IT IS DIFFICULT for anyone who hasn’t seen Georgian Bay in full flight to fully comprehend its fury. The weather can change dramatically hour to hour, even minute to minute. It is a lake but it can act with the power of an ocean.
Spending summers at Pointe au Baril and, later, sailing along the east and northern shore in a thirty-three-foot sailboat my baby-boomer parents anointed Peacetrain, I have learned respect for Georgian Bay. I love its moods and intensity. But I also fear it. The water is cold, bearable only for a few weeks in July and August. It rises and falls, whole islands emerging and just as suddenly disappearing into the blue; shoals can appear where once there was unperturbed water. The winds are shifty and capricious.
When we were sailing on Peacetrain during storms or under questionable skies, the VHF radio would always be tuned in to the weather channel of what was then known as Wiarton Coast Guard Radio “serving Lake Huron and Georgian Bay.” Often I’d go below into the small cabin to hear the familiar buzzing Scottish voice: “Marine forecast issued at 04:00. Lake Huron, Georgian Bay, winds northwest thirty diminishing to fifteen by noon, to light and variable in the afternoon. Waves two metres, subsiding …”
To call through to the station my mother or father would switch frequencies and talk into the mouthpiece: “Wiarton Coast Guard Radio, Wiarton Coast Guard Radio, Wiarton Coast Guard Radio, this is Peacetrain, Peacetrain, Peacetrain.” You could hear others doing the same. Mostly it was sailors asking for news about water levels or reporting a buoy that was missing or a light out. Sometimes there’d be a distress call, someone who’d seen a waterspout or storm tide, a boat that hit a shoal or ran out of fuel. Once we listened as a terrified person reported “man overboard.” We could hear the panic in the caller’s voice, the wind whistling across the mouthpiece. People all over the bay would have been glued to the VHF to hear the outcome. In those tense moments it felt as if a thin line separated me and my family from those pleading for rescue.
But we sailed mostly in the summer—the calmest and warmest time on Georgian Bay. Anyone who knows the Great Lakes will tell you that it is the autumn that you need to watch. The gales of November have been enshrined in song and myth, their suddenness and force unrivalled the rest of the year. It is the month when the Lake Superior ore carrier Edmund Fitzgerald famously went down with all hands in 1975. It is when the Jane Miller sank in 1881, the Algoma in 1885, the Bannockburn in 1902, and it is when, in a matter of a few days, the Great Storm of 1913 wrecked forty boats and took the lives of 235 sailors on Lake Huron alone.
There have been no major fall shipwrecks on the Great Lakes since the Fitzgerald sank, but in the early days of the twentieth century, each November the captains and crews of the wooden steamers prepared themselves for news of lost boats. Racing against the weather, they hoped they’d get lucky and outrun the storms. Spray off the water would turn to ice, coating the wooden decks and making the trip from bow to stern a slippery, dangerous ride. And loaded down with ice, the boats were heavy and low in the water, hard to control. Sailors worked day and night to get in as many trips as possible; the crew stuck by the Old Man to get an end-of-the-season bonus and ensure a job for the spring.
Marine insurance on Georgian Bay often ran out by the beginning of November in those days, but most captains and owners couldn’t afford to put too much weight on the cold feet of insurance men. Freight fees and passenger rates were simply raised to compensate. Any boat with cargo to haul would keep running until the ice chased her out of the bay.
Sailors found comfort in omens and hunches, in signals from the wind and sky. Those with a “weather eye” were revered for their alertness to changes in the patterns of the wind, for their steady confidence in what they could feel in their bones. But any sailor who’d been on the water for a season learned to recognize signs in the heavens. There was folklore for every forecast.
Mackerel sky and mares’ tails, make tall ships dowse lofty sails.
Red sky at night, sailor’s delight. Red sky in the morning, sailors take warning.
They would watch the soot in their fireplaces (“When soot begins to fall, the weather soon will squall”), the morning dew (“When dew is on the grass, rain will never come to pass”) and count the chirps of the black field cricket. Tested over centuries and across continents, these weather sayings were trusted; they were used in concert with whatever technology was available to make important decisions about when to sail, where to go and when to stay in port.
Instinct and folklore was nearly as good as weather forecasting got in those days. It wasn’t the technology that was the problem—the central weather observatory in Toronto was actually quite accurate in its predictions—the issue was the lack of reliable communication between the observatory and more remote areas. There were still people who remembered when farmers living in the Windsor to Halifax corridor could watch the passing trains for weather information. A large metal full moon attached to the front of the engine or side of the baggage cars meant sunny weather, a crescent moon indicated rain, a star prolonged showers.
By the 1900s, probability sheets, which detailed the weather forecast for a twenty-four-hour period, were being sent each day except Sunday from the observatory to telegraph offices in small towns across eastern Canada. The “probs,” as they were known, were meant to be posted on the outside of public buildings. But the information didn’t always arrive in time to be useful, or workers didn’t bother posting them. And even when they saw the forecast, a lot of old-timers, especially the prickly sailing masters of the Great Lakes, figured they probably knew more about the inland seas than some pointy-head in Toronto.
Once out on the water, sailors were on their own, anyway. There was no ship-to-shore radio or VHF weather channel to transmit the news. A steamer captain relied on his barometer, compass and anemometer to measure wind speed but, mostly, he relied on his judgment.
With nearly twenty-five years of sailing on Georgian Bay, Jim Crawford was too experienced a master to ignore the signs in the sky the morning he set out on his last voyage. He would have consulted his barometer and measured the wind speed, talked to other captains. Perhaps he checked the soot in his fireplace, too. But there were also other, non-weather-related factors he had to take into account: he almost certainly felt pressure to complete the last run of the Jones’s season. There was business to finish; his crew wanted to get home.
So did he see something in the sky that made him decide it would be safe to leave Owen Sound in stormy seas with a heavy load of passengers and freight? Or did he simply weigh his options and calculate that he and the Jones were up for the challenge of the blowing snow and gathering wind? Was he cocky or stupid or just unlucky that day?
I took my questions with me one cold spring morning when I trekked up to the Environment Canada library on a particularly desolate stretch in the northern reaches of Toronto. Housed on the second floor of a government-issue concrete bunker of a building, the library has an impressive archive of documents, maps and journals about weather, some of which go as far back as the 1850s. With the guidance and calm enthusiasm of meteorologist Geoff Coulson, I was able to track the course of the storm that the Jones encountered. The way Coulson described the movement of the weather in those late-November days of 1906 was like the plot of a particularly dark and foreboding novel.
The language meteorologists use to describe storms and air masses is, in fact, unabashedly literary—imbued with the flavour of its folkloric past, touched by the drama of the events it describes. A rapidly moving storm sailing eastward from the western provinces is known as a “prairie schooner.” The centre of a low pressure system is described as “riding a wave” of warm and cold air. The dividing line between two air masses is a “front,” as if it were a war between two competing temperatures. And, in fact, the way meteorologists see it, the constant movement of the weather—rising and falling, clashing and abating—is like a battle.
According to Coulson, the story of the storm that hit the Jones begins at least two days before it arrived on the Bruce Peninsula. Interpreting the cryptic undulations and symbols on a weather map of the northern hemisphere, he could see that though it was only partly cloudy with light winds and seasonal temperatures on Georgian Bay, there was weather brewing in Arkansas and Mississippi. A low pressure system was gathering force and heading northward. The American Midwest, lower Michigan and southwestern Ontario were already experiencing snow and rain, though the wind wasn’t especially strong.
But by 8 o’clock the next morning, the day before the Jones left Owen Sound, the weather had changed considerably. Nearby Muskoka was reporting gusts reaching fifteen knots and Lake Superior was experiencing even stronger winds. The low pressure system had shot up to the north over central Illinois, just southwest of Chicago, and was butting against a ridge of high pressure anchored over southern Quebec. Thermal contrast is the engine of any storm and by the evening of November 21, 1906, the stage was set for a massive clash over Lake Huron and Georgian Bay.
The reason autumn is so brutal on the Great Lakes is that as the days get shorter and the weather colder, the contrast between the warm and cold air masses meeting over the lakes becomes very dramatic. Canada’s Arctic air and the warm, moist air masses from the United States collide, creating the kind of energy demanded by big, intense storms. Add to this the fact that the Great Lakes are still relatively warm in the fall, providing heat and moisture to the approaching storms, and you’ve got an explosive situation.
At about 2 a.m. on November 22, 1906, the storm hit its height. With blowing snow and thirty- to forty-knot gale force winds, visibility would have been extremely restricted, with waves in the open beginning to build into mountains of water.
With thirty-knot winds, waves on Georgian Bay can be substantial. In general, the longer and faster the wind blows from a single direction, the bigger the waves. The danger for sailors is that the power of the wind to produce waves and push a boat around does not increase linearly, but as the square of the velocity. Which means that a ten-knot wind is not twice, but four times as powerful as a five-knot breeze. When that ten-knot blow picks up to thirty knots, it becomes nine times as strong. This exponential increase is translated to the waves.
Sailors call a thirty-four- to forty-knot wind a fresh gale. On land, branches will snap off trees and you have to lean into the wind to make any headway. On the water, waves mount and break into spindrift, shooting foam in streaks like lightning.
But there are other factors in addition to wind strength that determine a wave’s height and character. Wind shifts, current, cliff effects and the water’s depth also play a role. On the ocean, waves tend to be higher than on the Great Lakes because they have the chance to build up over a much larger and deeper body of water. But waves on the (relatively) shallow lakes can be even more vicious, since they are short and steep, and made more treacherous by the presence of shoals and the interference of islands and other land forms. These sorts of waves are particularly dangerous for relatively small boats like the 107-foot Jones. If you throw a wind shift into the mix, causing waves to race across each other from different directions, the bay can be terrifyingly chaotic. When the walls of water hit a boat one after another from every direction, it can feel like you’re in a floating punching bag.
By 8 o’clock on the morning of November 22, when the weather map for that day was created, the storm was still battering Georgian Bay. It was cloudy with intermittent snow squalls. But Coulson saw something on the map that I hadn’t seen or heard about before. When Jim Crawford and his crew took their weather readings that morning, they would have noticed that the barometer was rising. Better weather appeared to be on its way. With the wind shifting from the west to northwest, they must have deduced that the storm, which had reached fever pitch the previous night, was headed out of the bay. It must have looked as if the worst was over.
But for Jim Crawford and the passengers and crew of the Jones, it clearly wasn’t. The storm might have been passing but it wasn’t gone. It takes several hours for waves as high as twenty feet to die down, especially if they’ve built up over a long time over a big stretch of water. And the wind shift to the northwest meant that when the boat left the shelter of the peninsula at Cape Croker, they would hit the roughest, biggest sort of waves. The cliffs there make it an especially gusty spot. Waves would hit them from both the west and the northwest, the latter gathering strength and height as they travelled nearly the entire length of Georgian Bay. If the oil barrels or some other heavy cargo shifted as the wind and water battered the boat, it would be next to impossible to control the heavy steamer. It would all be over in a few minutes.
November 22, 1906, 4 p.m., Georgian Bay
Captain Jim has to make a decision. Fast. They’ve just passed the Cape Croker lighthouse and the seas are looking confused. They’re already taking water over the deck, spraying up to the hurricane deck. And the sleet and snow coming down like a drill makes it difficult to make sense of anything.
Willie Ross, the wheelsman, senses the captain’s hesitation. “Let’s keep ’er running just off the wind,” he says. They are huddled close together in the wheelhouse, for warmth as much as want of space, and Jim can feel the young man’s hot breath on his cheek. “We’ll miss the Head tonight but I don’t think we can risk taking ’em beam-to.”
“No,” Jim nods. “But I don’t want to be caught in the open much longer. I wouldn’t have left this morning if I didn’t think we could make the turn into the Head. We’ll pick a smooth wave and turn through.”
Willie grumbles to himself as he waits for the Old Man’s instructions. Jim counts the waves beginning with a large one. It’s difficult to do because of the confused sea, but the seventh and eleventh are usually the largest waves; the ones that follow the smoothest—and smallest. He braces himself with his hands against the door of the wheelhouse. A big wave washes over the deck, plunging the Jones low in the water. Jim breathes deeply and gives the signal to Willie. He pulls the brass handle four times to tell the engineer to go full throttle as they turn through the wind. They’ve done this a hundred times before. The Jones alters course bound for Lion’s Head.
But the pummelling is worse once they’ve turned off the wind. The waves are even steeper. Taking them on her starboard bow the Jones can’t plough through anymore, not when the waves are almost a quarter the length of the entire boat. They’re coming quickly, too, three at a time.
Willie holds the wheel firmly as the bow of the boat climbs up the face of a wave and then crashes over the top, coming down into the trough with a thud, like landing on concrete. There are moments when it feels to both of them as if they are riding on top of these waves, balancing for a split second, stern out of the water. The tension goes out of the wheel then and it’s impossible to steer with the propeller spinning in the air. When the prop again grasps water, Willie struggles against the sudden force of the waves pushing the boat sideways. They both know that if they go beam-to into the trough of the sea, taking the waves directly on their side, the Jones will flip over like a dinghy.
Suddenly, Ed Lennox, the first mate, appears in the side window. He’s crouched low, clinging to the side of the cabin. When he pulls the narrow door open it snaps violently back, smashing the side of the wheelhouse.
“The cargo has shifted, sir,” Ed yells over the wind. “When we turned toward the Head. I’ve got the deckhands trying to stabilize her but it’s hard to do in these waves. We might need to pitch some over.”
Although he has to shout to be heard, Lennox’s voice is level. He looks calm enough, though he stands with his long body bent, bracing himself against the weather. He seems unaware that he is shivering. With a thin, muscular forearm, he wipes away the spray that drips from his face.
“Put as many men on it as necessary,” says the captain. “And be at the ready. I may need you.”
Ed nods and turns to go. He has to lean his whole body on the door to close it. Just as he gets it shut a wave washes over the foredeck. The water shoves him backwards and he grips the side of the cabin and the rail that wraps around the deck.
Inside the wheelhouse, Willie and Jim can feel the cargo on the upper deck move violently with this last wave, a sudden heaving motion that forces the boat to list to port. The one coal lamp flickers, then goes out entirely.
The darkness in the small room is blinding. When his eyes adjust, Willie finds he can barely see the compass. And the Jones isn’t obeying her helm. Willie spreads his legs wide to get better leverage on the wheel and curses under his breath. They’ve done this trip so many times they could do it backwards and upside down. He grits his teeth and squints into the dark.
Jim is concentrating on the compass and his own breathing when a white shape leaps out of the pitch, sweeps the deck and explodes into the wheelhouse. Both men try to duck but water slices at their faces and chests like a knife. Icy fingers of water drip down Jim’s back.
He blinks. Everything is white. He runs a hand across his eyes and he can see Willie reeling beside him. The front panes and one of the side windows are broken; glass covers them both and sloshes in the water that’s up to their knees. Freezing spray blasts the little room.
“You all right?” Jim shouts.
“Yep,” Willie gulps.
But nothing is all right. The Jones is wallowing. Water is coming in. There’s no tension in the wheel. The captain’s forehead is bleeding. Jim tries one door but the wind has nailed it shut. When he squeezes past Willie to push the other, it catches the wind and swings open again. Water pours out but there’s still half a foot trapped by the raised door frame, and more coming in all the time.
Wesley Sadler, the second engineer, appears red-faced and breathless in the doorway. “We’re taking on water, sir. It’s in the engine room. We can’t keep up steam,” he shouts.
Sadler seems feral, like a cat ready to pounce. He looks impatiently to the captain for orders but Jim says nothing. His eyes are half-closed, his moustache drips. There is blood trickling down the side of his face and smeared across his forehead.
“Are the pumps at full force?” he asks finally.
“Aye, sir. But they won’t do the job,” Sadler spits. The boat is listing now. Jim turns and looks the second engineer in the eye.
“Tell Ed to ready the passengers and lifeboats. Set the flares.”
It’s a decision no captain wants to make but there is no other choice. The Jones is now leaning to port so much that Willie and Jim have to hold the starboard side of the cabin to keep upright. They have almost no steam. They’re at the mercy of the storm.
The next wave shrieks through the wheelhouse as if shredding the air. The Jones twists as the wave rolls her over. Willie and Captain Jim are thrown off their feet. Stunned, they try to clamber up but a wave pushes them back and Jim loses sight of Willie in the confusion. Water is everywhere. It’s unimaginably cold. Fighting frantically for air, Jim grabs onto something he thinks is the door frame of the wheelhouse and tries to drag himself out of the water. He manages to get his head out for a moment and he sputters and coughs, his chest tight, like someone is sitting on it. It’s hard to breathe. Then another wave smashes down on him like a hammer. The suction of the sinking boat pulls him deeper and deeper, tugging at his heavy boots and coat. Jim tries to resist, but his body won’t obey. Everything seems to happen in half speed. He watches as barrels, apples and bags of flour spiral downward with him.
Adapted from the Parry Sound North Star December 5, 1906
