To those who love the sea — and those who still make time to read
.
Introduction
Chapter One: The Rush to Skagway
Chapter Two: “A Slow Trip Through Alaska” — Princess Sophia
Chapter Three: The Star Princess Sets Sail
Chapter Four: The Storm — Princess Sophia
Chapter Five: The Turn — Star Princess
Chapter Six: The Accident — Princess Sophia
Chapter Seven: The Turn — Star Princess
Chapter Eight: Stranded On the Rocks — Princess Sophia
Chapter Nine: Beaching the Star Princess
Chapter Ten: Those Last Minutes — Princess Sophia
Chapter Eleven: Aftermath — Chaos and Confusion
Chapter Twelve: Star Princess Sails On
Notes
Notes on Sources
O, I have suffered with those that I saw suffer! A brave vessel (Who had no doubt some noble creature in her) Dashed all to pieces! O, the cry did knock against my very heart! Poor souls, they perished!
— William Shakespeare, The Tempest
In the course of writing this book, it occurred to me that I can’t really remember the first time I learned of the wreck of the Princess Sophia. I do, however, remember where I was when I thought it would be a good idea to write a book juxtaposing her accident with the 1995 grounding of the cruise vessel Star Princess: in a little pub in Juneau known as the Triangle Club Bar, where I sat, nursing a pint of Alaskan Amber Ale while in port on a cruise through Alaska. I’d come into the bar because I’d heard there was free Wi-Fi internet access with purchase — and there was. But instead of checking emails and filing articles, I found myself staring at a wall covered in photos of famous Alaskan shipwrecks, one of which was the unmistakable silhouette of the Princess Sophia, stranded up on Vanderbilt Reef.
The first step in what would become a multi-year journey occurred when I literally walked across the street to Hearthside Books and purchased a copy of Ken Coates and Bill Morrison’s masterwork, The Sinking of the Princess Sophia. In Alaska, everything you need seems to be close at hand.
I read the book as we made our way up to Skagway, and when I disembarked I stood in the middle of Broadway Street and tried to imagine the scene that would have greeted travellers in October 1918. I found it both easy and difficult; easy because of the cruise ship passengers like myself who swarmed the dock apron and clogged the streets. Difficult because Skagway today is a bit of a parody of itself; there’s re-enactments of shootouts and fake brothels designed to entertain families. Have you ever heard a father trying to explain to his son what a brothel is? You will, if you visit Skagway in the summer.
The real tragedy, however, is not that it’s difficult to visualize the world of 1918, but that the story of the Princess Sophia has been largely forgotten. Even the grounding of the Star Princess, which occurred in modern times, wasn’t given the media-circus frenzy that has accompanied simi-lar accidents in recent memory. It wasn’t until I was one of the hundreds of people queuing up to get back on my massive floating palace in Skagway that it hit me: absolutely no one who comes to Skagway by ship knows the sad, stor-ied events that have played out right in the very waters on which they sail.
Now, you could argue cruise lines don’t really want to talk about shipwrecks — it’s a bit like showing Alive on an airplane. That’s fair. But the more I read about both accidents, the more utterly fascinated I became by the parallels between them. The Princess Sophia is the Titanic of the west coast; yet her journey into obscurity was greatly accelerated by the end of the Great War; the war that, people hoped, would be the War to End All Wars.
Our knowledge of what happened on board during those two grim days Princess Sophia spent stranded on Vanderbilt Reef comes from the passengers aboard her, and from those who had the most fleeting encounters with her crew. These included her would-be rescuers who kept their ships nearby in absolutely atrocious weather, sometimes at great risk to their own vessels and personal safety. Passengers wrote letters, some of which were discovered when the ship foundered. Wireless conversations, recorded in Juneau and preserved for all time, also provide brief glimpses into what life was like on board.
Many books about the Princess Sophia focus on the trial and the aftermath of the sinking. We don’t know every detail of what happened on board, but there’s enough witness testimony to put together a substantial part of the puzzle. From there it’s possible to fill in the blanks to surmise what exactly happened on board during those two awful days stranded upon Vanderbilt Reef. On the second evening she slipped silently and suddenly into the churning ocean that had been trying to claim her, hidden by a raging snowstorm that only seemed to intensify during her greatest hour of need. She took 343 passengers and crew down with her that night.
At least, we think she did. The official court documents and accident proceedings — which wouldn’t be finalized until over a decade after the accident occurred and are contested to this day — continuously pegged the number of souls on board at 343, despite the passenger and crew lists being fraught with errors. Additional crewmembers were brought on board in Skagway to cover for crew who had fallen ill with influenza. They are not recorded on the official list. Many of the Chinese crewmembers who worked aboard the Princess Sophia on her final voyage were posthumously (and, today, insensitively) lumped into a single category: “12 Chinamen in steward’s department.” Either way it’s likely there were at least 350 souls on board that final voyage — and that the exact final number will never be known.
If the lists of souls on board could best be described as inaccurate, deciphering a timeline of events in the sinking of the Princess Sophia is almost an exercise in pure torture. Alaskan Standard Time is one hour behind Pacific Standard Time that Victoria and Vancouver use. To complicate matters, despite the fact that she spent the majority of her time in Alaskan waters, Princess Sophia’s clocks were continually set one hour ahead, on Pacific Standard Time.[1] To help keep things organized, I’ve standardized all times to Alaskan Standard and not Pacific Standard. In most cases, times given are based on either eyewitness accounts, inquiry testimony, or wireless message records. In a few instances, they’re close approximations that I’ve come to by averaging out the different sources of information. In retelling the events that took place both on board and ashore, I’ve tried to keep things in chronological order. Establishing this order was, once again, a bit of a jigsaw thanks to differences in time and conflicting witness testimony.
The Star Princess proved to be a much easier beast to research — though even then, with a full accident report issued in 1997 by the National Transportation Safety Board, questions still remain, and answers are elusive. Twenty years have passed since that incident occurred, and many of the key players have either retired or passed on during that time.
Besides the books and the accident reports and the hundreds upon hundreds of pages of testimony and legal wrangling that went on in courts on both sides of the border for both incidents, seeing really is believing. I’d taken six separate voyages to Alaska in the past decade, but it was only on my seventh voyage that I managed to finally glimpse Vanderbilt Reef. When the ship I was travelling on passed it in the early hours of the morning the sky was still dark. The reef now has a small tower with a beacon on it. According to the Juneau Empire, it’s apparently a great place to catch halibut.[2]
In all honesty, I have a hard time picturing the Princess Sophia sitting on that impossibly small outcrop of rocks. We sailed straight past it, safely, just like every modern cruise ship that travels between Juneau and Skagway during the busy summer Alaska cruise season. I watched from my balcony on the ship as the reef disappeared from view. It was like seeing a ghost. Somewhere, beneat
h that murky black sea, her remains still lie.
What isn’t difficult to picture is the storm. The weather in Alaska changes in a heartbeat, and the winds that whip down Lynn Canal can be ferocious. I’ve seen many a cruise passenger lose their hat upon departure from Skagway. Even a sunny July departure can drive people back into the warmth of the ship, where they’re sheltered from the howling wind. Just like it did in 1918, strong winds frequently slam into cruise ships departing in the late evening and can roar right down Broadway and up into the White Pass.
The dramatic events that befell Princess Sophia in Lynn Canal would culminate in the worst maritime disaster in the history of both Alaska and British Columbia. The tragedy that claimed the lives of every man, woman, and child aboard the Princess Sophia would be overshadowed mere weeks later by the end of the First World War, their lives forgotten by the jubilation of a world that was happy to finally be at peace.
Perhaps worst of all, a similar disaster would nearly befall a modern cruise ship traversing the same stretch of Lynn Canal some seventy-six years later. On a routine Alaska cruise in the summer of 1995, on an evening completely dissimilar from the raging snowstorm that in part doomed the Princess Sophia, and aided by the latest navigation equipment, Princess Cruises’ 810-foot-long Star Princess had just completed an operational manoeuvre in the middle of the canal, designed to slow her estimated arrival time in Juneau to keep her on schedule. During this mundane course correction, performed in total darkness with no other vessels in sight, another, equally routine, event occurred: a change of watch between the two Alaska state pilots assigned to Star Princess during her time in Alaskan waters.
The events that occurred just after two in the morning on June 24, 1995, would threaten more than just her schedule. It would shake her experienced officers and the state-licenced pilot assigned to guide Star Princess safely through Alaskan waters, and thrust both Lynn Canal and the Princess Sophia into the spotlight again. Despite the fact that Star Princess would be treated to a happy ending, the similarities between the two events are the stuff mystery and fiction writers love: Both vessels departed Skagway on the twenty-third day of the month. Both vessels departed in the evening, from almost the same pier, at nearly the same time. Both were new, state-of-the-art ships, with highly competent crews, heading south through Lynn Canal.
Like many unfortunate events, neither was the result of a single, catastrophic error in judgement. They were caused by an intricate chain of events, coincidences, and mistakes so small and insignificant that neither crew realized they were in any danger until they were well past the point of no return. Both felt they could handle the weather; both felt they knew where they were.
This is the story of two ships, two eras, and the skilled men who seriously misjudged North America’s deepest fjord.
Aaron Saunders
Vancouver, British Columbia
March 1, 2015
1896–1898
SKAGWAY, ALASKA
The Princess Sophia and the Star Princess were two very different ships, operating at two very different times. One sank with all hands in what would become the worst maritime disaster in the history of Alaska and British Columbia, while the other was spared that ignominious fate — though just barely. That they both encountered danger in the same stretch of Alaska’s 140 kilometre-long Lynn Canal is the bond that unites them.
The view at Lynn Canal seems to offer up the perfect postcard picture of Alaska. Enormous mountain ranges border either side, their snow-capped peaks glistening in the sunlight, dwarfing the glistening white superstructures of the cruise ships that regularly ply these waters during the summer months as their guests head “north, to Alaska.”
Few will know that Lynn Canal is actually the deepest fjord in North America, extending 610 metres below its picturesque surface. In fact, most cruise-ship passengers will never see some of its most distinctive — and notorious — features. Vanderbilt Reef, Eldred Rock, and Poundstone Rock are typically passed in the wee hours of the night, as ships make their way to and from the gold rush town of Skagway. Tours up the scenic White Pass & Yukon Route Railroad are popular with the tourists, so cruise ships stay in Skagway as late as nine or even ten p.m., sailing into the darkness that envelops the canal as they begin their return journey south to Juneau.
The winds that blow through Lynn Canal can be fierce, developing out of nowhere and striking with surprising intensity. The surrounding mountains offer little protection from these gusts, which race up the canal and slam into the town of Skagway. On these days, where the wind whips at your face and churns up dust and debris along the waterfront of the town that Jefferson Randolph “Soapy” Smith used to rule in its heyday, the conditions faced by the crews that brought the prospectors, and later tourists, up Lynn Canal can be fully understood.
Skagway Harbor as seen in 1916. The basic layout of the harbour remained largely unchanged from 1898 until the end of the Second World War.
Library of Congress, Prints & Photographs Division, LC-DLC-ppmsc-01916.
The White Pass & Yukon Route railroad was completed in 1900 and originally ran between Whitehorse and Skagway. Today it makes tourist runs up to Carcross, Yukon Territory, and back — sometimes still using traditional steam power.
Like any disaster, the Princess Sophia tragedy has more than one facet. Compounding the remoteness of Skagway and the ever-changing weather conditions in Lynn Canal was how quickly travelling up the canal became a necessity. Few lighthouses were installed until well after 1900, and regulations governing cargo, passengers, and even the vessels themselves couldn’t be drawn up as fast as the passenger trade grew.
Today cruise ships plying Alaskan waters are harshly regulated, so much so that John Binkley, the head of the Alaska Cruise Association, famously quipped in 2008 that pumping the state’s own drinking water into the ocean would constitute pollution under the 2006 regulations governing the discharge of grey water and effluent.[1]
At the height of the gold rush, the passenger-ship trade was a completely different story. Regulations were few and far between, and certainly no one on land or at sea was terribly concerned with the consequences of pollution. They were, however, concerned with that other P word: profit. And in the last dying years of the nineteenth century there was no shortage of profit to be made in Alaska. Many called it “the rush,” but the truth of the matter was that a single discovery on a lazy Sunday morning sparked an all-out frenzy that would consume much of the Klondike for decades to come.
On Sunday, August 16, 1896, three prospectors travelling down Rabbit Creek in the Klondike suddenly struck it rich, finding four dollars’ worth of gold while engaging in the mundane task of washing their dishes in the stream near their campsite. Knowing an opportunity when they saw it, Skookum Jim, his nephew Charlie Dawson, and brother-in-law George Carmack staked their claims the very next day at the police outpost at Fortymile River. Fuelled by a modest network of explorers and prospectors who were all in the area at the same time, word travelled south with surprising speed. Based on nothing more than word-of-mouth stories passed down from one prospector to another, claims on Rabbit Creek were snatched up by the end of that month. Few who bought in went home disappointed; the pay streak was so rich that the prospectors figured a name change was in order. Almost overnight, Rabbit Creek became Bonanza Creek.
The success prospectors found on Bonanza Creek alone might have been enough to spark a gold rush, but when gold was discovered on nearby Eldorado Creek — and in larger quantities than those present along Bonanza — it created an all-out frenzy across the United States and Canada that spurred people to head north in droves. They were lured to Alaska and the Yukon by visions of untold wealth literally resting on the surface of riverbeds (indeed, some of it was). By the summer of 1897 the Klondike gold rush was in full swing. Demand for travel north was outstripping supply by a long shot, and for most would-be prospectors a single dilemma stood between them and the biggest payday in history: how to get there.
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br /> Skagway in 1897, before the gold rush, bears little resemblance to the town that would pop up literally overnight. At this time it was a small beachhead camp known as Mooresville.
Library of Congress, Prints & Photographs Division, LC-USZ62-122304.
To say that Alaska and the Yukon in the late 1800s were the epitome of the Wild West is an understatement. In order to facilitate the gold rush, entire towns went up overnight. Places like Dawson City, Dyea, and Skagway simply didn’t exist before 1897. In 1898 Dawson City had a population of 40,000 inhabitants; the year before just a handful of homesteaders had staked their claims there. Skagway, once a small collection of humble shacks on a beach known as “Mooresville,” had nearly 10,000 residents by that summer, along with a main street, hotels, saloons, and the one of the highest concentration of brothels for miles around. Entire towns were being developed faster than law-enforcement officials could keep up with them, leading Samuel Steele of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police to describe Skagway during the height of the gold rush as “little better than a hell on earth.”[2] Prospectors coming ashore could expect to be greeted by any number of con men, swindlers, and outright crooks, while those fighting for a space on the returning ships were lucky if they made it on board with their findings intact, having run Skagway’s unrelenting gauntlet of brothels, bars, and rigged gambling houses. Gunfights in broad daylight were common, and pistols were practically a prerequisite.
Simply obtaining passage from places like Seattle and Vancouver to the relative lawlessness up north was often as dangerous an experience as the early pioneer towns were themselves. To capitalize on the increasing demand for steamship travel north, anything that could float was pressed into the lucrative passenger trade streaming to and from Alaska, and operators were free to set fares as they saw fit. With little to no regulatory oversight, unscrupulous operators sprang up like the mosquitoes that tormented so many Alaskans, eager to suck them dry at every turn. In 1896 passage on a tramp steamer heading north could cost as much as $40 (roughly $1,100 in modern currency) for a private cabin between Seattle, Juneau, and Dyea, or a bargain $25 if you wanted to travel in a steerage berth. Those fares would nearly triple by the winter of 1897. But all was not lost; for that price you could also bring on 150 pounds of free baggage.[3]
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