The Rhinelander Daily News - Online news and information for the Rhinelander, Wisconsin region

On the Great Lakes, November is referred to as “The Month of Storms.” The storm that hit when the Edmund Fitzgerald went down was one of the worst ever, with winds topping 45 knots and waves as high as 30 feet.

It was Nov. 10, 1975.

The National Transportation Safety Board (NTSB) agreed that the sinking was caused by taking on water through one or more hatch covers damaged by the impact of heavy seas over her deck.

The Lake Carriers Association contends her foundering was caused by flooding through bottom and ballast tank damage resulting from bottoming on the Six Fathom Shoal between Caribou and Michipicoten Islands.

Whatever the cause, the Edmund Fitzgerald, with a cargo of 26,116 tons of taconite pellets, went down and 29 officers and crew were lost.

The wreckage broke into two sections and lies in 530 feet of water 17 miles from the entrance to Whitefish Bay.

Richard Metz of Rhinelander was the captain of the Incan Superior at the time.

His father, Claude, built the Rustic Aire west of town on Highway 8.

“Vince Jordan taught me how to scuba dive at Town Line Lake,” said Metz. “I did my first dive of 90 feet in Trout Lake north of Woodruff. Vince and I used to go to Isle Royale to see the freighters. One time we stopped at Ashland and went aboard a freighter. I went back to the mill in Rhinelander where I was working and quit. I became a deckhand on the ore carrier Thomas Wilson and worked my way up to captain in 1980. I retired in 1999. I write for the boatnerd website, it’s all about Great Lakes Shipping.

The writing brings back memories, it’s like keeping a log book.”

Let Captain Metz tell the story of the night the Fitz went down.

“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 wheelsman 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 but there was 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 wheelsman. ‘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 the 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 ours 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 ships 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 in 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 everyone 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 sailor’s hangout. I ordered a drink, 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.”

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Comments »

Chesty Puller wrote on Oct 20, 2008 7:46 PM:

" Does anyone know where the love of God goes
When the words turn the minutes to hours
The searchers all say they'd have made Whitefish Bay, If they'd fifteen more miles behind her. "

Thom Holden wrote on Oct 19, 2008 9:48 AM:

" Dick,
Thanks for sharing your memories. And, boy do I miss the regular passing of the Incan Superior. Thom "

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