“The
wind in the wires made a hurricane sound,
And
the waves broke over the railing,
And
every man knew as the Captain did too.
‘Twas
the witch of November come stealing.”
From: The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald
‘Twas the witch of November come stealing
By
Jim Gill
This event took place on Lightship 612 which was on station on the San Francisco Bar on the 29th and 30th of November, 1962
The
events recorded here do not portray a Perfect Storm-type of catastrophe
nor even such a storm as might be labeled “severe”. In 60 years of seafaring
I have survived several 130 knot ordeals in Alaska, the Pacific Typhoon of 1944,
the Atlantic hurricane of 1951 and other numerous and ugly encounters, all of
which were substantially more powerful and destructive tempests. Nevertheless, I
rate the following account as significant and, more to the point, illustrates
the peculiar and unfortunate circumstances of lightships duty-bound to remain
anchored on station no matter how severe the conditions may become, a situation
that on a few occasions proved fatal to ship and crew as well.
Friday
morning, the 30th of November, 1962, broke cold and clear with a
brisk north-westerly wind and a heavy swell running. Nothing unusual about that
for a late fall day out on the San Francisco Bar, but there were ominous signs that
the weather might change for the worse—the barometer was already low and still
falling, and the sky had a strange reddish cast. By noon the wind had picked up
to over 40 knots and the ship was pitching badly. Still not unusual, but some
routine precautions were in order.
Both
of our small-boats were rigged out in the normal manner, but right after the
noon meal we cranked in the motor launch and secured it in it’s cradle. We
also veered the anchor chain three shots, lashed down the pawl and cinched up
hard on the devil’s claws. The depth of water on the Bar Station is 17 fathoms
and our fair weather scope of chain 120 fathoms. A seven to one ratio is
considered adequate. By veering three shots we increased the ratio to almost ten
to one.
Lightship 612 At The End Of Her Career (From Ken Laessar's Coast Guard History site)
By the time we finished the wind had increased to the point where it was no longer safe to work on deck. That left the pulling boat rigged out in the portside davits, but it had survived other strenuous weather in that position and I considered it OK. We went below and checked port holes and hatches to be sure everything was dogged down tight. There had been no marine broadcasts regarding storm or small craft warnings, which was very misleading, but it was obvious that something out of the ordinary was brewing. I was well into my third year in command of Lightship 612 and we had been through bad weather frequently and I knew the ship’s capabilities well and was not unduly concerned that whatever was taking place might be anything to worry about.
The
motion of the ship was getting too wild for the cook (Horstman) to safely turn
out the evening meal, so he made sandwiches. Few were interested in food at that
point. About 1800 I went to the bridge intent on calling in for a weather
forecast and to have a look around. It was dark by then so there was not much to
see, but there was a lot of white water around us and seas were starting to
break aboard. The anemometer was showing just under 70 knots.
Suddenly
the URC-7 transceiver came to life with CG Radio San Francisco transmitting an
urgent marine broadcast on 2670 kc. Weather, at last, but it consisted only of
gale warnings (33 to 47 knots) which didn’t make it sound too bad. From our
viewpoint that was ridiculous as we were already well past storm warnings (48 to
63 knots) and into hurricane range (64 knots and over). I roughed out a
“Special Advisory” report for the U.S. Weather Bureau and a “Status
Report” for the 12th CG District. It was tough trying to write and
hold on at the same time but it was important to let somebody know what was
happening out here.
Riding
a small ship anchored in a violent storm is something only lightship sailors
know. Other vessels have long before sought refuge in a safe harbor or turned to
seaward on a course and speed matched to ease the motion. The lightship strives
to maintain station and in doing so is exposed to the full fury of the sea.
Several unpleasant things may happen. Most commonly there comes a failure in the
ground tackle, the anchor breaks out and begins to drag or, worse, the chain
snaps. If the ship cannot make way against the sea, she may be driven ashore.
Lightships have been ripped apart by ice, torn asunder by mountainous seas and
foundered by loss of watertight integrity.
At
2200 CG San Francisco Radio was back on the air with another Urgent Marine
Broadcast, this time setting northwest storm warnings for winds up to 60 knots.
They were still way off the mark for we were now reading 75 with no indication
of backing off. We already had four main engines on the line and making turns
for half ahead to ease strain on the chain. With large amounts of rudder we
could keep her fairly close to the wind but it was not without difficulty. With
the violent motion of the ship most of the crew except those on watch were in
their bunks and holding on. A few of them were too excited or maybe frightened
and were up and about. Several came to the wheelhouse. All of us had one thing
in common—holding on to something solid to keep from being bodily slammed
against a bulkhead or hurled to the deck and severely injured.
Midnight
came and I was beginning to worry. Seas were breaking over the bow almost
continuously and in ever-increasing force. The pulling boat, still rigged out,
could easily be carried away. The anchor chain was under terrific strain. If it
broke, could we make way against the sea? Worry, worry.
The
wind was now 80 knots. Turns were increased on the shaft to full ahead. Our
radar was useless, the entire screen a white mass of sea return. Then the
antenna drive belt snapped and that was the end of the radar. I switched it off.
At 0200 the URC-7 sounded off again, this time a message from CCGD12 requesting
conditions and status. An experienced and alert duty officer in RCC knew the
score and was concerned for our welfare. I tried to sound casual but with one
hand gripping the handset and the other holding on for dear life I probably
sounded like an idiot.
“Ship
maintaining station, all services in normal operation. Wind—”, I glanced at
the anemometer, good grief! “90 knots.” I was too surprised to say any more.
Ninety knots? Gusting to 120!
The
seas had also increased and I was looking at swells in the order of 50 feet
towering over us. Some we rode skyward only to come roaring down the backsides
and plunging deep into the next one. The main deck was continuously awash from
stem to stern. An occasional monster would crash over the foredeck breakwater,
bury the wheelhouse and continue to sweep right on over the full length of the
ship. Despite our best efforts using engine and rudder, the ship twice flung
herself back hard against the mooring, fetching up with a shudder. This
dangerous event is exactly what might cause a failure of ground tackle, but
there is nothing to do but keep trying to steer into the seas. With the constant
thundering of water over the ship, the wheelhouse ports were impossible to see
through, which made the maneuvering a “by the feel of it” process, made
still more difficult by the primary task of trying to keep your body from being
wrenched loose from your handhold. Russ Helberg, a young seaman aboard 612
vividly recalls some of the action.
“The
pilot boat California, abandoning the Pilot Station and running for the
shelter of San Francisco Bay, came by. They put their mercury searchlight on us
to see how far we were coming out of the water. They said they could see our
keel and zinc plates. Then we lost the drive belt on our radar because the masts
were snapping so violently every time she took her dive into the trough. We took
green water over the stack and that was when we took water into the foghorns and
silenced the diaphragms. Since we were anchored she had nowhere to go but
straight through a wave. I remember that I could just about walk on the forward
bulkhead of the bridge."
Russ
also mentions the terrible collision of the M/V Cocoa Maru and MSTS Asterion
on that same night off Point Reyes. The CG 95 footer attempting to respond
sustained damage and had to turn back. CGC COMANCHE managed to arrive on
scene but only after a terrible struggle. The ships were eventually saved but
there was a considerable loss of lives.
Just
after 0400, somebody at the weather bureau finally got a handle on what was
taking place and the following broadcast gave a clear if not entirely accurate
picture. At Mount Tamalpais the wind had been recorded at 120 knots. San
Francisco Lightship reporting 90 knots (my 0200 report), Point Reyes 105 knots,
and so on down the line. But now that was all ancient history for the wind was
already dropping off. At 0700 the sky was beginning to lighten up a bit and I
thought I detected a slight moderation in the swells. We had been keeping tabs
on the barometer every hour and it now had actually started to rise. An hour
later there was a huge drop in the wind, all the way down to 40 knots!
At
0930 the sea was easing up considerably and we could now look through the ports
and view our surroundings. The pulling boat by some miracle was still intact.
Then it started to rain, soon coming down in buckets and visibility was lost
again. It occurred to me we should try the fog signal again but it was to no
avail. All through this ordeal the main light and the radio beacon had
faithfully sent out their signals, but the two mighty F-2-T diaphones had
succumbed when a huge sea had swept over the ship. The inverted cone-shaped
chambers simply filled to the top with seawater and were silenced.
The
rest is anticlimactic. The wind continued to abate and the seas gradually
subsided. It felt good to let go of our various handholds but we were stiff and
sore from hours of hanging on. Numb is probably a good word to apply -- And we
were starving.
By
mid afternoon the cook (with eager assistance) was putting together a feast and
everybody was up and moving around.
The
storm provided the “grand finale” to my Coast Guard career. On December 17
we were relieved by Lightship 523 (CHBOSN Barr) and proceeded to the CG Base,
Yerba Buena Island. I retired from the USCG on 1 January 1963 having been
relieved by BOSN James Sawyer.
Although
I continued seafaring for another 40 years, the November storm of 1962 has
always been keenly remembered.