Disasters at Sea

by Liz Mechem

  The British liner’s second sailing in April 1909, less than a year later, was equally uneventful. Disembarking her passengers at Melbourne, the Waratah proceeded to Durban, South Africa. From there, she would make a quick stop in Cape Town and then steam back to London. Waratah departed Durban on July 26, 1909, with 211 passengers and crew aboard. At around 4:00 the following morning, she passed the cargo ship Clan McIntyre. This was the Waratah’s last recorded contact with the world; she was never seen nor heard from again.

  FLAMES, FLARES, AND FALSE LEADS

  A number of ships reported seeing strange activity from passing liners shortly after the Waratah sailed from Durban. The British freighter Harlow’s crew reportedly saw two large rocket flares shoot up from a passing ship, followed by total darkness. Another ship, the liner Guelph, witnessed a passenger vessel near Durban the night of July 27. Under stormy skies, the Guelph used a signal lamp to contact the passing vessel. The reply was unclear, but the final letters seemed to spell out T-A-H.

  FLOTSAM & JETSAM

  The Waratah was named for the hardy, crimson-blooming shrub that is the state flower of New South Wales, Australia.

  A blood-red bloom from a waratah shrub, namesake of the doomed ship

  A popular theory explaining the disappearance of the Waratah also has some grounding in fact. Some researchers put forth the hypotheses that a rogue wave had overwhelmed the ship, either rolling her over outright or damaging her cargo hatches, allowing water to flood the holds and pull her down almost instantly. Later, a respected South African professor published a paper describing waves of up to 65 feet (20 m) high hitting the area in which the Waratah disappeared.

  On July 29, 1909, the Waratah was expected in Cape Town. The ship never arrived. Two ships were dispatched to search the surrounding waters for the missing liner, but came back empty-handed. In the year following the Waratah’s disappearance, numerous searches—including one that combed 14,000 square miles (36,260 sq. km) of water—returned with no clues. Reports and rumors ran wild. Paranormal explanations vied with the practical (a freak wave), the plausible (a whirlpool), the improbable (methane gas upwelling), and the grimly mundane: perhaps a storm-tossed, rudderless Waratah had drifted off into Antarctic waters, those aboard dying of cold and starvation.

  A century of searches has turned up nothing conclusive. One team headed by Emlyn Brown searched for 22 years. In 1999, they located a likely wreck at the mouth of the Xora River, but a 2001 underwater search revealed that the wreck dated from World War II.

  The Waratah steams along the Indian Ocean.

  EXPERT TESTIMONY?

  BRITISH ENGINEER Claude Sawyer gained fame after the disappearance of the Waratah as the passenger who had disembarked the doomed ship. Upon arriving at Durban, he cabled home to his wife, “Thought Waratah top heavy, landed Durban.”

  Sawyer later testified at the inquest in London, recalling the nightmares and premonitions that had plagued him while aboard the ship. In one instance, he envisioned the steamer being struck by a huge wave, rolling to starboard (the actual direction of her customary list) and capsizing. Sawyer also described a vision of a man “in peculiar dress” brandishing a long, bloody sword. Whether such visions discredit Sawyer or bolster paranormal theories is a matter of personal opinion.

  SS Tubantia

  SUNKEN TREASURE?

  The SS Tubantia was built as a fast mail and passenger steamer for service between the Netherlands and South America.

  T he Atlantic Ocean during World War I was a place of danger. When the SS Tubantia, a ship sailing under the neutral flag of the Netherlands, was torpedoed and sunk on March 16, 1915, the first mystery was who had hit her. Despite strenuous denials from the German government, the remnants of a German torpedo from U-Boat UB-13 embedded in one of the Tubantia’s lifeboats solved that question quickly. Further efforts of the Germans to distance themselves from the sinking of a neutral vessel failed; the condition of the wreck and eyewitness reports contradicted the Germans’ story. (Their far-fetched claim was that the torpedo had been fired weeks before and merely drifted into Tubantia’s path.)

  Astonishingly, there had been no loss of life in the sinking, and after much politically charged diplomacy, the German government took responsibility for the loss of Tubantia and paid reparations to the Dutch. And here is where the story might have ended, if not for the oddly extensive attention paid the wreck. Over a period of months, which then turned into years, a series of multinational dive teams made repeated and intensive dives on the wreck of the Tubantia. What could possibly have prompted such interest?

  GOLD IN THE CHEESE

  The Dutch liner Tubantia was constructed in 1913 as a fast and luxurious liner, able to deliver mail with the utmost speed and passengers with the utmost comfort. Early adoption of electricity for everything onboard, from lighting and ventilation to personal cigar lighters in every stateroom, heralded the state-of-the-art character of Tubantia. Her electric lights, including an enormous illuminated sign spelling out her name, were touted as an additional safety feature. It was thought that by highlighting the ship and her flag, both German and Allied attackers would see her neutral status and eschew attacks. The attempt to attract passengers during those dark days of underwater wolf packs largely failed; one reason Tubantia’s sinking avoided casualties is that there were so few passengers onboard. Fear of wartime attacks, neutrality notwithstanding, kept most people away—wisely, as it turned out in the Tubantia’s case.

  In 1922, mere weeks after the Dutch government had given up salvage rights to the Tubantia, a multinational group of divers began to investigate the wreck. The mystery began to intrigue observers as the dive team stayed on site from May until stormy seas and weather shut down operations in November. As soon as the weather eased the following spring, the dive operation began again. All its strenuous underwater labor, including underwater demolition, merely yielded a hold full of Dutch cheese. Rumors immediately began that the cheese somehow concealed gold bullion, being hidden from the prying eyes of German and Allied customs inspectors. These rumors proved false, however, because both the original multinational dive team and subsequent Italian teams all failed to salvage much of value. Though the pull of Edam or Gouda can be strong, it seems safe to say that the mystery of the Tubantia’s cheese may never be solved.

  LET THERE BE LIGHT

  AT ANCHOR 58 MILES (93 km) from the Dutch coast, the Tubantia illuminated nearly every light she had, relying on her blazing presence to inform even the most ardent submarine attackers of her identity. When the tactic failed and a German torpedo struck the Tubantia, three ships in the vicinity—the Breda, the Krakstau, and La Campine—immediately interceded. Thanks to the alert crews of these ships, there were no casualties.

  Sections of UB-13, the U-boat that sank the Tubantia, onboard railroad flatcars en route to Antwerp for assembly in 1915

  U.S. Food Administration poster demonstrates the fear that U-boats struck in their Allied enemies. The Germans used U-boats to effectively blockade merchant convoys that brought food and supplies to Great Britain from the United States.

  SS Carroll A. Deering

  MYSTERY SHIP

  T he five-masted schooner Carroll A. Deering turned south out of Norfolk, Virginia, on September 8, 1920, bound for Rio de Janeiro with a load of coal. Veteran Captain W. B. Wormell had been recruited at the last minute when the regular captain of the Deering fell ill. Wormell’s first mate, Charles B. McLellan, had also just joined the ship. Together, they commanded a crew of 10 men, mostly Danes, on a routine commercial run down the east coasts of North and South America and then back up.

  Routine it seemed, until the Carroll A. Deering hailed the Cape Lookout lightship off the coast of North Carolina on January 28, 1921. A “thin red-haired man with a foreign accent” reported that the Deering had lost both her anchors, but was otherwise in good shape. The lightship’s radio was out, so there was nothing her crew could do but note it in the log and wish the Deering good l
uck. The lightship’s log also noted the unusual sight of the crew milling around the foredeck. Nothing else seemed amiss, though, until three days later, on January 31, when C. P. Brady of the Cape Hatteras Coast Guard Station spotted a five-masted schooner, run aground on the Diamond Shoals off Cape Hatteras, North Carolina. Heavy seas prevented surf boats from reaching the helpless ship, but four days later, the wrecker Rescue arrived, followed soon after by the cutter Manning. The Rescue’s captain, James Carlson, boarded the ship and confirmed its identity: it was the Carroll A. Deering. Her hull and five masts were in good working order, her sails were set, and mealtime preparations were underway in the galley. But all was silent, the wind and waves the only sound. The Carroll A. Deering sat eerily empty, her crew having apparently vanished into thin air.

  THE CASE OF THE DISAPPEARING CREW

  What had happened? Here was a ghost ship in plain sight, with no literary conceits to abate the shock. Investigation into the Carroll A. Deering’s condition indicated that the crew had left with some planning. The ship’s compass and sextant were missing, along with charts, the log, the anchors, and both lifeboats. All personal belongings had been removed. But where had the crew gone? And why?

  The disappearance of the Deering’s crew is often lumped in with otherworldly Bermuda Triangle events, but no UFOs are needed to come up with credible theories on the fate of the missing men. Piracy, smuggling, and even communists from New York City were blamed, but mutiny may be the most plausible explanation. First mate McLellan had been overheard discussing mutiny in a sailor’s bar in Rio. And it was apparent to the crew of the Cape Lookout lightship that no officers had hailed them; the Scandinavian crew appeared to be the only ones onboard. If they had mutinied, retribution came brutally: starvation and death aboard a drifting lifeboat.

  Until 1921, the wrecked hull of the Carroll A. Deering remained where she had run aground on the shoals. That March, what was left of her was towed away and dynamited. No trace of the ship now survives. And with no one left to tell the tale, the fate of the Deering and her crew remains, ultimately, an enigma. The Deering’s proximity to the infamous Bermuda Triangle contributed to her mystique. Rum runners, smugglers, pirates, aliens—romantic characters all, but the truth of the Carroll A. Deering’s fate is probably much more mundane. With no proof, however, she is sure to keep her place in the annals of famous maritime mysteries.

  The enigmatic Carroll A. Deering ran hard aground on the Diamond Shoals. This infamous stretch of water extends many miles out from Cape Hatteras. Although lighthouses and lightships have guarded the shoals since the early nineteenth century, the area is still one of the most dangerous on the Atlantic Seaboard.

  The Carroll A. Deering

  MUDDY WATERS

  CHRISTOPHER COLUMBUS GRAY, a colorfully named Hatteras local, claimed to have found a message in a bottle on a North Carolina beach:

  Deering captured by oil burning boat something like chaser. Taking off everything handcuffing crew. Crew hiding all over ship no chance to make escape. Finder please notify headquarters deering.

  The improbable and confusing note was given greater credence when Captain Wormell’s wife identified the handwriting as that of the chief engineer on the Deering. Eventually, however, Gray admitted the fraud, and the mystery of the Carroll A. Deering plunged again into the swirling opaque waters of the Atlantic Ocean.

  THE BERMUDA TRIANGLE

  It was Christopher Columbus himself who penned the first record of odd goings-on off the coast of Florida. The very night before his historic landfall in the New World, the explorer noted abnormal compass variations in his ship’s log, and “strange dancing lights on the horizon.” Ever since, the triangle of ocean with vertices at Bermuda, Miami, and Puerto Rico has birthed more than its fair share of strange phenomena and bizarre events.

  More colorfully known as the Devil’s Triangle, this patch of sea has become firmly entrenched in popular culture. Lloyd’s of London and the United States Coast Guard both aver that not only is there nothing supernatural about the area, but also that it’s not even particularly dangerous. Dozens of books, movies, and magazines would have us believe otherwise. To them and their rapt readers it is a place of bizarre, unexplained, and dangerous phenomena.

  FORSAKEN FLIGHT 19

  Perhaps the most famous and mysterious occurrence in the Bermuda Triangle was the disappearance of Flight 19, a training flight of five U.S. Navy TBM Avenger torpedo bombers lost in 1945. The pilots were inexperienced, and the weather off the coast of Florida can be unpredictable. Shore listeners picked up odd radio messages, and it did not take long for authors to embellish the tale with supernatural explanations. Still, the fate of Flight 19 has never been satisfactorily determined.

  The USS Cyclops served as a navy cargo ship during World War I. In January 1918, as part of the war effort, she sailed to Rio de Janeiro, Brazil, to fuel British ships. On her return voyage, she was last seen at Barbados on March 3 and 4. Shortly after that, she disappeared into the Bermuda Triangle, leaving no trace of her 306-member crew or her cargo of heavy manganese. The loss of the Cyclops remains the worst noncombat disaster in U.S. naval history.

  LOST SHIPS OF THE TRIANGLE

  Besides the strange condition of the Carroll A. Deering, a number of ships have gone mysteriously missing in the Bermuda Triangle. One of them, the USS Cyclops, cost 306 lives. A collier leaving Barbados on March 3, 1918, she disappeared without a trace into the mists of the Bermuda Triangle. In February 1963, the Marine Sulphur Queen sailed out of Beaumont, Texas, set her course for Norfolk, Virginia, and vanished near the Florida Keys. Disappearances have occurred as recently as 1995, when the Jamanic K sailed out of Cap-Haïtien, never to be seen again, and in 2000, when the Tropic Bird was found deserted off the West Indies with a log book onboard that cuts off mid-entry. Explanations for these losses range from UFOs to the dangerous currents and whims of the Caribbean Sea. Although there is little agreement about the details, clearly the Bermuda Triangle attracts believers and skeptics alike.

  A pile of life jackets, preservers, ash trays, and other odds and ends: the only remains of the Marine Sulphur Queen that the Coast Guard could recover

  SS Andaste

  THE LAKE NEVER GIVES UP HER DEAD

  T he Great Lakes of North America contain some of the most dangerous waters in the world. Due to particular variations of weather and topology, waves there are more violent and unpredictable than those on the oceans. Lakers that transport bulk cargo have always been at the forefront of marine design, because they cope with the difficult local conditions. During the last decades of the nineteenth century, the vogue focused on “whalebacks.” These featured gunwales that curved inward at the top, giving a fully loaded ship the profile of a whale. This design was thought to allow the steep-sided waves common to the Great Lakes to sweep past a ship, rolling gently over the sloping surface rather than slamming into a traditionally vertical face.

  A raw materials carrier of semi-whaleback design, the Andaste carried up to 3,000 tons (2,720 metric tons) of ore and stone on the Great Lakes. Built in 1892, she had served ably for more than 30 years when new owners installed large cranes atop her decks, enabling her to load and unload cargo at any dock, thus increasing her profitability. These construction changes may well have had the unfortunate effect of unbalancing the ship, making it more prone to roll in the choppy, windy seas of the Lakes.

  A postcard published in 1900 shows the stately I. W. Nicholas passing between its docked compatriots, the squat whaleback Andaste (at left) and the schooner B. L. Pennington (right). The Andaste and the Pennington sank in the same year.

  The Andaste took on a load of gravel the afternoon of September 9, 1929, at Ferrysburg, Michigan, and departed in a freshening gale for Chicago. Overdue by the morning of September 10, the first wreckage began to appear a day later. Sometime in the night, the Andaste had sunk in Lake Michigan with the loss of all 25 hands, from 62-year-old Captain Albert L. Anderson to 14-year-old cabin boy
Earl Zietlow, on his first Lake voyage. The Andaste’s wreck was never found; her fate was never determined.

  THE WHY AND THE WHEREFORE

  Where and how the Andaste wrecked may never be known. Tantalizing clues remain. Fellow ship captains suggest she may have gone down 25 to 30 miles (40–48 km) offshore, which would indicate either inundation by a rogue wave or mechanical trouble. Yet, several local farmers awakened by the storm in the early hours of September 10 reported seeing ship’s lights far too close to shore. In this case, navigation errors or storm winds blowing the ship off course may have caused her to founder on the rocks. The small amount of wreckage, and the bodies that drifted ashore days later, would seem to argue for the former. But Lake Michigan doesn’t often give up her secrets, and the fate of the Andaste may never be known.

  RADIO, RADIO

  AFTER THE SINKING OF THE Andaste and loss of all hands without a trace, officials began a blue-ribbon inquest. Though no blame was ascribed to the owners of the Andaste, the inquest did result in three far-reaching recommendations for the future. First, all ships would be required to install wireless gear and maintain radio contact with shore stations. Second, a central reporting agency was instituted to receive and act on reports of missing ships. And, finally, a series of rescue stations was established on all of the Great Lakes to attempt to save victims of the deadly local weather conditions.

  The Andaste operated on the Great Lakes for the Cleveland Cliffs Iron Company.

  A whaleback ship, once a common Great Lakes freighter, featured a unique design with a distinctively round hull. This allowed waves to wash over the ship.

  Lake Michigan covers 22,300 square miles (57,757 sq km) and reaches a depth of 923 feet (281 m). Its sheer size makes discovering the Andaste’s fate unlikely.

  7 · BLAZE OF GLORY

  The Bombardment of Algiers by Martinus Schouman, 1823