Living Las Vegas

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Farewell to the Castaways

In another city, a hotel like the Castaways (formerly the Showboat) might be a prize landmark, but here in Las Vegas, it was just something to get rid of. Once able to claim “the largest bowling alley in the world,” the Castaways’ glory days ended a few years ago in sudden closure after mismanagement mired it in bankruptcy. The doors shut so fast, they practically slammed in the faces of scores of bowlers arriving for a tournament. But things happen fast in Vegas, as all the suddenly unemployed workers can attest.

Things happened fast this morning, too, when Station Casinos, the new owners of the Castaways, made sure its doors could never open again. With a loud tattoo, a few flames, and a roar, the hotel’s 19 stories collapsed into
two. What didn’t fall to the ground headed over to downtown Las Vegas in a menacing cloud of brown dust.

The Castaways implosion was not publicized in advance, and Station Casinos did not encourage public attendance. Implosions used to be spectator extravaganzas until a certain September 11th made it politically incorrect to cheer when towers collapse. Steve Wynn kept the implosion of the Desert Inn a couple of years ago very quiet. But it’s impossible to annihilate a huge building with explosives and keep it a total secret. Streets must be closed. Nearby residents must be informed. In addition, lots of people must be employed to set things up and clean up afterwards. There may be no official publicity, but word gets out.

In the case of the Castaways, I first heard that its execution was set for today while I was listening to a local call-in radio show last week. I scoured the Web for more details, but to no avail. Fortunately, the local newspaper confirmed the date and mentioned the time in a story that ran yesterday. At long last I could observe a hotel implosion in person.

I got up at four a.m. to make it over to Fremont Street before street closures would make it impossible to get to a good place to watch. It was still dark when I pulled into the parking lot of the Lowe’s home improvement store across from the Castaways. That’s where a couple of television vans were parked, their crank-up antennas already extended. A few dozen other cars and pickups were already occupying spaces in the lot, too, all lined up on the legal side of a line of red “DANGER” tape tied to the trees. It was a perfect viewing location, and I settled down in my car to watch the process and wait for the sun to come up.

Fire trucks lined up in the parking lot. Police cars cruised Fremont Street, herding vehicles out of the area surrounding the hotel tower. A few more observers, bundled up against the near-freezing temperatures, gathered along the red tape line. Photographers set up tripods. People who had done this before poured hot coffee from thermoses and shared stories about the Desert Inn, the Hacienda, and the Aladdin. If there were people in attendance who didn’t have cameras, I didn’t see them.

The sun came up, illuminating the victim. I asked the man standing next to me if he had seen any other implosions. “In twenty-seven years, I haven’t missed one,” he said. “They’re exciting?” I asked. “Yeah. They’re also sad. All of old Las Vegas is disappearing.”

The first ten or so stories of the Castaways had been stripped to see-through status, giving the tower a spindly, melancholy look. It was hard not to think of the poor old hotel as a martyr, standing there forlornly in the pale winter sunrise. It was easy to pretend it was sadly defiant — a Vegas Joan of Arc waiting for the torch.

Around seven, some sirens went off. A minute later, I heard a man yelling a countdown, and sure enough, when he got to zero, the first blast ripped the silence. Twenty or so more followed in rapid succession, more reminiscent of shotgun blasts than the deep booms I had expected. The blasts ended. For a moment, it seemed as though the Castaways had beaten the odds. Nothing happened. Then, with a roaring whoosh, the whole thing fell down. I managed to snap exactly one picture before the tower disappeared in an enormous billow of dust. (Click here for cool videos.)

The dust was far from benign. It rolled out in every direction, rapidly enveloping everything within a thousand yards in a yellowish-brown gritty haze. Those with experience pulled on their face masks. Everybody else coughed, hacked, wiped their eyes, and retreated into their vehicles.

An easterly breeze began carrying the cloud toward city hall, and the remains of the Castaways were soon clear and visible: a pile of rubble two stories high. Almost immediately, water trucks began spraying down the area, and street cleaners moved up and down Fremont Street to bring it back to ordinary.

The brown haze hung over Las Vegas all day, and to those who weren’t aware of the Castaways’ demise, it must have seemed like a really bad smog attack. I kept noticing it as I went about my rounds, and I kept thinking about what I had witnessed. It’s not a small thing to knock down a huge hotel tower, and, while it was definitely exciting, no one cheered as the Castaways fell.

I can’t say I’m sad to see the old place gone. It wasn’t beautiful, and I’m sure that whatever Station Casinos builds on the spot will be far nicer. But it was a landmark, and for many people, a place full of memories. I can understand people mourning the loss of a place where they won a jackpot/got married/worked for fifty years. Even so, I don’t have a feeling of nostalgia about the “old Las Vegas.” It always seems to me that the Vegas of today is the city “old Las Vegas” dreamed of becoming. The Dunes didn’t die. It just grew up to become the Bellagio. The Aladdin was imploded to make way for its bigger and better self.

What does a grownup Castaways look like? We’ll have to wait and see. For me, that is one of the delights of living here. It’s a city still being created.

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