NetNews Usenet Archive 1992 #27/NN_1992_27.iso/spool/alt/greatla/849

Internet Message Format | 1992-11-17 | 15.8 KB

Path: sparky!uunet!caen!sdd.hp.com!nobody
From: [e-mail] (Tim McDonough)
Newsgroups: alt.great-lakes
Subject: Edmund Fitzgerald
Date: 16 Nov 1992 16:51:44 -0800
Organization: Hewlett Packard, San Diego Division
Lines: 343
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Since there has been so much talk of the EF lately, I thought it was time to do
a repost of some old articles I had saved on the subject!

                                -Tim
===============================================================================
Hewlett Packard - SPR                                  Timothy M. McDonough
16399 W. Bernardo Drive        [phone]          1350 N. Esc. Blvd. #40
San Diego, CA 92127            [e-mail]          Escondido, CA 92026-2520
[phone]              uunet!sdd.hp.com!tmm       [phone]
===============================================================================
From samsung!olivea!uunet!midway!msuinfo!sharkey!lopez!steve Mon Aug 05 10:34:31 PDT 1991
Article: 942 of alt.great-lakes
Path: sdd.hp.com!samsung!olivea!uunet!midway!msuinfo!sharkey!lopez!steve
From: [e-mail] (Steve Lasich)
Newsgroups: alt.great-lakes
Subject: Lyrics: The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald
Message-ID: <[e-mail]>
Date: 2 Aug 91 22:17:34 GMT
Sender: [e-mail] (Steve Lasich)
Lines: 87
X-bbs-room: Great Lakes Net (room #202)
Status: RO

Some people expressed interest in this, but nobody else seems
to have posted it yet.

Words, capitalization, punctuation and spelling as per
_The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald_ by Frederick Stonehouse,
Avery Color Studios, Au Train, Michigan, copyright 1977, '82
and '89.

The Stonehouse book shows pictures of a smashed up life-boat
(500 CU. FEET, 50 PERSONS) and underwater shots of the
Fitzgerald's final resting place.  It's a spooky book.  But
then I see Lake Superior every day so I might be susceptible.

=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=

    THE WRECK OF THE EDMUND FITZGERALD

            By Gordon Lightfoot
Reprinted without permission of Moose Music Ltd.

The legend lives on from the Chippewa on down
of the big lake they called Gitche Gumee
The lake it is said never gives up her dead
when the skies of November turn gloomy
With a load of iron ore 26,000 tons more
than the Edmund Fitzgerald weighed empty
that good ship and true was a bone to be chewed
when the gales of November came early

The ship was the pride of the American side
comin' back from some mill in Wisconsin
As the big freighters go it was bigger than most
with a crew and good captain well seasoned
concluding some terms with a couple of steel firms
when they left fully loaded for Cleveland
and late that night when the ship's bell rang
could it be the north wind they'd bin feelin'

The wind in the wires made a tattletale sound
and a wave broke over the railing
and every man knew as the captain did too
twas the witch of November come stealin'
The dawn came late and the breakfast had to wait
when the gales of November came slashin'
When afternoon came it was freezin' rain
in the face of a hurricane west wind

When suppertime came the old cook came on deck
sayin' "fellas it's too rough to feed ya"
At seven p.m. a main hatchway caved in
he said "fellas it's bin good to know ya"
The captain wired in he had water comin' in
and the good ship and crew was in peril
and later that night when 'is lights went out of sight
came the wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald

Does anyone know where the love of god goes
when the waves turn the minutes to hours?
The searchers all say the'd have made Whitefish Bay
if they'd put fifteen more miles behind 'em
They might have split up or they might have capsized
they may have broke deep and took water
and all that remains is the faces and the names
of the wives and the sons and the daughters

Lake Huron rolls Superior sings
in the rooms of her ice water mansion
Old Michigan steams like a young man's dreams
the islands and bays are for sportsmen
and farther below Lake Ontario
takes in what Lake Erie can send her
and the iron boats go as the mariners all know
with the gales of November remembered

In a musty old hall in Detroit they prayed
in the maritime sailors' cathedral
the church bell chimed 'til it rang 29 times
for each man on the Edmund Fitzgerald
The legend lives on from the Chippewa on down
of the big lake they called Gitche Gumee
Superior they said never gives up her dead
when the gales of November come early

--
Steve Lasich
[e-mail]
[e-mail]
===============================================================================
From wupost!uunet!meaddata!dougr Wed Oct 02 13:58:57 PDT 1991
Article: 1003 of alt.great-lakes
Newsgroups: alt.great-lakes
Path: sdd.hp.com!wupost!uunet!meaddata!dougr
From: [e-mail] (Doug Ritter)
Subject: Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald
Sender: [e-mail] (Usenet)
Organization: Mead Data Central, Dayton OH
Date: Wed, 2 Oct 1991 18:52:14 GMT
Message-ID: <[e-mail]>
Distribution: usa
Lines: 213
Status: RO


Here is the story I promised to post.  Like I said,
it's not 'Wuthering Heights', but it does convey some
of the terror Superior can generate.


Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald

by Robert B. High

This is only a story, but it really happened November
10, 1975.  The day began in Paradise.  Dark, forbidding
with a chill northerly wind that held the icy breath
of winter yet to come.  Little shops were opening, the
kids off to school.

Lake Superior, Queen of all lakes, had changed her
beautiful blue gown with the frothy white lace, to dark
green with a series of solid white edging for as far as the
eye could see.  She appeared to the more experienced
fishermen and some of the older fresh water sailors who
lived along her shores to be vexed over something.  At least
one man and possibly several men paused as they walked along
her clean sandy beach south of Whitefish Point or along the
rocky agate-strewn north shore west of the point and wondered
what had been done to the old girl this time to make her so.
Had we sailed too many times over her skirts?  Had we polluted
the waters around her feet too much?  They knew that on
occasion, she could exact her toll as tribute for these
invasions and desecrations.  Her toll would be the lives of the
sailors, sailing across her regal hem at this very moment if
she deemed it so.

Many of the residents of the area, from Whitefish Point
through Shelldrake, Paradise, Silver Creek, on along the
shoreline who had lived at least several years here were less
aware of the situation because death from the lake had not
touched their dear ones or friends as the commercial fishermen
or sailors had experienced it.  Yet they seemed to feel tense.
It was a tension that defied explanation.  It wasn't talked
about.  They just started the day's business as usual.

Some of the oldtimers could be seen lifting their faces to the
sky and then looking quickly down.  Each one lost in his or
her own thoughts as they hunched their shoulders against the
rising wind and trudged along their way on some errand.

At noon the street and house lights were on where usually they
were not needed during the day.  The clouds scudded along in
dark ominous blotches growing larger and lowering toward the
pine and hardwood tree tops.  The wind causing a deep moaning
sound to come to the ears.  The sound was accompanied by the
growing roar of waves breaking a thousand yards off shore and
finally pounding on the sand in an angry tempo like the steady
toll of a giant bell.  It promised one Hell of day on land and
"plenty hell on the lake," as the saying goes around here.

By 4:30 PM, day and night seemed to crash together.  Darkness
came early, as if to cover the frightful deed our angry queen
was about to commit.  As if to aid her with the already unstable
elements, she was to seat beside her a consort.  That consort
would be Satan himself.

The townspeople had closed their shops early on November the 10th
and joined with their families around stoves with chill-chasing
fires crackling within, or near the hearthside that offered a
more cheerful light.  People who love each other draw together
when something they can't understand seems to cloud the emotions.
It was the thing to do.  The children appeared to be a bit more
demanding this night.  It was difficult to concentrate on homework
lessons and parents seemed to sense a need of reassurance.  What
was this tense feeling?  No one knew.

Thus, out came the popcorn to be popped and buttered.  A joint
effort indeed.  Out came the books to be read aloud for all to
listen to.  Stories to be told of older days, never never land;
fun and fancy.  Each to his own.

About 5:30 p.m., the rain started in cold stinging shards,
pelting window panes like tiny pebbles thrown against them by
an angry god.

The wind had slowly shifted to west and south, and while doing
so, rose to a howl.  It seemed to lift itself from the tree tops
and hurl itself into mad oblivion.

Some people who lived on the lakeshore were at their windows with
binoculars trying to see, in vain, the lights of the ore freighters
that usually sparkled on the horizon.  The night was as black as
they could ever remember and probably a few offered a prayer for
those brave lads they knew were at the absolute mercy of an angry
queen.

By now the watery dress of the queen had been changed to black.
As black as the first stage of oblivion.  It seemed conciousness
had even left the night.

The waves had grown to mountainous size.  Spume blew from their
tops in solid sheets of black water against the side of sterns and
forecastles with main decks awash like an ebony shroud.

Radar became their only hope to search their way around Whitefish
Point and into the relative safety of Whitefish Bay, for at
5:33 p.m., the beacon at Whitefish Point lighthouse had, for
some unexplainable reason, gone out.  Since the station is
automatic, there was no one there to repair it.

The wind, by this time had gone completely wild.  Eighty to
eighty-five miles per hour with gusts well over ninety were
registered.  On land, trees were crashing to the ground unheard
in the roar of the wind.

A few residents from Whitefish Point down to Eckerman sent C.B.
radio messages to each other.  Those who had marine monitors or
scanners, as they are called, made coffee and with worried frowns,
prepared to listen through the rest of the night.

A night gone mad.

Around 6:30 p.m. worried townspeople were nervously phoning friends
who lived along the beach.  Inland, they could hear the thunderous
crashing of the waves and the roaring of the wind, each seeming to
be trying to drown out the noise of the other.  "Can you see any
freighter light?", they would ask.  "Nope," came the rather glum
and noncommital reply.  "Can't see a thing out there."  "Must be
terrible out there, eh?"  the caller might say or ask in the form
of an anxious question.  Because of the tension and worry each one
might have felt, the words (disaster or drowning) were not mentioned.
"Call me if you see anything," or "call me if there is anything I can
do to help."  May seem strange to the reader, because no one could
see anything at all and there was nothing anyone could do to help
on a night as insane with wind, wave and rain as this one was.
Sincerity in feeling; true concern for the living who were rolling
and pitching on the largest inland lake in the world has that effect
on us and it is understood by everyone.

Usually, before they rang off, a final reply, "Sure will, I'm going
to stay up for a while tonight anyway, so I'll call if something
comes up."  There seemed to be a reluctance to hang up the phone,
but everything that needed to be said, had been said.

By 7:00 p.m. the queen of all the lakes had now reached the apex
of her wrath.  It was time now for her decision.  All the elements
she had mustered forth were hers to command.  The wind, it seemed,
in order to please her, reached for it's full fury.  The waves in
order to justify her decision had peaked at forty feet or more.
The darkness grew blacker as if to hide the act she was about to
perform.  Suddenly, she rose from her iron throne, reached down, and
on the crests of several huge waves, broke the ore freighter Edmund
Fitzgerald into three pieces.  Releasing the wreckage, she allowed
it to plunge to the bottom, taking each and every one of the 29
sailors with it.  All this was done in less than a minute.  Seating
herself, she allowed the wind and waves an ecstasy of complete
madness.  An insane moy for the terrible toll she had so suddenly
taken.  On through the night the elements cavorted and danced to
the tune of Satan's Hornpipe.

The following morning, November 11, 1975, townspeople in the Paradise
area began to stir and arose to a sullen day.  The children began
preparing themselves for school.  Breakfast was started.  Radios
were turned on for the morning news and weather.  Suddenly, the news
no one wanted to hear, came to them anyway.  The over-700-foot ore
freighter, Edmund Fitzgerald was lost during the night approximately
9 miles north and east of Whitefish Point downbound toward the Soo.
All hands were missing.

The shock, the sudden feeling of loss, thoughts driven crashing
through the brain.  Thoughts about the parents of the boys who were
yet floating on that cold water; thoughts about the boys who had
gone down to join so many others in the years gone by.  Thoughts
some of the women felt pushed back because they were too terrible
to dwell upon, like, "But for the grace of God, goes my son."

A fleeting prayer for the survivors.  All this in one galvanizing
moment.  It can't be true that all were lost!  It's too soon to say
yet.  Certainly there will be some lads struggling to live!  It's
too monstrous to believe all are gone!

Some of the men folk had reached the beach, dressed as warmly against
the wind as they could.  They brought with them small boats with
outboard motors, hoping in their hearts to see a man's head above
a life jacket; a flailing arm rising above a dark green forbidding
wave.  Hoping in vain to launch the boats against the waves.
Walking the beaches in search of wreckage, or survivors, or worse yet,
bodies.  The men kept in touch with walky-talky radios.  C.B. radio
operators in their homes kept a constant monitor hoping to be able
to pass the news that at least some of the boys had been found.
Yet, practically everyone knew that only the dead might be found.
The temperature of the water only allows a few minutes of life to
a hapless swimmer out there.  But we can't give up hope!  It isn't
in us to give up!  The wind direction has got to carry them here,
along this very stretch of beach.  We just know it!

Fishing tugs in the refuge harbor at the Point were prepared and
all the tugs that could, pushed their bows bravely into the waves
to join the Coast Guard cutters moving about in search patterns.

All day of the 11th of November 1975, dozens of men and women searched
along the shores.  All day the fishing tugs, the Coast Guard cutters,
aircraft, helicopters, anything that could bring a pair of eyes to
focus on water was utilized.  All in vain.

As the day turned to dusk, and vision was no longer of use in the
search, the tugs began returning to the harbor.  Wet, weary, fatigued
almost beyond endurance, the men tied up to the slips.  Hope was
gone.  One man summed it all up with a weary sigh.  He raised his
eyes to heaven and was heard to mutter under his breath, "God,
ain't you going to give us even one?"
--
===============================================================================
Douglas N. Ritter                      Hoch und stiel leben!
[e-mail]
..!uunet!meaddata!dougr             No, I'm not speaking for MDC!
--
Hewlett Packard - SPR                                  Timothy M. McDonough
16399 W. Bernardo Drive        [phone]          1350 N. Esc. Blvd. #40
San Diego, CA 92127            [e-mail]          Escondido, CA 92026-2520
[phone]              uunet!sdd.hp.com!tmm       [phone]