Flower in the River: A Family Tale Finally Told

Inside the Eastland Morgue - Where Death Wasn't Silent

• Natalie Zett • Season 3 • Episode 124

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Released on July 24, 2025 – the 110th anniversary of the Eastland Disaster

On this pivotal anniversary, I’m sharing one of the most haunting firsthand accounts ever recorded about July 24, 1915—a story that doesn’t end when the ship rolled, but follows the tragedy all the way to its most chilling conclusion.

TRIGGER WARNING: There are graphic descriptions of death in this episode.

Jack Woodford was a 20-year-old aspiring writer standing on a Chicago River bridge when he witnessed something impossible: a massive steamer slowly rolling over "like a whale going to take a nap" in calm water on a sunny morning. But Jack's story doesn't end with the disaster itself. It continues through his swim across the river, his frantic reporting for the Chicago Herald and Examiner, and ultimately to a moment that would change his understanding of life and death forever.

At 3 AM, Jack was alone in an emergency morgue with hundreds of  Eastland victims. What he experienced there defied explanation - a presence, an awareness, something that suggested the boundary between life and death wasn't as clear as anyone believed. In his own words: "You could stand in the middle of the floor and by swiveling, see them all... It was as though their brains, having been taken out of play, their thought processes, somehow continued."

This episode features Jack's complete, unedited account from his 1962 autobiography - a powerful reminder that the Eastland disaster's most compelling stories often come from voices that have been overlooked or ignored.

About Jack Woodford: Born Josiah Pitts Woolfolk in 1894/5, Jack became a controversial novelist, pulp writer, and author of the famous writing manual "Trial and Error." He died in 1971, leaving behind over 100 novels and this extraordinary eyewitness account.

RESOURCES:

Natalie Zett:

Hey, this is Natalie, and before we get started with this episode, I want you to know that there will be some very graphic descriptions of death, so please take care of yourselves. Hello, I'm Natalie Zett and welcome to Flower in the River. This podcast, inspired by my book of the same name, explores the 1915 Eastland disaster in Chicago and its enduring impact, particularly on my family's history. We'll explore the intertwining narratives of others impacted by this tragedy as well, and we'll dive into writing and genealogy and uncover the surprising supernatural elements that surface in family history research. Come along with me on this journey of discovery. Hey, this is Natalie, and welcome to episode 124 of Flower in the River, and I hope you're doing well. I'm releasing this episode on the 110th anniversary of the Eastland disaster.

Natalie Zett:

Growing up, I knew nothing about this event Heck, I didn't even know I had a great aunt, much less that she was killed on this ship called the Eastland, and I detail that discovery and everything that happened in my book Flower in the River. When I first uncovered this aspect of our family history and not just that I uncovered an entire branch of our family that I never knew existed. When all that happened, I was stunned, I was overwhelmed. I was a mess, really when I think about it. That was a mess really when I think about it. But once the shock wore off and I could step back a little bit, one question kept sing-songing in my head who are you? And I was referring to my great-aunt, who was 19 years old when she was killed on the Eastland. And much later I began to ask all the other people who had anything to do with the Eastland disaster and who are you? All of them left evidence behind that they were once here, some more than others, but there are usually photos, newspaper articles, writing records, certificates, all kinds of things, and the evidence that they left behind serves as a message from them to us, letting us know who they were, letting us know that they once were much like us.

Natalie Zett:

So today I'm honoring all who were affected by this disaster, and for me this will never be a once-a-year commemoration event, since every week I research one or more of these folks and share their stories with you because, yes, it is that important To mark the 110th anniversary of the Eastland disaster. I'll be reading a piece that I shared in a previous episode. As with most of the stories I've shared, it's never been shared other than the first time it was published, and then again in this podcast. All of these stories are so powerful that sharing them just once is not enough. And this particular story, I'm sharing it again because it is one of the most memorable haunting accounts I've ever come across. It's a relatively long passage, but stick with it. You'll get the raw perspective of a somewhat cocky 21-year-old, a writer called Jack Woodford, who witnessed the event Around 3 am or so. Jack finds himself one of the only living people in the morgue where the bodies of the victims of the Eastland were laid out, and he was looking around and began to sense that not everyone who appeared to be dead actually was, at least in the conventional sense. Let me introduce, or reintroduce you, to Jack Woodford.

Natalie Zett:

Josiah Pitts Woolfolk, better known by his pen name. Jack Woodford, was a Chicago-born novelist, pulp stylist and no-holds-barred writing guru whose life was every bit as colorful as the paperbacks he churned out. Born on March 25, 1895, jack witnessed the 1915 Eastland disaster from a bridge over the Chicago River. The surreal image of the vessel rolling as though it were a whale going to take a nap haunted him and later filled a chapter in his memoir which I'll share with you. After stints in telegraphy and newspaper work, he found quick money in Depression-era sex novels with lurid titles such as Sin and Such. Though mild by today's standards, those books sold by the millions and financed his equally flamboyant lifestyle.

Natalie Zett:

His lasting fame, however, came from the Insider Manual Trial and Error, published originally in 1933, which inspired generations of authors, and Ray Bradbury was among them. Woodford parlayed that success into a stable of how-to books, a self-owned imprint, jack Woodford Press, and a reputation as the American Rebele for his bawdy, cynical wit. Our iconoclast eventually clashed with the US Postal Service over promotional mailings and he served time for mail fraud, a stretch that he chronicled in a book called A Home Away from Home, which was published in 1962. Undaunted, he published the autobiography of Jack Woodford the same year, and that memoir remains in print today. Jack died in Williamsburg, virginia, on May 16, 1971. Here's his death notice from the New York Times.

Natalie Zett:

Josiah Pitts Woolfolk, who published hundreds of short stories and a dozen or more novels under the name Jack Woodford, died early Sunday at Eastern State Hospital. He was born in Chicago and educated at Northwestern University. His 1933 book Trial and Error, was one of the most widely read how-to-write fiction books ever published. In his later years he was convicted of mail fraud and served a term in a federal penitentiary which he described in his book, a Home Away From Home, and the hospital where Jack died was actually a state mental hospital and we honestly don't know what happened to Jack and what his challenges were. We do know that he obviously struggled and I hope that in his later years he got some support. I will be reading from the autobiography of Jack Woodford by Jack Woodford. This is Jack's account of his experience of the Eastland disaster.

Natalie Zett:

I was goofing along one morning in one of those states of antipathetic destitute, thoroughly and completely bored and dissatisfied with life. When I came to the Chicago River, my main complaint was that nothing ever happened in my life. The river and the lake, however, usually lifted me. I was near the mouth of the river and all the paraphernalia of even minor water travel usually interested me. But I still was not 21, and although I had figured and schemed and consulted, I couldn't devise any means whatever to get a passport in which I would have the slightest faith. It would have been easy enough simply to buy a fake one, as it always has been and always will be, but I had no faith in a fake one. I knew you could bribe any kind of American official to do anything, because in Chicago you saw it done every day, but I didn't believe it would work with foreign officials except sporadically. Later on I lost all interest in foreign travel, however, I don't know why. Maybe because in those days many of my friends who went abroad came back reporting with imprecations of a higher order on the bad plumbing in foreign countries.

Natalie Zett:

Chicago was the culture center of the world then, and still is, since the only thing we Americans have contributed to world culture is plumbing. I had certain veneration for it. I used to pass the crane company building down on Michigan Avenue and always stopped to look in the window and pay homage. All the latest plumbing gadgets would be there, including, for years, a two-story high water valve, which seemed to me superb. One is influenced by strange things, however, and an offhand remark of William James in one of his essays somehow stuck in my mind later A man coquetting with too many countries is as bad as a bigamist. As World War I came on and we deserted the mind-your-own-business policy of our founders, I could see what this bigamy was going to result in, and of course has Total ruin.

Natalie Zett:

This morning the sun was shining and before crossing the bridge I leaned on the railing and let the lazy flow of the river soothe me. And then movement caught my eye. I looked across the river as I watched in disoriented stupefaction a steamer large as an ocean liner slowly turned over on its side, as though it were a whale going to take a nap. I didn't believe a huge steamer had done this before my eyes lashed to a dock in perfectly calm water, in excellent weather, with no explosion. No me, nothing. I thought I had gone crazy. My mind totally refused to accept it. I was completely dazed. I couldn't move.

Natalie Zett:

Anything that huge and that sudden can do that to the mind. It has some sort of valves which shut off intellection when a thing like that happens, perhaps physiologically to protect the heart or the brain from unusually traumatic strain. The sudden daze that a thing like this causes is unbelievably hypnotic. You can't move. Your mind stops turning over altogether because it has no intention of encompassing a huge bite it can't chew up. My stomach became violently upset. I thought I was going to retch. But all this lasted briefly perhaps less than a second really, although it seemed longer. I have seen a whole crowd undergo the same reaction when somebody jumps off a high building and hits the cement and people, for the first time in their lives, realize that a body does not come apart and throw its cogs in all directions when a thing like that happens. But of all things bounces Screaming Utter confusion, followed by one of the greatest acts of quick thinking I have ever seen before or since. The captain of a river tug parked only a short distance beyond, put on full speed and rammed the steamer lying on his side at utter risk of wrecking. The tug Thus rammed against the body of the steamer. The prow caught and held the captain of the tug, swung the rear end toward a catwalk at the base of the pier, next to which was a ladder.

Natalie Zett:

If I had a mind like the captain of the tug that would work such genius in a split second, I would be very happy about the whole thing. Maybe there is, as some psychologists say, a supra-mind which takes over at times like that and directs the more or less objective surface mind. And then I ran like crazy with one thing in my mind there wasn't much of anybody around. It was a time of day when reporters would be inactive. There weren't even any police around.

Natalie Zett:

The tug was blowing its emergency blasts constantly and I knew that would alert everybody. Hysterical, screaming people were all over the side of the ship now like maggots feasting upon a whale, slipping and sliding off into the water. I had just seen 900 people die. I hadn't the faintest connection with the Chicago Herald and Examiner, but I did have one of their press cards, given to me by one of the staff. I took it out and put it in my hat band. I knew that here was a magnificent bonus for somebody.

Natalie Zett:

Everyone in the world in the next 24 hours would want to know what had caused such a seemingly preternatural phenomenon. There wasn't a cop in sight when I reached the ladder next to the tug. I just barely made it, however, because a moment later the tug was filled with enough people clambering aboard from the hull to swamp it. And they would have swamped it but for the mighty efforts of that incredible captain who somehow got them across it and started along the catwalk below the dock, completely dazed and disoriented. They would even then shove each other and fall into the river. Some of them stopped to try to locate others, screaming the names of children and other companions. Women had their clothes torn off as men fought them to get away from there, somehow knowing, directly or instinctively, that there was every possibility of an explosion of the boilers on the ship which might wreck the immediate vicinity in all directions. The captain of the tug would of course have known that he ignored the exigency and performed, minute by minute, stunts of human rearranging that ordinarily it would take ten men to perform. Even so, he seemed to be dazed, as though he were doing it unconsciously in a dream.

Natalie Zett:

All the time I have described here, from the time I stood at the other end of the bridge until what I just described, encompassed approximately three to four minutes. The most sluggish of human beings, under the impulsion of the possible necessity for leaving this world of size and going, to quote unquote, eternal bliss, can move faster than anyone who has never seen a thing like this has the faintest idea. You get the impression, watching them, that they can move through the resistance of objectivity supernaturally, but it takes the actual imminence of death to cause this. I've watched people move fast under exigencies where death might not be a clear and present danger, and they do not move that fast. But I have seen people run into burning buildings that fast to get some other person with whom they were psychologically identified, making me think that the umbilical cord, however much objectively severed, is not subjectively severed sometimes, not ever. I do believe that all objective matters are mere symbolizations of more powerful subjective matters, a belief which I know will bewilder the academically brainwashed. But as Whitney Bolton puts it, quote we have one thing in common None of us will ever know who was right and who was wrong. End quote.

Natalie Zett:

Some of the crewmen of the tug were fishing people out of the river. Other people had denuded themselves and were diving in to accomplish the same. The constant, eerie bedlam of the tug's emergency whistle, which sounded like a voice out of hell, had reached the life-saving station at the mouth of the river and they were dispatching equipment. I could hear the sounds of me, equipment and police coming from all directions, but I could also hear two crewmen from the steamer who had somewhat lamentably saved themselves without putting themselves out talking. They were just inside the door to the engine room. In order to be heard above the tug's whistle, they had to shout. Their conversation was exactly what I knew would be wanted. Quote. It was that goddamn extra deck they built on the river. Water is low today. Kiel was on the bottom.

Natalie Zett:

They all went on the river side of the boat to watch the river. While they waited there were at least a thousand more people on board than the license permits. That was it. I knew reporters would be arriving soon, but there was no way I could get away Unthinkable to try to get away the way I had come aboard. Men and women were fighting for the place where contact with the dock was made by the tug. The captain of the tug was in there, throwing men around like a madman, trying to make them give the women and children a chance. The frightened men were all for killing the women and children if necessary in order to get that contact with terra firma.

Natalie Zett:

And I was perfectly calm. Indeed, I was shaking. I was persuaded there would be another catastrophe of some kind, if not a huge boiler explosion when the cold water reached the ship's engine room in quantities, then an accident to the tug. If there were a sudden shift to the riverside of that small boat, it would undoubtedly go over. I could watch and see the most thoughtful of the male victims doing the most intelligent of all things. They were, in calm and leisurely fashion, simply swimming across the river to the other side, where there was no trouble at all.

Natalie Zett:

So I took the stuff out of my pockets of my coat it was a warm day and I had little on. It was a warm day and I had little on. I stuffed it into my pants pockets. Fortunately, my hip pockets had buttons at the top, as most hip pockets should have in Chicago, and I lashed down everything. I threw my coat away, my tie, my shoes, rolled up my pants, lowered myself over the side of the tug and struck off across the river. I wasn't a particularly good swimmer, but it wasn't far.

Natalie Zett:

I got there with the greatest of ease. By now. The bedlam was absolute. Every boat in the river was blowing its emergency horn. Small boats were filling the river. I clambered up a ladder leading to the top of the dock from the catwalk on the north side of the river and, having lost my socks during the swim, started running barefoot for the bridge. It had been closed off. I had taken the press card from my hat and stuck it back into my purse and secured the ladder by buttoning into my hip pocket. The card was soaked, but I got through the police lines with it and to the south side of the river and thence barefoot to the examiner office not far away. All this time I hadn't seen a single newspaper man. When I got to the examiner office, only a skeleton crew was there hanging onto the phones.

Natalie Zett:

The whole United States had heard about it by newspaper private wire but nobody had a word on it. Reporters couldn't even get out on the dock on the south side of the river. Police had cut it off and wouldn't even honor press cards. Ambulance personnel were using the dock. A minor press room official looked at me and rubbed his eyes and said where in the hell have you been? I was on the Eastland when it turned over, was going on.

Natalie Zett:

The excursion knew a guy at Western Electric who took me along. I was on the tug. I swam the river to get here. Who's got eight and a half shoes around here? He was speechless for a moment. He was being screamed at by wire from all over the United States for details and all he had, and all he or any other newspaper in Chicago knew, was that a boat had turned over in the river. He hadn't any reporters to send anywhere. Most papers hadn't at that time of day, either they were at home or covering routine assignments. Executives had gone out to cover it. They couldn't get anywhere near it.

Natalie Zett:

Hearst had heard about it and was raising all Billy hell with the main Hearst paper, the Chicago American. It wouldn't have occurred to him or to anybody to bother the Chicago Herald and Examiner, which was supported for decades. Nobody ever could understand why by the other Hearst paper, the Chicago American. They weren't even supposed to know about a disaster until they read about it in the American. Up to this time, a half hour had not yet passed and here was the lowly and despised Harold and examiner, equipped with a man who had, quote unquote, been on the Eastland when it turned over. I was the only man in any newspaper office in the world who knew the highly disgraceful and thoroughly actionable legally reasons why the Eastland had turned over. And all I was bleeding about was a pair of eight and a half shoes. What a nightmare. Hours and hours I hung around there bleeding out what little I knew, describing and re-describing everything, while everybody in the place who could write on a typewriter took it down.

Natalie Zett:

That was in the days of extra papers, a racket which died out with the radio. A city was accustomed then to about an extra a week from some paper with nothing in it. This was the most legitimate occasion for an extra since the Chicago fire. It was carnage. I quit altogether until somebody got me some shoes I could wear. I took off everything but my shorts and had people drying out the stuff in front of electric heaters, which made the already hot room vile.

Natalie Zett:

But on and on it went. The first thing of importance was that I was to get paid for it, but I wasn't to get any credit of any kind for it, which I didn't want. Quote take the cash and let the credit go. End quote. To give me credit would have prevented the wild bleats about the Chicago Herald and Examiner. That it should have been on its toes because a lousy sex writer who had chiseled a press card happened to have been there would have been just too too much. And besides there was the slight manner of my not having been on the Eastland when it turned over, but I had been on it for similar excursions previous to that.

Natalie Zett:

What fascinated everybody was that I had found out what caused it and that there was a stink involved, with regulations and inspections having been ignored or bribed into quiescence, which turned out to be true. There were nine or ten government investigations, half a dozen city ones and whatnot. None of them came to anything. Some minor character, as usual, got the blame and everybody hushed up. Since it was so flagrant it couldn't be fully exposited without hurting really big politicians. Later they raised the thing, took off the top heavy deck and I guess it is still being used by the Navy for training recruits at the Great Lakes Naval Training Station. It had been a Western electric picnic. The boat always before had been used for highly colorful purposes. Why it had to turn over with a load of the pious, hardworking citizens of Chicago is a not-too-inviting mystery, but you are invited to it if you wish.

Natalie Zett:

I wasn't particularly affected by the accident itself, although it left an indelible impression on my mind. What did in some way completely change me was the something that happened afterward. An emergency morgue was opened to get the 900 or so dead all together in one place where private undertakers could call for them. This was a small auditorium and they were laid out on the floor all over the place. As they had been found naked or fully clothed, people tried to sort out the dead children, to find out which bodies to put near them, in an attempt to group families. Women had all lost their purses and had no identification. Children had none. Even many of the men had none. So people who might know them and be able to help in this sorting were asked to come night and day. Help in this sorting were asked to come night and day. Thousands of others came, so it was hard to know who to admit. It came to admitting anybody and everybody.

Natalie Zett:

By this time I was too nervously exhausted to sleep so I went in a side door with my dried-out press card and had a look in a side door with my dried-out press card and had a look that I'll never forget. I remember one big man, fully clothed, who had evidently been a sport. He was about 30 and had on the widest sports shirt. Money could then buy White shoes, striped pants, a red blazer, a huge imitation diamond in his red tie, magnificently built and over six feet. And there he lay, looking so silly, with his mouth open and for some reason his eyes popped clear out of their sockets.

Natalie Zett:

When I got in it was about 3 am. There were few people in the room, very few live people. It is the strangest sensation in the world to be in a room full of people, none of them breathing. The unnatural stillness that accrues then is apprehended as deadly danger of some sort by the subconscious, which notes the lack of breathing if the conscious mind does not. And there is another perception, far more subtle and totally unexplainable, and totally unexplainable Several times in riots.

Natalie Zett:

I was aware, as all policemen and reporters are, that there is such a thing as mental infection, some form of extrasensory perception which appears to come from berserk minds and upsets the equanimity of the most experienced officers or reporters. They never talk about it unless needled to do so, and then they will all admit that it is very hard to control and is a very definitely recognized sort of obsession mentally. These people in the huge room of death, these people in the huge room of death, all of them visible at the same time, nearly a thousand. You could stand in the middle of the floor and, by swiveling, see them all. They had died under conditions of extreme stress. From them you took the same extrasensory perception, if that's what it was that you took from people in a riot. It was as though their brains having been taken out of play, their organic brains, their thought processes, somehow continued. Not only could I feel it, those around me were obviously aware of it also, and one of them later told me he had the same feeling toward it that I had.

Natalie Zett:

There has long been contention among doctors as to when death actually occurs, whether at the time of the stoppage of the heart or after. Apparently, it is not at the time of the stoppage of the heart, since people have been revived whose hearts have been long stopped. The feeling that comes from a lot of dead people around one and soldiers have often confirmed to me precisely what I am saying here is one of extreme, unexplained nervous apprehension, not explained or dwelt upon even in the standard book on nervous apprehension, written under the title Nervous Apprehension by Hackel. He attributes all nervous apprehension to sex spaces. This sort of thing I am describing is nothing of the sort. It is something esoteric and, since it is not explainable academically, should probably not be talked about at all. But it is there.

Natalie Zett:

If you had been there, you would have sworn that some sort of thinking was still going on, deriving out of or attached in some way to those people an awareness perhaps that I hate to think of, don't you? Again, I am not being mystic, I am just being puzzled. Everything puzzles me. I too was told what to think about everything, but I am curiously unamenable to that sort of thing, a fact which I deplore as much as do those who have reviewed my books and found that I am silly because I do not think as they do. I deplore it because I too would like to live my life comfortably snoring in approved academic strokes. It is easier and I like to do the easy thing also. Nobody is more mentally lazy than I am. Nobody is more mentally lazy than I am. But that room remains with me. It totally changed my ideas as to life and death, lessened to me the importance of life. People look so silly when they are dead. Not pitiful, just silly.

Natalie Zett:

All the things that sport thought were so important to him, and lying there he was an ugly, silly lump when his expectations as touched his life had been so thoroughly over what. I have always been aware of that ever since, and not too much huffed or puffed about what tomorrow will bring, it reduced in my thought what might be called importances, liabilities, pressing exigencies. It was, on the whole, a relieving catharsis. I wouldn't have missed it. It had value. I think of the habit at the feasts of the early Egyptians, greeks, romans and others, of bringing miniature skeletons or death's heads into feastings to maintain a sense of proportion. Maybe that habit, if revived at our own wild parties, would serve as some sort of tranquilizing influence, as it seemed to be in those days.

Natalie Zett:

It says you'll be lying around somewhere someday, perhaps within the hour, looking a ridiculous blob. So why attach any importance at all to your euphoria or your manic depressive disposition? When people look at you in your coffin they will have a hard-to-suppress impulse to laugh at you while feeling cozily alive themselves. That is all. None of it is important. Relax. If we could just learn that instead of the preposterous pep drivel with which our brains are drowned by our most extroversive confreres.

Natalie Zett:

I think perhaps my habit of quietly withdrawing started from that day At least that is as far back as I can remember the beginning of it. Listening rather than adding to endless cackle which merely repeats what philosophers and psychologists and metaphysicians said years ago, and repeating it in inept, garbled fashion far less well, it is almost as efficacious a thought as one a veteran reporter gave me Quote when you are interviewing some big shot, think of him with his clothes off. When I am talking to some Superman, I think of him lying on his back with his big mouth wide open, staring up at the ceiling, perhaps knowing what has happened to him and unable to do anything about it. And I wish to giggle. And when I think of my own busy scuttlings, however, I can giggle, having such a thought, and that is enormously wonderfully helpful.

Natalie Zett:

I've been reading from the autobiography of Jack Woodford by Jack Woodford, copyright 1962, and this section, of course, was about his experience of the Eastland disaster. In the last couple of years or so, I've shared a number of first-person accounts of the Eastland disaster with you. The biggest surprise is how many first-person accounts there are and how few have been shared, but this one is quite extraordinary. This is one of the few, if perhaps the only, though, that talks about what it was like to be in the morgue in the middle of the night. An experience like this that touched so many lives all at once, has all kinds of ramifications, I think, and can I prove any of that? Of course not. Neither could Jack prove what he experienced inside the morgue, but he was sensitive enough and aware enough to realize that something was going on, something beyond the usual five senses, and he wrote about that. And, as we know, jack had quite a challenging life, but I will forever appreciate and be grateful to him for taking the time to share his experience of the Eastland disaster.

Natalie Zett:

It's the 110th anniversary and it's a day that changed so many of our families. And it's a day that changed so many of our families and I know I have a number of Eastland families who listen regularly to this podcast, so I know it changed your families as well and just know that I will continue researching and doing the best that I can to honor these people. Honoring these people is not a once-a-year event or a marketing opportunity or some kind of advertising gimmick or whatever. This happens all the time with tragedies. By the way, it's not just the Eastland, but that's not what this is all about. It's about doing the work and it's about really wanting to get to know who they are. We know how they died, but we want to know how they lived.

Natalie Zett:

So thank you again for joining me on this journey. We will continue next week with some new stories and we'll revisit some of our old friends as well. In the meantime, take care of yourselves, take care of each other, and I will talk to you next week. Hey, that's it for this episode and thanks for coming along for the ride. Please subscribe or follow so you can keep up with all the episodes, and for more information please go to my website, that's wwwflowerintherivercom. I hope you'll consider buying my book, available as audiobook, ebook, paperback and hardcover, because I still owe people money and that's my running joke. But the one thing I'm serious about is that this podcast and my book are dedicated to the memory of all who experienced the Eastland disaster of 1915. Goodbye for now.

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