On January 15, 1919, Boston’s North End neighborhood experienced one of history’s stickiest disasters. A massive storage tank holding 2.3 million gallons of molasses suddenly ruptured, unleashing a 25-foot-high wave of viscous syrup that raced through the streets at 35 mph. This bizarre catastrophe, known as the Great Molasses Flood, killed 21 people, injured 150, and left the city smelling like a failed bakery experiment for weeks.
The tank, owned by Purity Distilling Company, had been hastily constructed to meet demand for industrial alcohol during World War I. Locals had long complained about leaks, but no one expected the entire structure to fail. When it did, the results were catastrophic. The molasses wave demolished buildings, flipped railcars, and even knocked a truck into Boston Harbor. Survivors described struggling through waist-deep syrup that hardened like cement in the winter cold, trapping victims in a sweet, suffocating embrace.
Rescue efforts were nightmarish. Firefighters sprayed saltwater to thin the molasses, while police and sailors used makeshift stretchers to pull people from the goo. Cleanup took weeks, with sand spread to absorb the mess and saltwater hoses battling the stickiness. The disaster led to stricter industrial regulations—because apparently, “don’t build shoddy tanks full of deadly syrup” wasn’t obvious before.
Today, locals claim you can still smell molasses on hot summer days. As for the tank’s legacy? It’s a reminder that even the sweetest things can turn deadly—and that Bostonians really don’t need help making their history weird.
