Growing up on the West Coast, the Pacific Ocean was our natural draw. During my early years, before memories even formed, our family made its annual summer trek to Grayland. We always stayed in the same 12-room motel, a long walk across sandy dunes and scattered beach grass to glimpse the ocean, which was still a couple of hundred yards further west. Early memories find me playing in the sand – enveloped by the ocean’s roar, razor clams, and cool breezes. We vacationed there every year, always with the Louie & Joanne Cerne family, until my mid-teens.
The Great Lakes didn’t even register. Sure, we learned about them in school, but if pressed to name all five, I’d struggle. My first encounter came in 1976, the summer of my 23rd year. I’d fallen from a tree late that June, crushing three vertebrae; then spent a week in a hospital bed, sleep-watching the bicentennial Fourth of July on television. Chris Coppin visited before flying back for his summer law program in London. Upon release, my doctor suggested I read James Mitchener’s epic novel, “Centennial.” At 909 pages, it lasted all summer.
My prognosis was uncertain. I could walk, with pain; and sit, with pain; and lie down, in pain. It would take time for the muscles to strengthen and my vertebrae to recover. I wore a back brace, best described as a corset tightened by strings, like Victorian-era ladies used to achieve thin waists. For the next month, I moved slowly and spent lots of time swimming. Water’s buoyancy and lessened gravitational pressure reduced the lower back pain. My planned summer of fun was decidedly unfunny.
I exchanged letters with Chris, informing him of our high school class’s five-year reunion slated for July 31. Rob McLean organized that impromptu affair at Lynne Puttman’s father’s ranch, where our best junior high parties were held. I was the only one to swim in the pool I’d enjoyed as a kid. By mid-August, I was going stir crazy.
Chris had Pan Am flying privileges, thanks to his father, George, a flight engineer. He took advantage of the airline’s non-stop service between London and Seattle, sometimes flying home on weekends. Chris arrived back in Washington, preparing to leave for his second year of law school at Notre Dame. Would I like to join him on the cross-country drive? I had nothing going on in my life except a bad back that hurt most of the time, so a buddy road trip was set in motion.
We left the morning of August 17th, heading east on I-90. Chris drove a light-blue 1968 Plymouth Fury, a four-door, on loan from his dad. The car’s engine ran hot, so we opened the windows and turned the heater to full blast to drain off excess heat. Driving mile after endless mile through sunny Montana made it uncomfortable, but we were young. No air conditioner either, so with windows open and Chris’ arm resting on the driver’s side door, he sported an impressive sunburn by day’s end.
We stopped at a cheap motel somewhere east of Billings. Our next day’s goal was Hermann, Missouri, where Chris’s girlfriend lived. Which meant we’d be driving past Mount Rushmore. Back on I-90, we approached Rapid City, and signs to Mount Rushmore began to appear. The colossal faces of four great American presidents, carved in granite, beckoned. The short ride wasn’t North by Northwest, but required a southerly detour, which cost us some miles and minutes. But how many times in our lives would we be that close? Only once . . . so far.
I asked Chris if we could visit. He said, “No.” I begged and pleaded, but he was in no mood for sightseeing. It was late morning, and we still had 900 miles in front of us. A compromise was finally struck. Chris drove to the park entrance and dropped me off in view of the monument It was an epic sight. I snapped a photo while Chris looped back around the lot, picking me up two minutes later. I jumped in the car, as Chris gleefully announced, “There, you’ve seen Mt. Rushmore.” We headed south toward Kansas City.
Kansas City, Here We Come!
The ’68 Plymouth came equipped with an AM radio. Stations faded in and out. After finding a good one, we rode it until it was too scratchy to enjoy. Our Missouri destination, where Cathy Rhoads lived, was still hours away. We passed through Kansas City late that night, listening to live broadcasts of the 1976 Republican National Convention. I had a personal interest.
Six months earlier, I was chosen as one of three Enumclaw delegates pledged to Gerald Ford. We represented him at the King County Convention held that May in the Seattle Center. But my hopes of attending the national convention in Kansas City were dashed when Ronald Reagan’s delegates dominated the district round, so our Ford delegation didn’t advance to state.
The contest between Gerald Ford and Ronald Reagan was so tight that multiple ballots were expected. It was the last political convention where the nominee wasn’t known until the votes were cast. Yet, through pure chance and circumstance, there I was, driving by the convention hall while listening to the live broadcast. We passed in the early hours of August 19, just after West Virginia’s delegation put Ford over the top.
Onward to Hermann we pressed through the night, arriving early the next morning. We spent a few days with his girlfriend’s family. Cathy’s father and brothers were auctioneers, so we joined them for one of their auctions. It was a peculiar affair, akin to a giant yard sale, with items like garden hoses and old lawnmowers sold in quick succession for a couple of dollars here and ten dollars there. I called it backyard entertainment.
Hermann was a charming German town and still is. We enjoyed 35-cent burgers at a drug store counter, saw “Taxi Driver” in the movie house, toured the Stone Hill Winery, and visited Six Flags amusement park near St. Louis. Cathy was quite good at shuffleboard bowling, so we spent time at a local bar playing this game we’d never seen before. Here’s how I described Hermann in a postcard mailed home: “A nice small town, pop. 2,500. Middle America with a hillbilly accent.”
Land of the Fighting Irish
In half a day, we arrived in South Bend and settled into Chris’s digs. I hung out with his law school buddies for a bit, but didn’t fit in. They had ambitions, I didn’t, so did my own thing. I borrowed Chris’s car and drove 35 miles to Warren Dunes State Park on the southeast shore of Lake Michigan. I walked hundreds of yards through massive sand dunes to catch my first glimpse of a Great Lake. The waves were as big as the ocean, and the water stretched beyond the horizon. I spent most of the day sunbathing and body-surfing while marveling at the wonders of this inland sea.
I took Amtrak to Chicago, passing through Gary, Indiana, whose distressingly ugly steel works forever stained that tribute song from the “Music Man.” I caught a Cubs game, courtesy of two old guys in their 70s, who, seeing me approach, asked if I needed an extra ticket. In their box seats near third base, they told stories of Al Capone and grand adventures from their youth. I bought beers for all, poured fresh from bottles into cups – the Wrigley Field way. I toured the Art Institute, the Museum of Industry, and a half dozen other sites, and by luck caught an E.L.O. concert at the Amphitheater, and a few days later returned to Notre Dame.
Back on campus, I spotted a poster that KISS was playing at Joyce Center. Since tickets were only $6.00, I asked Chris and his buddies if anyone wanted to join me. Their smirks and snickers informed me KISS wasn’t part of their law school pretensions. I went alone. KISS’s opening act was the yet unknown Bob Seger and his Silver Bullet Band. One month later, they released “Night Moves,” kick-starting their rise to stardom.
A Song is Heard
I can’t remember when I first heard “The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald.” But it was during that trip. The single was released in August and cracked the charts over Labor Day. The song’s haunting intro and storytelling lyrics are sung by a seasoned voice who blends Chippewa legends and Great Lakes lore. Every line advances the narrative, and each of its 458 words stirs the soul. Gordon Lightfoot admitted the tune was based on “an old Irish folk song.” The night the great ship sank, Lightfoot was in the attic of his Toronto home, trying to work out that Celtic melody he’d first heard as a child.
Despite its six-minute length, Lightfoot’s song peaked at #2 on the U.S. charts, behind Rod Stewart’s “Tonight’s the Night.” And hit #1 on Canadian charts, fittingly, one year after the November 10, 1975, disaster. Sadly, folk-rock ballads fade in time, while beat-based anthems dominate Classic Rock stations. The song came briefly to mind in May 2023, following Lightfoot’s death at age 84.
It’s wistful to be reminded that, save for Gordon’s song, the demise of the Edmund Fitzgerald might be largely forgotten, remembered only by “the wives and the sons and the daughters.” Nearing the 50th anniversary of the great ship’s sinking, I caught its bug while cruising the Great Lakes.
Tanya Turns 85
My mother-in-law turned 85 this past March. She was born in Lacrosse, Wisconsin, while her late husband, Gary Grant, was born 95 miles north in Chippewa Falls. Both families moved west to Washington when they were young. Tanya and her family briefly relocated to Minnesota, where she spent four years before returning to Tacoma for high school.
When asked what she wanted for her 85th birthday, Tanya hoped her four children and spouses would join her on a Great Lakes cruise. Only the two daughters and their husbands could, so a plan unfolded to board the Victory Cruise Lines for its 10-day sailing from Toronto to Milwaukee. With tickets in hand, my first goal was to memorize the five lakes’ names, instead of stumbling over which I’d forgotten. Midwestern schoolchildren are taught the acronym HOMES—Huron, Ontario, Michigan, Erie, Superior. Check!
Jennifer and I also planned a trip to Minneapolis to visit our youngest, Henry. We scheduled that Midwest jaunt for the end of May, since our cruise wasn’t until mid-August. It was our first journey to Minnesota, a Great Lakes state to boot. There’s no handy abbreviation for the eight states bordering the Great Lakes—from east to west—New York, Pennsylvania, Ohio, Michigan, Indiana, Illinois, Wisconsin, and Minnesota. Canada’s one province is easier—Ontario.
After a few days in Minneapolis, we drove two and a half hours northeast to Duluth, a port city on Lake Superior’s southwest shore. That day’s chilly weather chilled Henry and my hopes to swim in my second Great Lake. Plus, the discovery that the world’s largest freshwater body of water is damned cold on June 2nd. We settled instead for Gooseberry Falls and Betty’s World-Famous pies.
Just across the bridge from Duluth lies its twin harbor, Superior, Wisconsin. We crossed the border, and each checked another state off our lists. Our immediate goal was the Wisconsin Point Lighthouse, which guides ships into and out of the harbor. Jennifer was driving, and I navigated using Apple Maps. Heading south along East Second Street, the longest pier I’d ever seen came into view. The map identified it as Burlington Dock No. 1, and below, noted, “last port of call for the Edmund Fitzgerald.” Across Allouez Bay, on Wisconsin Point Road, I filmed a video of the nearly half-mile-long, 86-foot-tall ore dock. That’s where the Fitzgerald loaded 26,200 tons of taconite pellets on November 9, 1975.
Cruising Towards the Big Lake They Call Gitche Gumee
Ten weeks later, we stepped off a Toronto pier onto the Victory I cruise ship. It accommodates 190 passengers with a crew of 95. It was our first cruise. We sailed across Lake Ontario bound for Niagara Falls, after passing through the impressive Welland Canal, whose 27-mile connection to Lake Erie features eight locks, each climbing 40 feet for a total elevation gain of 320 feet. What amazed this history buff even more was discovering that the first set of 40 locks, each eight feet tall, was completed in 1829, five years after construction commenced. My ignorance of our own country’s history is immense.
Our cruise found us crossing Lake Erie to Cleveland, and then up the Detroit River, through Lake Saint Clair, along the St. Mary’s River to Huron. To reach Lake Superior, ships pass through the Soo Locks at Sault Ste. Marie, where Victory I berthed for the day’s activities. Nearby was the Valley Camp freighter, built in 1917 and converted into a maritime museum in 1968.
The Valley Camp is a generation older and half the cargo size of the Edmund Fitzgerald. Yet our guided tour of this freighter provided a firsthand look at the operations of these hulking ships. The belly of this beast, where 16 million tons of cargo were transported a collective three million nautical miles over 49 years of sailing, is now a massive 20,000 square foot museum. The far end hosts the Edmund Fitzgerald Memorial Exhibit, where the remains of two lifeboats from the stricken vessel are housed. Very few artifacts were recovered after its tragic sinking. What we saw was chilling. One thick metal lifeboat was torn in half, like a piece of paper. The other, fully intact, was never launched, but freed from its cables when the ship sank rapidly.
A 12-foot-long scale model illustrates the freighter’s extended length and narrow breadth, built to haul enormous loads of cargo while still fitting through the skinny locks. To get a grip on its size, the Fitz was 729 feet long—nearly 2.5 football fields—and only 75 feet wide, slightly broader than an average road right-of-way. Its nearly 10:1 length-to-width ratio, imagine an old-fashioned ruler, mimicked the Chippewa’s tribal canoes, which French fur trappers adopted to navigate the Great Lakes. Though it weighed 13,600 tons empty, the Fitz regularly carried 26,000 tons.
On that fateful run—the last of her season—the Fitz was carrying taconite pellets, marble-sized, hardened balls typically containing 35% iron combined with sedimentary rock. Six crew members, including the captain, were set to retire after delivering the cargo. In the photo below, I’m holding a jar of taconite as a freighter in the background prepares to enter the Soo Locks.
The Pride of the American Side
Launched in 1958, the Edmund Fitzgerald truly was the pride of the American side. The Fitz was the biggest and best and most luxurious freighter on the Great Lakes. The ship attracted the top crews and sailors. Captain Ernest McSorley, a 44-year veteran, was widely regarded as the best skipper on the Great Lakes. The Fitzgerald regularly set records for the most tonnage hauled each year and round-trips completed. It was commissioned by Northwestern Mutual Life Insurance Company of Milwaukee, which also held interests in iron and mineral industries—among the first such investments by American life insurance companies.
The firm’s president and chairman of the board, Edmund Fitzgerald, came from a long line of Irish Great Lakes sailors and captains. Fitzgerald vetoed several Board attempts to name the ship after him, but it was done against his will at a meeting he couldn’t attend. Initially called Hull 301, the ship was built at the River Rouge shipyard, just outside Detroit. The shipbuilding company adopted a new process using welds rather than rivets to produce a more flexible boat. Every bridge, building, and boat is designed to bend, but how much bending is acceptable?
15,000 spectators, more than the Tigers’ average fan base that season, attended the ship’s launch. Edmund’s son recalled, “The day the ship launched was probably the happiest day of my father’s life.” Chairman Edmund Fitzgerald retired two years later, a thoroughly contented man.
The Gales of November
Seventeen years later, Sunday, November 9, 1975, was just like any other. The weather in Superior was unseasonably warm as the Fitzgerald loaded taconite from Burlington Dock No. 1. Unbeknownst to the captain and crew, two storm systems were gathering. A low-pressure system from the Kansas plains moved northeasterly over Iowa towards Superior. At about the same time, an Alberta Clipper gathered steam and moved southeasterly, intensifying conditions.
Freshwater’s lower density causes Great Lakes waves to grow taller and form closer together during intense storms. A host of factors regularly conspire to create perilous conditions, but Great Lakes captains, crews, and freighters are familiar with wild winds and rough waters. Stoicism is the chief characteristic of Great Lakes sailors.
The Edmund Fitzgerald sank the next evening, Monday, November 10, around 7:15 p.m. Discovering what happened has produced scores of detailed reports filled with thousands of pages, yet no final answer has emerged. The probable causes have been vigorously debated, but none have proved conclusive, so the speculation continues. The most credible answers focus on the ship’s design, its hatches, rogue or record waves, navigational errors, Six Fathom Shoal, and fatigue. The simplest explanation that explains nothing but accounts for everything—the Fitzgerald arrived in the worst possible place at the worst possible time.
The Fitzgerald was universally thought to be the finest ship on the Great Lakes, and it had operated safely for 17 years in fair and foul weather. So why did it sink this time? The mystery lives on from the Chippewa on down.
The Legend Lives On
Newspapers write the first draft of history. Magazines add seasoning. Artists and poets create works that trigger emotions. The first news release, recounting basic facts of the Fitzgerald’s sinking, was wired to 6,500-member newspapers of the Associated Press. Two weeks later, Newsweek magazine ran a story on page 48 titled, “Great Lakes: The Cruelest Month.” That half-page article credits James Gaines with Jon Lowell in Detroit. From the beginning, the story Gaines wrote practically sings, “According to a legend of the Chippewa tribe, the lake they once called Gitche Gumee ‘never gives up her dead.’” The article concludes on this somber note, “And in the stone Mariner’s Church in downtown Detroit, a minister offered prayers for the lost seamen and tolled the church bells twenty-nine times in grim tribute to the unslaked furies of Lake Superior.”
Gordon Lightfoot first read the AP story and weeks later, Gaines’s piece in Newsweek. He was moved. But it struck him that 29 fallen sailors deserved more than 534 words in a magazine. With the AP, Newsweek, and other accounts laid out, Lightfoot began writing the lyrics that he teamed with the “old Irish dirge” he’d been humming. He completed the song but was deeply uncertain, particularly about his lyrics, given the subject’s sensitivity. He feared appearing corny, inaccurate, or profiting from tragedy. Still, Lightfoot couldn’t put the song out of his head, so he tinkered with it for months.
In the spring of 1976, Lightfoot gathered his regular band for a five-day session at a Toronto studio for the album that became “Summertime Dream.” Months earlier, they’d rehearsed ten songs, but not the sea shanty ballad, since Lightfoot hadn’t played it for them in its entirety. Towards the end of each session, he’d start strumming the new song, abruptly quit, then insisted, “It isn’t ready.” By 3 p.m. Thursday, they’d finished recording ten songs and had plenty of studio time remaining. Gordon again resisted, but the studio engineer told him that since he had already paid for the session, why not try that shipwreck song?
Lightfoot relented, and the lights turned low to set the mood. He turned to his guitarists and said, “Do your thing.” The drummer, who had never played a note on the mystery song, asked Gordon when he should come in. Lightfoot said, “I’ll give you a nod.” At precisely 94 seconds, Gordon gave the nod as he sang, “the wind in the wires made a tattle-tale sound.” Just then, the drummer struck the tom drumbeat. It wasn’t just the band’s first take on this song – it was the first time they ever played it together.
There were several more tries that afternoon, but all agreed to come back the next day to do it for real. On Friday, they cut three or four more takes, trying to make it better. But when the various versions were played back, all agreed that the first one on Thursday was their best. It had a creative tension the others lacked. Gordon and the band were pleased with the result and felt they’d created something special. But no one in the room thought it would be a hit.
No Chorus, No Hook, No Bridge
At six minutes, the song was too long—there was no chorus, no hook, no bridge—it didn’t check any of the boxes for a hit. After the album’s release, Warner Bros. Records’ president, Mo Ostin, met with Lightfoot and told him the shipwreck song was getting some reaction on FM, and they planned to release it as a single. Neither Gordon nor the band believed what they were hearing.
His folk-rock ballad became a defining part of Lightfoot’s career. He later declared, “The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald is my greatest achievement. It’s a song you can’t turn your back on.” Nor did he turn his back on those most affected by the tragedy. After playing the song at the Mariner’s Church in Detroit, the Reverend Richard Ingalls, the pastor who rang the bell 29 times, approached Lightfoot to thank him. But then pointed out that Mariner’s wasn’t a “musty old hall,” but a clean and bright church. Lightfoot agreed and changed the lyric for subsequent concerts to “rustic old hall.”
And when later investigators sent submarines to examine the ship’s hull 530 feet below Superior’s surface, they found that all the hatches were properly clamped. Gordon didn’t want any blame unfairly cast upon deckhands, whose job was to secure those hatches. So he changed the famous line delivered by Fitz’s cook, Bob Rafferty, to: “At seven p.m., it grew dark, it was then, he said, Fellas, it’s been good to see you.” After the ship went down, Raffery’s family received the postcard he wrote several days earlier, which read, “I may be home by November 8; however, nothing is ever sure.”
Lightfoot and his bassist, Rick Haynes, attended the 40th anniversary of the sinking in 2015 at Whitefish Point. When Gordon learned that Ruth Hudson, the mother of Bruce Hudson, a 22-year-old deckhand on the Fitz, was on her deathbed, he called Ruth on the phone, as the two had met numerous times at events to commemorate the lost sailors. A few hours later, Ruth Hudson passed away hours before the 40th anniversary of the ship’s sinking, joining her only son and child in heaven.
On the Good Cruise Ship, Victory I
The Victory Cruise Lines’ literature promised its passengers a visit to all five lakes. Anchored at Sault Ste. Marie for the night, we passed through the Soo Locks into Lake Superior early the next morning. The itinerary description sounded lovely: “Embark on a journey of tranquility amidst the vastness of Lake Superior. Let the gentle waves and endless horizon lull you into a state of peaceful contemplation, where the grandeur of North America’s largest lake inspires awe and introspection.”
As Victory I entered the MacArthur lock to ascend 21 feet from Huron to Superior, I went to the bow, curious if we’d reach Whitefish Bay and possibly sail the 17 miles to the wreck site. Alas, it was not to be. Maybe our ship was behind schedule, or perhaps the author of the cruise line’s itinerary was excessively florid. After traveling several hundred yards into Superior’s vastness, Victory I promptly came about and sailed back through the locks. Oh well, if you’ve seen one great lake, you’ve seen ‘em all.
Epilogue
A 1994 expedition named “Deep Quest” conducted seven dives over three days and obtained some of the best filmed footage of the sunken Edmund Fitzgerald, including a video where one of the 29 bodies could be seen wearing a life jacket. In response, “the wives and the sons and the daughters” rose in protest and petitioned the Ontario province to declare the area a legally consecrated gravesite, which cannot be visited without the approval of the Canadian government. Their hard work and heartfelt pleas came to fruition five years later in 1999. The captain and crew may safely rest in peace.
This remembrance ends with the final radio communication from the Edmund Fitzgerald, uttered by Captain McSorley during a conversation with its sister ship, the Arthur A. Anderson: “We are holding our own.”
As are the 29 sailors in that icy iron vault.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald
By Gordon Lightfoot (original recorded lyrics, 1976)
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, twenty-six thousand 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
Coming 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 later that night when the ship’s bell rang
Could it be the north wind they’d been feeling?
The wind in the wires made a tattle-tale sound
And a wave broke over the railing
And every man knew, as the captain did too
‘Twas the witch of November come stealing
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 been 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 his lights went outta 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 they’d have made Whitefish Bay
If they’d put 15 more miles behind her
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 twenty-nine times
For each man on the Edmund Fitzgerald
The legend lives on from the Chippewa on down
Of the big lake, they call Gitche Gumee
Superior, they said, never gives up her dead
When the gales of November come early
Sources:
“The Gales of November – The Untold Story of the Edmund Fitzgerald” by John U. Bacon, 2025
“Edmund Fitzgerald – The Legendary Great Lakes Shipwreck” by Elle Andra-Warner, 2006
“The Song of Hiawatha” – An Epic poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, 1855
“Of Rain and Wrecks” – Mark Steyn, 2018 https://www.steynonline.com/9022/of-rain-and-wrecks
