Zodiac: A Name Anchored in the Bay

The Zodiac Killer’s chosen name has inspired endless speculation—astrology, watches, and comic strips have all been proposed. But sometimes, the most compelling possibilities are those grounded in place and history. One such possibility may have been hiding in plain sight: a schooner named Zodiac, once a fixture of San Francisco Bay.

The story begins in 1924, when renowned naval architect William H. Hand Jr. designed a sleek, V-bottom schooner for Robert Wood and J. Seaward Johnson of the Johnson & Johnson Corporation. Named Zodiac, the schooner was used in competitive sailing until 1931, when it was sold to the San Francisco Bar Pilots Association—the oldest maritime organization on the Pacific Coast.

Upon its arrival in the Bay Area, the schooner Zodiac was modified at the Moore Dry Dock Company in Oakland. Its origins trace back to a lineage of industrial powerhouses beginning with Donahue Iron and Brass Company in 1849, evolving through Union Iron Works and Prescott, Scott and Company, before ultimately becoming Moore Dry Dock. The site was instrumental in building and repairing submarines, cruisers, and destroyers—a dominance that loomed large over the Bay.

After its modifications, the schooner was renamed California and served as a pilot vessel, guiding ships safely through San Francisco Bay from 1931 until 1972. It was the largest schooner used by the Bar Pilots Association and remained in constant view for four decades—well within the period during which the Zodiac Killer operated.

In 1973, the vessel was sold again and renamed Zodiac, its original name restored. Today, it sails off the coast of Washington State, but its legacy lingers in the waters it once navigated daily.

So why does this matter?

Because the Zodiac Killer’s letters demonstrate an obsession with symbolism, layered meaning, and identity as performance. His name was not randomly chosen. It was part of a calculated image. And if this man had ties to the waterfront—through employment, family, or personal fascination—then the Zodiac schooner would not have gone unnoticed. He may have seen it docked, heard it referenced in conversation, or even admired it in childhood.

The connection deepens when you consider the Moore Dry Dock’s wartime production and maritime legacy. The pen featured on the Zodiac’s November 8, 1969, dripping pen card has long puzzled researchers. Turned sideways, its structure resembles a submarine. This detail—perhaps coincidental—gains new weight when you realize submarines were part of Moore’s output, and the same shipyard modified the Zodiac schooner.

Could these threads be symbolic residue from a life touched by ships, shipyards, and the layered identity of San Francisco Bay? Could the Zodiac’s name have been inspired not by the stars—but by steel and a vessel name that was already etched into the local memory?

It’s a question worth asking—not just for what it might reveal about his name, but for what it might say about the man behind it.