" Sea Stories" Pt. 3

[shirlohio]

Another very interesting 'blast from your past', Capt. Thanks for the somewhat scary ride. Cheers! ;-)

[captrmetz]

My longest trip ever started in November aboard the H. C. Heimbecker. We cast off our lines and departed Owen Sound for Superior, Wisconsin, for a load of grain. Gale warnings were up when we left.
This time, when we got to Cove Island, they didn’t die down; instead, they increased to northwest storm warnings. I tried to anchor the old girl behind Cove Island, but it was too rough for a good anchorage. The wind and sea came around both ends of the small island and met right were we had attempted to anchor.
I decided to pull up the anchor and try to drop it elsewhere in a more favorable place. When the mate tried to raise the anchor, it would not come up. It was caught on the rocks below. We tried different things, but she was caught tightly. “Now what?” I thought. “Cut the chain?” If all else failed, we could cut it off, because we couldn’t stay here. I would give it one more try and see what happened.
Forward I went until the chain was leading astern, at which point I rang up full astern, and she started to back and gather speed. When the chain came out of the water, it was as tight as a guitar string. The anchor snapped loose from the rocks and the mate heaved it up. There was no damage and we put the anchor in its pocket.
After studying the charts for a suitable place to re-anchor, I decided to backtrack around the point and anchor at Dyer Bay. The water was very deep right offshore, so we had to go in close to the beach to drop the hook. We sat there at anchor for two days.
I decided to try to sneak along the North shore of Georgian Bay because the wind was veering to the North and there was still a big sea out on Lake Huron. We followed our charted course around and in between the many small, scattered islands that dot the North side of the bay.
That day, it started snowing, and the snow was thick. We came to the end of the shelter from the friendly islands, and we ventured out into the big lake, still hugging the lee of the land to the North. The next day, the little Heimbecker, snow-covered and belching black smoke from her funnel, came into view of Detour. At anchor in the bay there were quite a few ships, waiting out the storm just as we did. The skipper of a thousand-footer called on the radio to ask me what kind of weather we had out on Lake Huron. I told him of our route, and felt mighty proud of our little ship as we sailed past all the “big boys.”
After our trip up the St. Mary's River, we departed the locks at the Soo and headed across Lake Superior, just as the easterly gale warning went up. We veered to the Northeast at this point. The mate and I plotted a course for the North shore of the lake, again to take advantage of the lee of land. We reduced our speed to half, and planned that when the wind went northeast, we would alter course for Copper Harbor.
I went to lie down for a rest, but I couldn’t fall asleep. I kept looking out my porthole, noting the wind’s direction by observing the smoke from the stack. It continued to blow from the East, and after a while, I finally went to sleep. For the moment, we were riding well.
When I awoke, I checked the stack again. The smoke was blowing right up the deck. I glanced at the hissing, glowing master gyro next to my bed, and it showed that we were on a course for Copper Harbor. I went up the bridge for a chat with the mate and a cup of steaming hot coffee.
At this point, I checked the latest marine forecast, which indicated that the gales would return to a westerly direction. My new plan was to keep on this course toward Copper Harbor, and when the wind turned westerly, we would head west for Minnesota’s land along the North shore. Once we got close, we would head toward Superior. The mate and I talked over the new plan and we both agreed it was the best course of action.
I returned to bed, right next to the humming master gyro. I fell asleep within no time at all. I had finally gotten used to the gyro.
I awoke to the sound of my ship’s phone ringing. “Wind’s out of the West,” said the mate. “We’re in mid-lake, and she’s riding good, so I’ll keep her on this course. When she starts to roll, we steer west.”
“Okay with me,” I said, and went back to sleep.
When the ship started rolling, I woke up, and went up to the wheelhouse. I nodded to the mate, and he gave the wheelsman the order to steer a course of west. Again, she settled down and was riding well on her new westerly heading. “I hope this is the last of the gales coming from every direction of the compass,” I thought. But that was not the case.
She backed again to southeast gales this time. And again we were on the wrong side of the lake for a southeast wind. Again we altered course. This time we steered for the Apostle Islands. When abeam of Devil’s Island Light, we altered course for Superior’s piers. We were safely in that corner of the lake where no change of wind could harm us except for a blow from the North. “Don’t even think about that possibility,” I told myself.
Well, we made it safely to our elevator, tied up, and began loading grain. I left the ship for a while, and walked downtown. I walked past the Main and thought of what had happened the last time that I was here. It had been the night the Fitz went down. I didn’t stop, but continued to walk to the Hammond next to the high bridge. I treated myself to a martini along with the biggest T-bone that they had on the menu.
The weather got colder, and thick ice formed in our slip around the ship’s hull. The next day, we departed the Superior elevator with two tugs assisting us. Northwest gales were still up. We turned and headed for the Duluth entry. I called the Aerial Bridge to check for inbound traffic, and we were given the okay to go under the bridge.
Because of the Northwest gale, I decided to follow the North shore, and we headed for Thunder Bay. The lake was still quite ruffled up because of the recent gales from each point of the compass. Abeam of Silver Bay, Minnesota, sea smoke covered the lake near us with cold columns of fog, taking on eerie forms that danced on the water and spiraled upwards. I felt like we were in another world.
No sense battling the elements when there was shelter right here, so we steamed into Thunder Bay and dropped our anchor - it was becoming almost shiny from all the use it was getting. We waited out the gale close to the main breakwall.
We had neighbors in the bay; other skippers had the same idea about waiting out the gale.
Next morning, the mate called, “The other ships are getting underway, Cap. Should I call the engine room to warm up the engine?”
“No, we will wait till afternoon,” I replied. “When the marine forecast comes out, then we will make our decision.”
The noon forecast looked good, so we lifted up our well-used anchor and slowly proceeded down the lake. At Passage Island, we altered our course for Whitefish Point. We had a following sea and a good ride across the big lake.
We rounded Whitefish Point, and when abeam of Parisienne Island, we called in to the Soo. We were advised that because of all the ice around the lock, we would have to anchor until further notice. I picked a good spot off Iroquois Point, and put our well-used anchor down.
Now, one by one, the same ships that were at anchor with me up in Thunder Bay began arriving and dropping their hooks. We were already anchored, and they were just now arriving. Most had taken the North shore around. Some had turned around and anchored back at Thunder Bay until the lake calmed down. They had all been in a hurry to go. Once the first ship departed, they all followed suit and got underway, only to find out that the lake was too rough to cross, and burning up fuel in the process. On the other hand, we had lain at anchor a little longer in a nice, quiet bay, were the last to depart, and had a nice run across the center of the lake. We arrived without burning extra fuel. I used that same method for years afterward, and it usually worked out well for me.
The next morning, I saw ships anchored everywhere. The US Coast Guard formed a convoy of ships to proceed down to the lock. Heimbecker was the first ship leading the convoy. The number two ship behind me was the 858-foot Roger Blough. The trip down toward the lock went very slowly. Several times, we got stuck in the ice and had to call for assistance from the Coast Guard. Finally we arrived at the lock.
The lockmaster had all sorts of trouble with ice jamming the lock gates. Once we got tied up inside the lock, he had trouble trying to close the gate behind us.
Once we locked through, we were in the ice again. The ice got thicker, and before we got to Mission Point, the Heimbecker had come to a halt in the ice. The old girl could not move one inch in either direction. Again, the Coast Guard icebreaker broke us loose and attempted to break a trail for us to follow. But the pressure of the ice and the wind kept us in a tight grip.

Because of thick ice in the Rock Cut and Moon Island Cut, the US Coast Guard at the Soo closed the downbound channel. The downbound vessels had to use the upbound channel from Nine Mile Point down to the Junction Buoy. Upbound vessels had to wait at anchor until all the downbound ships cleared the buoy. The Roger Blough was still behind us. Each time we got stuck, the Blough would come right up behind our stern and stop until we could move again. Hour after hour, this game replayed itself. I thought that by this time the captain of the Blough was probably getting tired of this game, so I called him on the radio. “Would you like to go by me?”
“No, thanks,” he responded. “You’re doing a good job.”
I guess the Heimbecker was his private icebreaker!
Another Soo River boat, Robert S. Pierson, was about six hours ahead of us, and Captain Larry went to anchor below Lime Island for the night. He had had enough for one day.
“I’ve had enough, too,” I thought. “When I get this ship down where Robert S. is, I’ll call it a day.” I had also had enough ice for one day. It had been stop and go all the way. When I saw the Robert S. ahead, I closed up right under his stern and dropped our trusty old anchor one more time.
I gave Larry a call. “Let me know when you’re ready to depart in the morning,” I said. I was asleep before my head hit the pillow - a well-deserved rest.

Only a few hours later it was morning, and my phone rang. Larry was all bright and shiny and raring to go. I really wasn’t yet.
Robert S. Pierson had lots of power and great speed. After the engine warmed up, he broke a trail for me, and I stayed right on his stern all the way to Detour and into the open waters of Lake Huron.
I thanked Captain Larry, as the Robert S. belched a big puff of black smoke from her stack. I soon lost sight of the ship over the horizon. I thought about what great speed she had. My ship was slow, but she was steady.
I received reports from our office that Georgian Bay was completely covered over with ice. The only vessel moving there was the John E. F. Misener, who was a few hours ahead of us, also heading for Midland, Ontario. If we could find and follow her track, we would have a better chance of not getting stuck in the ice.
We did pick up her track and played follow the leader. I knew if we got stuck out there, the ship would stay right where she was until the spring. But the day was bright with blue sky from horizon to horizon. The track was visible, and we plowed through the broken up ice.
Off in the distance, I saw four deer running across the ice. I didn’t want them to plunge through the broken ice of the track and not be able to climb back out, so I blew a long blast from our ship’s whistle. The deer were within about 20 feet of falling in, when they spread their front feet and put on the brakes. Their long ears came out in front of their faces as they slid to a complete stop. They heard that old steam whistle blowing. They sniffed the air, turned around, and headed back to shore. It was a good day.
We arrived at Midland, and the John Misener was unloading at the same elevator where we were to unload. There was no room at the dock for us to tie up to wait, so we stopped the ship just out from the elevator and let her freeze in the ice. After the Misener discharged her cargo, then we would move under the unloading leg. Until then, we were frozen in.
On December 25, 1980, frozen solid in the ice 100 feet out from shore, the crew of the H. C. Heimbecker celebrated Christmas. The galley staff prepared a wonderful feast. We had prime rib, roast duck, and all the delicious trimmings that went along, plus an assortment of cakes and candies. Of course, most of the crew would rather have been celebrating Christmas with their loved ones at home, but such was not the case.
The Misener finished unloading the next day. The crew moved their ship to the end of the wall and secured it for the winter. The crew was paid off, and they all went home. On the 28th of December, we were unloaded, and tied up alongside of the Misener. After laying up the ship for the winter, I paid the crew off, except for the engineers, who still had some work to finish to quiet the steam plant for the winter. Everybody happily went home for a well-deserved rest and to spend what was left of the winter with their families.
To get to shore, it was necessary to walk across a few planks over to the Misener’s deck and from her to shore. I packed my gear and crossed the planks. As I did, I dropped one of my new shoes, and it fell about 30 feet down between both of the ships. I realized there was not any hope in the world that I could retrieve my shoe, so I turned around and threw the other shoe up into the air. I let it fall down between the ships with its mate, and I walked off the ship and into a waiting taxi. Off to the airport we went.
I was finished for the year and heading home to sunny Florida. No more snow and ice for me. I had enough for one year. Two days later I lay on the beach with the hot sun burning my white skin and the waves lapping at the shore. I thought back, and it was hard to realize that just two days ago I was in ice and snow, finishing my first year sailing as captain of a ship. “My God,” I thought, “it took me eleven days to make that last trip from Owen Sound to Superior and back to Midland. Can’t wait till spring and do it all over again.”
That was the last time I ever sailed the H. C. Heimbecker