I know I posted this story before but we have new boat nerds that have not read this story, this story is for them and you.
2
Beating the Storm
On November 22, 1983, I was master of the old Oakglen, and we departed the MacArthur Lock at the Soo upbound for a load of grain at Thunder Bay, Ontario. As the ship’s stern cleared the lock gates headed for Lake Superior, I took a look at the latest weather forecast - the Mafor, a forecast in numerical code - for the big lake. Northeast gales were predicted in about 18 hours. I figured the old girl would have time to waddle her way across the lake to Passage Island before the blow hit. Normally I would choose to go up along the north shore in a nor’easter. But since we had plenty of time and the wind and sea were calm all the way out past Whitefish Point, I gave orders to take the regular upbound course of 300 degrees for Passage Island. Once inside of Passage, we would have a good ride to Thunder Bay. So we went up the center of the lake, and all went well for the first half of the crossing.
About nine hours out, I was in my quarters and I noticed that the ship’s underway vibration had stopped. My ship’s service phone rang. “Engine trouble,” said the mate on watch. I hurried up the stairs to the bridge.
“Cap, we’ve lost one cylinder on the main engine,” came the diagnosis from Chief Engineer Ralph Morris, who had called from the engine room.
I put on my hat and coat and walked down the deck back to the engine room to confer with the chief. The wind was freshening from the northeast.
The cylinder was indeed damaged; I could see that. “About the only thing I can do,” said Ralph, “is to isolate that cylinder. That means we’ll chug the rest of the way to Thunder Bay at less than half speed.”
“Okay, Chief, you’re the boss. How long do you figure it will take to isolate the cylinder and get under way again?” I casually mentioned the approaching gale due to reach us in nine hours or so.
“Give me four hours, Cap,” the Chief answered.
Our time was running out with the gale, but I didn’t have any choice but to let him do what needed to be done. “Okay, Chief, give it your best shot. Remember, we’re floating around the middle of the lake with that gale boring down on us.”
The chief barked orders to his men; they lost no time working with their hammers and the chain hoist. I left the chief alone with his crew to perform their dirty job and headed back forward. As I walked up the deck, I estimated the wind was blowing about 15 knots. “I hope that nor’easter is not on time,” I thought. “I need a few more hours.” But that was wishful thinking - that’s all it was.
The four hours the chief promised came and went. The wind was increasing every hour. I didn’t want to call the chief to ask how they were doing; I knew that he and his engine room crew were doing their best on that cylinder and he didn’t need the interruption of a phone call from me.
A radio broadcast from the Sault Ste. Marie Coast Guard changed my mind. The forecast was now for gales becoming storms on Lake Superior. I walked back to the engine room again to find out how much longer.
In the engine room, chains had been tied around the cylinder, and it was hoisted up and away from the crankshaft. Being powerless, the Oakglen was broadside to the wind and sea and had started a lazy roll. No one had to be told that the gale was coming closer.
Alone with the chief, I said, “Ralph, make sure you secure that cylinder so when we start to roll and the cylinder starts swinging back and forth, the chains won’t snap and let the cylinder fall into the turning crank. That would be game over.”
“Yes, sir, and we will be ready to get out of here in one more hour.” The chief walked off.
Another hour was lost that I did not want to lose.
I was waiting in the wheelhouse about an hour later, when the chief called. “We’re ready to go.”
I rang up full ahead and put her back on the 300-degree heading, and we were underway. Full ahead was now only six knots. We crawled our way up the lake for Passage Island.
About three hours from Passage and in the lee of the land, the ship started to roll pretty good. The nor’easter had freshened even more.
An hour later, a call from the galley announced that the freezer had fallen over in front of the reefer door, and the porter and second cook were trapped inside. The steward and others back aft were working to free them.
By this time, the ship had more than a moderate roll. “Hard to port!” I ordered. As her stern came around into the sea, the old girl settled right down with a following sea.
The women got out of the reefer unharmed - except for me. Glenna, the second cook, scolded me for rolling the ship. And everybody listened to Glenna!
When we were only 15 miles from Passage Island, I hauled her around for Rock of Ages lighthouse. Oakglen was riding well in the following sea, and the wind was consistently gale force as we headed for the “Rock.” Most of the crew could now settle down for a well-deserved rest, but not me. I had to figure out my plan for rounding Rock of Ages Light at the southwestern tip of Isle Royale. At that point, I would be exposing the ship’s side to the wind and sea during the turn around the lighthouse and onto the new course for Angus Island, entrance to Thunder Bay.
My experience working on Isle Royale paid off for me now. I remembered a fisherman once told me that a calm will accrue two miles southwest of Rock of Ages. It had something to do with the topography of the lake bottom and nearby reefs, so I set course for two miles off the light to see if the old fisherman was right.
As we neared the turn around the lighthouse, I had the mate call all departments telling them to make sure everything aboard was secured down tightly. “When you hear the whistle blow, hang on.”
“How’s our suspended cylinder?” I asked the chief.
“Okay, Cap.”
As we came up to the light, I looked ahead with my field glasses for a kind of a calm, not really expecting to see any change in this sea that had done nothing but increase over the past few hours. “Behold, the eye of the viewer.” The old fisherman knew what he was talking about. There was just such a spot where the waves were not as high as those we were in now.
One long blast on the ship’s whistle, and when the timing was just right, I ordered the wheel starboard and to keep the light abeam all the way around to our new course that would take us to Angus Island. Oakglen came around very nicely to the new heading. All was okay for now.
We were sailing northeast between Isle Royale and the Minnesota shoreline when the full fury of the gale turned to storm. We had some lee offered by Isle Royale, however, and the ship was riding well. Closer to Angus Island, we would again be exposed to a mean nor’easter. I had some time before that, so I went back to the engine room to check on the damaged cylinder.
She was wrapped up like a lady in a tight dress and there was a timber lying across the hole, so if she would break loose, she would not fall into the crankshaft and disable the ship. The engine room gang had done a good job in securing everything. Satisfied, I returned to the pilothouse to think about my next move in trying to outsmart Mother Nature.
Abeam of Angus Island, we met the full brunt of the storm. The mate clocked the wind at a steady 65 mph with gusts to 70 to 75 mph. I knew that we could not make the turn around Angus Island without going broadside to the sea.
Capt Rick Hulst aboard the Steamer Birchglen over at Thunder Bay called to say that the seas were washing over the breakwalls and all tug service was suspended until the storm died out. I wouldn’t try going through the piers. I headed for Thunder Cape. Once behind the cape, we would be in calmer water where we could anchor. Inside the cape, I turned for a suitable spot, got into position, and ordered the hook dropped. After the hook was down, I backed her slow in order for the anchor to dig in and hold. She seemed to be holding, so I warned the mate to check her position to make sure she did not drag the anchor, and I went to my quarters.
I was about to lie down in bed, which looked very inviting to me. “The hook’s not holding,” came the mate’s voice on the phone. “The wind’s blowing us off position.” Up to the bridge I went again.
We pulled the anchor up and moved to a different spot and dropped it again and waited. I didn’t go down to my bed this time. After 20 minutes, the mate took another position. “She’s slipping again.” We had a downslope wind that blew over the top of Thunder Cape and then down the side, gathering speed all the way down the mountain and then blowing out over the water.
At this point, I felt that I had just enough stuff in me to do it one more time, which we did. This time she held. After being up on the bridge for 38 hours, I went to bed.
The anchor held fast all night. The next morning the wind began to diminish, so we raised the anchor again and turned around. We headed into the ship yard in Thunder Bay and they repaired the old girl.