Thanks again for your insight history and professionalism .. My opinion is that what happened on that miserable night was a combination of everything that could go wrong did.Fate is guided by much more powerful forces not only spiritually naturally and man made that no one will be able to tell the real story. Only perceptions of what may have been experienced can tell an accurate story of the fateful night. I only give credance to those who really know the possibilities that exist out there. I know from my limited experience how much respect I have gained for those sailors. Sailing the R/v Roger Simmons was a wonderful time working with Capt Ron Ingrahm and Capt Morgan Howell learned more in one summer about sailing than I can remember. My experience at J W Westcott and Gaelic Tug taught of the lifestyle these brave men and women face. I am very proud to have worked as a maritimmer and cherish those years the relationships experiences. That's why even though I don't work in the industry my love for boatnerding stays with me. I hope my opinions are meaningful and well thought out Capt Metz best of good health to you will be at the ISMA convention in Feb.
Bruce Lolmaugh 3long 2short
November 10,1975
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mngermanshepherd
Re: November 10,1975
I grew up in Poplar, WI and graduated from Northwestern. Even in 1998, I went to school with one of Mike Armagost's relatives (she was a year ahead of me), and many of those names on the list were familiar to me, as my family was one of the original settlers of Ashland and Moquah.
Thanks again, Capt. Metz.
Thanks again, Capt. Metz.
guest 5 wrote:Thank you Captain Metz for helping to keep the memory alive. The night she went down was parent teacher conferences for my school. One of my teachers and principal was Mr. Lawrence Berube in Poplar, WI. He was also a teacher my dad had in Iron River, WI. My dad was sitting in the office with Mr. Berube when Mr., Berube received a phone call about the Fritz missing. He received that call because a member of his family Mike Armagost was on board. My dad went to school with Mike. A few years apart in school, but the school and town of Iron River was small enough where you knew everyone. I will never forget that night for many reasons one of which is that it was the first time I ever saw my dad with tears in his eyes.
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guest 5
Re: November 10,1975
Thank you Captain Metz for helping to keep the memory alive. The night she went down was parent teacher conferences for my school. One of my teachers and principal was Mr. Lawrence Berube in Poplar, WI. He was also a teacher my dad had in Iron River, WI. My dad was sitting in the office with Mr. Berube when Mr., Berube received a phone call about the Fritz missing. He received that call because a member of his family Mike Armagost was on board. My dad went to school with Mike. A few years apart in school, but the school and town of Iron River was small enough where you knew everyone. I will never forget that night for many reasons one of which is that it was the first time I ever saw my dad with tears in his eyes.
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pete in gan
Re: November 10,1975
Has anybody noticed at :38 secs into the video, the ship striking the opposite wall during the sideways launch sequence?? I'm not a structural engineer, but I can't help think that was an oversight or some chains broke during the launch. Were there any repairs required to the hull? I read Capt Dudley Paquettes book on the sinking. He mentioned that wheelsmen thought she steered kind of sloppily during heavy seas. Could this have been a contributing factor?
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Denny
Re: November 10,1975
I heartedly agree with all you gentleman and your comments as well. I wish to thank our dear friend Capt. Metz for keeping the Legend of the Fitz and your story about that fateful night alive in our minds and hearts as well. May I also echo those comments from other readers "May the men from the Fitz forever rest in peace and be safe and protected from the Gales of November!" Just a short story on how I found about the Fitz, I was only three when she went down. I found out about her legend when I was very young on a trip to the Soo with my family. As I rode the Locks tour boats, I heard the song played and was captivated by it. Later, I met the mayor of the Soo and he told me about the Fitz legend and gave me a drawing of her and the key to the city. I no longer have the drawing unfortunately but, still have the original 45 RPM record of the Fitzgerald in my collection as well.
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scott
Re: November 10,1975
Captain Metz, thank you for keeping this memory alive! In 1975 I was attending elementary school in Duluth and one of my classmates was the son of Fitzgerald Deckhand Thomas Borgerson. I remember watching the news that night and hearing of the loss. Part of me wants a thorough excavation of the wreck site to finally put to rest all of the theories of the sinking. That is tempered by my respect for those who lost loved ones that night. May those who sail the lakes keep this memory alive.
Re: November 10,1975
Thanks Capt. Metz for sharing your poignant story for another anniversary. I hope you're on the mend and doing well!
Paul Anderson
Paul Anderson
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Andrew
Re: November 10,1975
Thank you, cap. God rest the souls of those who perished on the Fitz.
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captrmetz
November 10,1975
,:I write this story ever year on the anniversary of the Edmund Fitz Gerald sinking. We have new boat nerds joining our family each year and this story goes out for them.
November 10, 1975
We had just finished loading 26 rail cars full of newsprint in Thunder Bay and were getting ready to depart the dock for Superior. By the time all the cars were chained to the deck, the Northwest wind had freshened.
I checked the Mafor (coded marine forecast), and found that northwest gales were posted for Lake Superior. Then a special marine warning was broadcast over Channel 16 - storm warnings were up. It wasn’t a night to go anywhere. The Incan Superior would stay right where she was because of the approaching storm.
Some of the crew members who made their home in Thunder Bay went home for the evening and were to report back to the ship at midnight. I went home and returned at 2200 hours for a little rest before we got underway.
When I came back aboard, the wheels man called me into the wheelhouse. Right away, I heard the marine radio. “Calling Edmund Fitzgerald, calling Edmund Fitzgerald. Coast Guard Group Duluth calling. Over.”
The call was repeated. No answer!
I stayed on the bridge to find out why the Fitzgerald did not answer. After several more calls, she still didn’t answer. “Must be the bad weather,” I told the wheels man. “Radio signal’s not carrying very well. I’m going down to my room to take a nap.” I thought nothing more about it, because this situation had happened many times before in bad weather.
The crew had all returned before their scheduled time was up. We cast off our lines and departed the safety of our dock and went out into the bay. There were about a dozen ships that had entered the bay during the night to wait out the storm at anchor. I also noticed the Fitzgerald still hadn’t answered the radio call.
We hauled around Angus Island and set her on course for Rock of Ages Lighthouse, some two hours distant.
Over and over, the Coast Guard called the Fitzgerald, but she still did not answer. Then came the most chilling announcement I ever heard in all my 30 years at sea.
“Attention, all ships. Edmund Fitzgerald is reported missing with all hands aboard.”
I could not believe my ears. That was impossible in this day and age, just impossible. This couldn’t happen in 1975! We all kept our ears glued to the radio that night and into the next morning. Our ship was heading for Superior following close to the North shore to keep in lee of the land.
After the gruesome announcement, we all sat in silence. No one said a word; each man was thinking his own thoughts. The only sounds were of the cold wind and blowing snow and seas hitting our ship’s sides and forming ice on the railroad cars as the spray washed over our decks.
“How in the world could any man launch a lifeboat in those raging seas? It would be an impossible task,” I thought. Then I said a silent prayer for each of those poor souls. “If I were out there on that storm-tossed ship without a prayer of getting into a lifeboat, what would I do?” I asked myself. “I think I would grab a bottle of vodka and head for my room and lock the door behind me.”
The next day, we arrived in Superior encased in blue ice. All the shore radio and television stations were broadcasting the sinking of a ship in Lake Superior the night before. They didn’t know the name of the ship that went down. There were dozens of ships on the big lake that night, and many families ashore did not know whether it was their loved one’s ship that had sunk. We called our company right away to tell them we were fine, and the company called the families of every one of our crew to let them know we were tied up in Superior - to their great relief.
Because of all the snow that had fallen during the storm, we could not unload or load. So that night I went down to The Main, a local sailors’ hangout. I ordered a drink, and then another, and another. I could not erase from my mind what had happened.
I looked up to see people dancing and singing with not a care in the world. They probably didn’t know that 29 men were lying in their ship at the bottom of Lake Superior.
After a few more drinks, I couldn’t stand the feeling any more. I walked over to the stage and up to the microphone. “Does anybody know a ship went down last night carrying its entire crew to the bottom of Lake Superior?” The music stopped and so did the dancing. You could hear a pin drop.
“Finally,” I thought, “now they know, now someone cares.” I asked the band to play something fitting for the Fitzgerald and her crew. They chose a song called “Sea of Heartbreak.” I bowed my head, then walked out and returned to my ship.
Next morning, the deckhands were out on deck chopping thick ice with axes and shoveling the broken pieces of ice over the side of the ship. The train arrived with 26 empty boxcars for our return trip. We off loaded the full cars and loaded the empties. Then we headed back to Thunder Bay for another load.
Life carried on as usual
November 10, 1975
We had just finished loading 26 rail cars full of newsprint in Thunder Bay and were getting ready to depart the dock for Superior. By the time all the cars were chained to the deck, the Northwest wind had freshened.
I checked the Mafor (coded marine forecast), and found that northwest gales were posted for Lake Superior. Then a special marine warning was broadcast over Channel 16 - storm warnings were up. It wasn’t a night to go anywhere. The Incan Superior would stay right where she was because of the approaching storm.
Some of the crew members who made their home in Thunder Bay went home for the evening and were to report back to the ship at midnight. I went home and returned at 2200 hours for a little rest before we got underway.
When I came back aboard, the wheels man called me into the wheelhouse. Right away, I heard the marine radio. “Calling Edmund Fitzgerald, calling Edmund Fitzgerald. Coast Guard Group Duluth calling. Over.”
The call was repeated. No answer!
I stayed on the bridge to find out why the Fitzgerald did not answer. After several more calls, she still didn’t answer. “Must be the bad weather,” I told the wheels man. “Radio signal’s not carrying very well. I’m going down to my room to take a nap.” I thought nothing more about it, because this situation had happened many times before in bad weather.
The crew had all returned before their scheduled time was up. We cast off our lines and departed the safety of our dock and went out into the bay. There were about a dozen ships that had entered the bay during the night to wait out the storm at anchor. I also noticed the Fitzgerald still hadn’t answered the radio call.
We hauled around Angus Island and set her on course for Rock of Ages Lighthouse, some two hours distant.
Over and over, the Coast Guard called the Fitzgerald, but she still did not answer. Then came the most chilling announcement I ever heard in all my 30 years at sea.
“Attention, all ships. Edmund Fitzgerald is reported missing with all hands aboard.”
I could not believe my ears. That was impossible in this day and age, just impossible. This couldn’t happen in 1975! We all kept our ears glued to the radio that night and into the next morning. Our ship was heading for Superior following close to the North shore to keep in lee of the land.
After the gruesome announcement, we all sat in silence. No one said a word; each man was thinking his own thoughts. The only sounds were of the cold wind and blowing snow and seas hitting our ship’s sides and forming ice on the railroad cars as the spray washed over our decks.
“How in the world could any man launch a lifeboat in those raging seas? It would be an impossible task,” I thought. Then I said a silent prayer for each of those poor souls. “If I were out there on that storm-tossed ship without a prayer of getting into a lifeboat, what would I do?” I asked myself. “I think I would grab a bottle of vodka and head for my room and lock the door behind me.”
The next day, we arrived in Superior encased in blue ice. All the shore radio and television stations were broadcasting the sinking of a ship in Lake Superior the night before. They didn’t know the name of the ship that went down. There were dozens of ships on the big lake that night, and many families ashore did not know whether it was their loved one’s ship that had sunk. We called our company right away to tell them we were fine, and the company called the families of every one of our crew to let them know we were tied up in Superior - to their great relief.
Because of all the snow that had fallen during the storm, we could not unload or load. So that night I went down to The Main, a local sailors’ hangout. I ordered a drink, and then another, and another. I could not erase from my mind what had happened.
I looked up to see people dancing and singing with not a care in the world. They probably didn’t know that 29 men were lying in their ship at the bottom of Lake Superior.
After a few more drinks, I couldn’t stand the feeling any more. I walked over to the stage and up to the microphone. “Does anybody know a ship went down last night carrying its entire crew to the bottom of Lake Superior?” The music stopped and so did the dancing. You could hear a pin drop.
“Finally,” I thought, “now they know, now someone cares.” I asked the band to play something fitting for the Fitzgerald and her crew. They chose a song called “Sea of Heartbreak.” I bowed my head, then walked out and returned to my ship.
Next morning, the deckhands were out on deck chopping thick ice with axes and shoveling the broken pieces of ice over the side of the ship. The train arrived with 26 empty boxcars for our return trip. We off loaded the full cars and loaded the empties. Then we headed back to Thunder Bay for another load.
Life carried on as usual