for $2.6 million in 1992 to Kahraman Sadıkoğlu, purchased for $6 million in 1997 by Edward Cantor, bought by Norwegian Cruise Line (NCL) in 2003, and finally acquired by the SS United States Conservancy in 2011 for $3 million. Efforts to repurpose it, such as a 1983 study for conversion into a hospital ship, were abandoned due to cost, and asbestos removal in Ukraine in 1993, protested by Greenpeace, added to its financial burdens, leading to the exhaustion of Marmara Marine Inc.’s resources by 1996.
The third time, in 1968, was different—darker. George was coming back from a stint in Europe, a little lost, a little broken. The ship, nearing the end of its service, still carried itself with dignity. “She got me home,” he said simply. A year later, in 1969, she was retired, outpaced by jets and left to rust, bouncing between owners until the SS United States Conservancy took her in 2011. George always figured she’d get a second life, like the Queen Elizabeth, refurbished into a floating hotel or museum. Instead, she’s been sold to Okaloosa County, Florida, for a measly $1 million, destined to be sunk by 2026—a $10 million project to turn her into a coral reef.
“They’re throwing her away,” George spat, kicking a shotgun blast of gravel into a nearby puddle. “The Queen Elizabeth got a chance—why not her?” He’s got a point. The Queen Elizabeth, another mid-century icon, was reborn as a tourist attraction in Dubai after years of neglect. The SS United States, built in the same Newport News dry dock where a canceled supercarrier once lay, carried a million stories across nearly 2.8 million nautical miles. She arrived in Mobile, Alabama, on March 3, 2025, after an 1,800-mile tow from Philly, and now she’s being stripped—her radar mast, her funnels, her soul—before they sink her. The Conservancy talks about a land-based museum, but to George, that’s a consolation prize. “It’s like keeping a photo of your dead dog,” he muttered.
The historical connection to the USS United States (CVA-58) is significant. The USS United States (CVA-58) was to be the lead ship of a new class of supercarriers, approved in 1948 with construction beginning in April 1949 at Newport News Drydock. However, it was canceled just five days after its keel was laid, in 1949, due to inter-service rivalry, particularly opposition from the US Air Force favoring land-based bombers like the B-36. The cancellation left the shipyard with an empty dry dock, and to fill the void, they agreed to build the SS United States ocean liner, laid down on February 8, 1950, in the same dock. This circumstance made the SS United States the first ocean liner built in a dry dock, accelerating construction through prefabrication.
I tried to see the other side. The reef project could boost marine life, tourism, the economy. But sitting across from George, watching his eyes glisten as he recalled the ship’s grand staircase, I couldn’t shake the feeling that we’re losing something irreplaceable. He’s not alone—there’s a New York Coalition fighting to save her, calling her a National Monument of Engineering. But the clock’s ticking, and the Coast Guard’s already fussing over oily residue from her last days in Philly. George doesn’t care about the logistics. He cares about the ship that carried him through his youth, now reduced to a skeleton for fish to swim through.
“She deserved better,” he said as we parted ways, his voice cracking. “We all did.” And as I watched him shuffle out of view down the railroad tracks that run between the factories scrap yards. I couldn’t help but wonder if he’s right—if we’re scrapping more than just steel when we let the SS United States slip beneath the waves.
