Sea Folk

by Jim Wellman

  Earlier, we told you about the loss of the Colville Bay, a longliner out of Woods Harbour, Nova Scotia. The Colville Bay sank after an apparent explosion at sea on April 5, 1974, on the German Bank fishing grounds, southwest of Yarmouth. Captain Victor Brannen, along with six crew members, died that day. One of the crew members was thirty-five-year-old Allison Goreham from Woods Harbour. Meanwhile, the cover photo on the Navigator magazine in 2011 featured a picture of Graham Goreham, his five-year-old son, Dallas, and Graham’s nephew Justin Malone. (Note the same photo in this story.) All three are descendants of Allison. Graham Goreham is Allison’s grandson, while Justin and Dallas are his great-grandchildren.

  Ironically, fifty-six years after Allison’s death, Graham and his dad (Allison’s son Timothy) nearly met the same fate as Allison in almost identical circumstances and in exactly the same location while fishing on the German Bank. This is their story.

  Tara Goreham remembers Monday, September 13, 2010, very well. At 2:20 p.m. she was leaving her workplace at the local Woods Harbour school when her phone rang. It was her mother-in-law, Anne Goreham, with news that there had been an explosion on board the fishing vessel Mildred Kathleen and that two men were on a life raft on the German Bank, southwest of Yarmouth. The Mildred Kathleen was owned by Anne’s husband, Timothy “Timmy” Goreham, and his fishing partner was his son Graham, Tara’s husband. The news was especially disturbing to Tara because she thought Graham and Timmy had taken on another crewman when they left to go fishing that morning, and when Anne said there were only two men in the life raft, Tara feared that there was one missing and that it could be her husband or her father-in-law. The next five hours would be the longest afternoon in the life of the young Woods Harbour woman and her family.

  Early that morning, Timmy and his son Graham Goreham left Woods Harbour headed for a three-day fishing trip on German Bank, southwest of Yarmouth. The Gorehams are lobster fishermen in late fall, winter, and then spring, but in September, 2010, they were multi-species fishermen, and on this particular trip they were on the hunt for cod, hake, pollock, and other groundfish, along with some mid-water species.

  The weather was fine and the forty-five-foot Mildred Kathleen was making good time—until about twelve-thirty that afternoon, when all that changed. Graham had finished his watch and was in his bunk watching a movie while his dad was taking care of business in the wheelhouse. With several kilometres to steam before they would set gear, a strange sound caught their attention. Graham says it wasn’t a loud explosion but rather what he describes as a “cracking sound” that seemed to come from the engine room. Timmy also heard the crack and decided to take a look underneath. “He opened the hatch and the place was full of smoke,” Graham says. Timmy yelled to Graham to get up to the wheelhouse because the vessel was on fire. “By the time I got up, there was almost as much flame as smoke,” Graham recalls, adding that he knew they didn’t have much time before they would have to abandon ship. “It was already spreading to the wheelhouse and fire was coming out the vents and everywhere,” he says.

  The fishing vessel Mildred Kathleen burning on German Bank, southwest of Yarmouth, Nova Scotia (Submitted photo)

  Both Timmy and Graham were experienced fishermen, and after a quick assessment of the rapidly expanding fire, both knew what had to be done to survive. Timmy scurried to the top of the wheelhouse to untie the life raft and Graham ran into the wheelhouse to issue a mayday. “It was hot in there and I only managed to get out the name of the boat when I started choking on the smoke and had to get out of there,” he explains. Graham got out of the wheelhouse without suffering injury, but to his chagrin, once on deck he realized that the survival suits were “down forward.” He knew that if they had to go overboard they would need the suits to survive. With little or no time to analyze the situation, his intuition drove him to make a run for it. Knowing exactly where the suits were located helped matters, but even in the few seconds that it took him to get down and back on deck with the suits, Graham had suffered a couple of burns. In fact, the whole boat was on fire by then; the fibreglass had started melting and dripping down the walls of the wheelhouse, and Timmy only had a few seconds to get the life raft from the wheelhouse roof to the deck of the boat and eventually into the water.

  But before trying to help his dad prepare the life raft for deployment, Graham remembered that he had only managed to get the name of the vessel out when he issued his mayday. He couldn’t get their position out because the smoke, fire, and heat in the wheelhouse made it unbearable and too dangerous to stay there for more than a few seconds. If nobody knew where they were, rescue officials wouldn’t know where to direct search and rescue efforts, he thought, and that’s when he thought about the EPIRB. An EPIRB is an electronic emergency positioning indicator device that sends a signal to a satellite which beams back the vessel’s position to search and rescue officers, who in turn send messages to all shipping in the area to look for a vessel in distress, or possibly men overboard.

  In the panic of trying to get everything done immediately, Graham forgot that the EPIRB only activates when it is submerged in water. Instead of throwing it over the side, he spent precious minutes trying to manually activate the device, when finally it occurred to him that the thing was not designed to activate manually or when dry. Even when he placed it overboard, Graham was still nervous that it might not be working and that no one would know where to search for them.

  Fortunately, Timmy and his son Graham Goreham had some positive things going for them that day, regardless of whether anyone was fully aware of their plight. They managed to get themselves from the burning vessel and into the six-man inflatable life raft without even getting wet. It was early afternoon, which meant they had about seven hours before darkness fell, and the raft had a canopy to cover them in the event of rain. Seas were calm, visibility was unlimited, and the air temperature was fairly warm on this pleasant September afternoon. So, all in all, the father-and-son crew were in reasonably good condition, considering what could have happened in the blaze that was now totally engulfing their forty-five-foot longliner’s superstructure.

  But not everything was going their way.

  Calm seas and blue skies meant that any boats in the area would likely see the billows of black smoke still rising from the fibreglass hull of the Mildred Kathleen. Hopefully they would investigate or at least contact other shipping in the area.

  Timmy and Graham Goreham’s new vessel, Captain Keith, in port at Woods Harbour, Nova Scotia (Jamie Baker photo)

  But the calm seas and lack of wind almost turned out to be a serious problem for Timmy and Graham. The lack of sea motion meant that the life raft was sitting still in the water. With only a tiny, two-foot paddle to propel the six-man inflatable life raft away from the burning vessel, Graham could barely move the raft. It was like paddling with a large spoon, he said, but it soon became obvious that he had to try. In their haste to get the raft ready, with fire threatening, there was no time to pull the gearshift to neutral or turn off the engine. Despite most of the superstructure and wheelhouse having been destroyed in the blaze, the Mildred Kathleen continued steaming, and as vessels often do when not controlled by a person in the wheelhouse or by an autopilot, the longliner started going around in circles. That would have been fine, except each time the forty-five-foot out-of-control boat circled, it seemed to head straight toward the life raft, as if it had turned into some kind of vengeful monster intent on cutting them down. Graham says that he paddled furiously trying to get the raft out of harm’s way, but in retrospect he realizes he was doing the wrong thing. Each time the boat went around it was making a larger circle, and ironically the distance was almost the same as Graham and his father had managed to paddle the raft away from their original location. The Mildred Kathleen circled the two fishermen three times, and each time was as close or even closer than the last. Finally, the fire burned through the engine’s fuel line an
d wiring and the longliner eventually lost power and sat almost motionless on the surface, like a smouldering hulk, defeated in battle.

  With that bit of excitement behind them, Timmy Goreham and his son could relax somewhat and take stock of their circumstances. About twenty minutes later they were relieved to see a fixed-wing search and rescue aircraft approaching at low altitude. That’s when the Goreham men knew their mayday had been heard. Ironically, another fishing vessel was reported missing in the Bay of Fundy earlier that day, and the SAR aircraft was already in the air, on duty, not far away when rescue officials heard the distress call from the Mildred Kathleen. The aircraft dropped a spare life raft alongside and also activated several flares to guide potential rescue vessels. Joël Jacquard, captain of the fishing vessel Fin Seeker, saw the flares, but he was already steaming toward the Gorehams by the time the plane arrived on the scene.

  Ernest Pothier remembers that day. Ernest is first mate on the offshore scalloper Lady Comeau II, which was fishing several miles away from the Mildred Kathleen at the time. Ernest was one of the first to relay the mayday to Fundy Coast Guard Radio. “When I first heard the call I could tell from the captain’s tone that it was rushed, but I only heard ‘Mayday, mayday!’ and that was it. I wasn’t sure if it was real or fake, so I called another vessel in our fleet that was fishing nearby and asked him if he had heard it, and he told me he only heard static. I just had this feeling someone was in trouble, and that’s when I decided to call the Coast Guard, and while talking to them I noticed the smoke on the horizon. I was fifteen miles to the south of him, and I think the closest boat was about eight miles away. The Coast Guard used everyone’s bearings from the smoke to triangulate the position of the burning vessel. Usually at that time of year it’s thick fog all the time, but thankfully on that day it was absolutely beautiful, otherwise the outcome surely would have been different,” Ernest says.

  The Fin Seeker was about eight or nine miles away when Graham’s mayday was sent. That meant it would be about an hour before they could reach the Gorehams, but in good weather conditions, Joël knew that the crew would be fine if they were in a life raft or even if they were in the water—provided they were wearing survival suits.

  With smoke still rising from the Mildred Kathleen, Joël didn’t have to waste time searching; he simply headed straight for the black plume on the horizon.

  Justin Malone, Dallas Goreham, and Graham Goreham showing off a fine-looking yellowfin on the dock at Woods Harbour, Nova Scotia (Jamie Baker photo)

  After half an hour in the life raft, Timmy and Graham saw the Fin Seeker steaming toward them. From there it was just a matter of waiting for another thirty minutes or so and they would be safe. The rescue was uneventful as the father-and-son fishing team were helped over the side of the Fin Seeker, and after spending a few minutes assessing the still-burning hull of the Mildred Kathleen, Joël headed his vessel to Wedgeport, his home base.

  Thinking back on it now, Graham says everything happened so quickly that he doesn’t remember being scared or being in any degree of shock, but his wife, Tara, remembers her husband’s behaviour was considerably different from what she had expected when the Fin Seeker arrived at the dock in Wedgeport that evening. Considering the events of the day and what could possibly have happened, she expected Graham to be really excited to see her and their children and other family members, including his mother, Anne. Instead, Graham acknowledged them, but he was nonchalant and even kind of cool. In subsequent conversations, they both agree that Graham was in a different and unusual mindset because so much had happened in such a short period, that Graham was not processing the enormity of what had happened that day. It was all too surreal to process so soon afterwards. Eventually, both Graham and his dad dealt with it, and a few days later they were back fishing. They now have a new vessel and things are back to the way they were before the accident.

  Coincidences are not uncommon in marine accidents, especially with fishermen. Because fishing crews often consist of two or more members of the same family, and because several generations usually fish the same grounds as their fathers and grandfathers, loss of life or loss of vessels sometimes occur. But this accident was particularly coincidental. The waters of the German Bank, southwest of Yarmouth, Nova Scotia, claimed the lives of six fishermen on April 5, 1974. A longliner out of Woods Harbour burned and sank after what was probably an engine room explosion that caused a fire on board. One of the men on the ill-fated Colville Bay was Allison Goreham. Thirty-six years later, in almost exactly the same spot, what also may have been some kind of explosion started a fire and the Mildred Kathleen was lost. The two-man crew were Allison’s son Timmy and grandson Graham. But, fortunately, fate was kinder to Allison’s offspring. Mere minutes and good weather separated Timmy and Graham from death, but happily, Monday, September 13, 2010, was not to be their final voyage.

  Zandberg to the Rescue

  Fishermen are always conscious that anything can happen at sea, especially in stormy weather. But still, even the experienced captain and crew of a Fishery Products International (FPI) deep-sea trawler were surprised when they received a request to stand by for a possible rescue mission on January 18, 1992.

  FV Zandberg (Patsy McCormack photo)

  Captain Jack McCormack and the fifteen-man crew of the Zandberg were fishing turbot and sole on the edge of the Grand Banks of Newfoundland that night about 200 miles from St. John’s.

  The temperature was minus seven degrees Celsius and visibility was obscured at times by snow squalls. Seas were running moderately high with twelve-foot waves, high enough to send showers of saltwater spray over the bow as far up as the wheelhouse windows as the steel trawler jogged headlong into the swells.

  Just before 11:00 p.m., someone in the dimly lit wheelhouse heard the crackling sound of a message on the VHF Radio that a small airplane had ditched in the Atlantic Ocean about two hours ago and that it was possible that two men may be in the water, hopefully alive and in a life raft.

  Captain McCormack calculated the distance between his ship and the last reported position of the downed aircraft and knew right away that the Zandberg was the closest vessel to the scene, nearly forty miles away.

  True to his reputation as one of the best captains in the Atlantic Canadian offshore fishing fleet, McCormack knew exactly what had to be done—the only question was whether he could get to the crash site in time.

  He estimated that it would take nearly an hour to haul back the huge trawl net from 1,000 feet below the surface and stow onto the ship’s deck. And then, wind and sea conditions were such that it would take an additional four or five hours’ steam time to make it. Without wasting a minute, Captain McCormack mustered all the ship’s crew into action, and shortly after 11:00 p.m. the Zandberg was in full rescue mode.

  The Flight

  Jerrold Childers and Steve Rayner were nearly 300 miles out over the northwest Atlantic Ocean when the oil-pressure needle on their Beechcraft 33 Bonanza aircraft began edging upward.

  Bound for Reykjavik, Iceland, on the first leg of their journey, the two were ultimately destined for Italy. They had left St. John’s, Newfoundland, at 6:30 p.m.

  Rayner, twenty-nine, was a commercial pilot and flight instructor from California. He had spent the previous two months upgrading the Beechcraft Bonanza for delivery to a customer in Italy. The upgrade included installation of an additional fuel tank that would give the four-seat aircraft eight hours’ extra flying time if required, nearly twice as long as needed for the St. John’s-to-Iceland crossing. Rayner hired Childers, forty-seven, from Dedham, Maine, to take charge of the flight. Childers was a veteran flyer who made his living ferrying small planes to Europe.

  At first Childers wasn’t concerned about the spike in oil pressure. He had deliberately overfilled the oil container and he figured that probably accounted for the increased pressure, or the gauge itself might h
ave been faulty. However, the pilot was cautious and decided it was time to send a location report. Unable to raise air traffic control at Gander, Newfoundland, Childers switched to another frequency, hoping to reach a plane flying higher than his 11,000 feet. An Alitalia 747 cargo jet flying at 30,000 feet picked up his call and relayed the report to Gander air traffic control.

  When Childers had finished the report, Rayner brought his attention back to the oil gauge again, because now the needle was showing low pressure.

  The experienced pilot scanned the instrument panel, carefully looking for other telltale signs of trouble. Everything else seemed normal, and with fewer than 350 flying hours, the Bonanza definitely should not expect mechanical failure—so once again Childers concluded that the fault probably lay with the gauge. Still, he hadn’t survived fifty-three ocean crossings by taking chances, so he made a difficult but quick decision.

  “Let’s turn around,” he said to Rayner. It was 8:33 p.m.

  Once again Jerrold Childers contacted the Alitalia 747 to notify them of the decision to return to Newfoundland.

  Suddenly, the Bonanza’s engine began to race, and that was when Childers realized that this was no instrument problem. They had serious engine trouble. The veteran pilot knew he would have to nurse the aircraft along if they were to have any chance of crossing the approximately 250 miles of ocean back to land.

  Under reduced power, they began losing altitude. Childers radioed a new position report to the Alitalia jet. Given Childers’s calm, businesslike tone, the Alitalia pilot had assumed he was flying a twin-engine plane. Now he wasn’t so sure.

  “Have you one engine or two?” he asked.