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by Mace Bentley and Steve Horstmeyer.
(From Weatherwise magazine, November/December 1998.)
Each autumn, a legendary meteorological force threatens the Great Lakes. The Edmund Fitzgerald, wrecked by a Lake Superior storm 23 years ago, is testimony to her ferocity.
An autumn passage across the Great Lakes was an ominous journey for an Algonquin or an Iroquois traveler-- one that demanded homage and humility before the Serpent of the Lakes. For his wrath could hurl great gusts of wind and walls of water into perilous storms or vanish the ice beneath a traveler's feet, sending him forever to the cold, inky depths below one of North America's inland seas.
Today, the modern ship captain on these inland waterways is not without a mythological nemesis. The ferocity of late- autumn storms on the Great Lakes has given rise to the "Witch of November," whose temper takes responsibility for their destructive powers. When the Witch angrily stirs her cauldron, no ship, no matter how large, is safe on the Great Lakes. On November 9th and 10th, 1975, the Witch had a temper tantrum, and in the fury that followed, the Edmund Fitzgerald and her crew of 29 found their final resting place 530 feet below the tumultuous surface of Lake Superior.
To the meteorologist, tales of legendary November storms on the Great Lakes come as no surprise. Indeed, frequent hurricane- force winds and gigantic waves are exactly what is expected. In the shipping industry, the potential cost-- in cargo, ships, and even lives-- of braving the angry waters as winter approaches is a given that comes with the territory. And while the Edmund Fitzgerald was the largest ship ever to lose the battle against the Witch of November, she was not alone in her daring on that fateful night when the storm took her down. Through recorded radio transmissions between her Captain and others who faced the Witch that night, and through Coast Guard reports of the incident, we can piece together what little we know about her perilous end.
The Mighty Fitzgerald.
She was known as "The Pride of the American Flag." At 729 feet long, 75
feet wide, and capable of carrying 27,500 tons, the Edmund Fitzgerald
was big-- so big that if stood on end, she would have towered almost 200
feet above the surface of Lake Superior where she sank. A 7,500 horsepower
engine propelled her along the shipping lanes at 30 m.p.h. The combination
of size and power helped her set many shipping records during her short
life.
When she left the Superior, Wisconsin, docks at 2:20 p.m. November 9th, on the 40th voyage of her 17th season, a light breeze blew under a cool, cloudy sky. At the helm was Captain Earnest McSorley. Backed by 40 years of experience, he and other veterans of the Great Lakes knew better than to expect the favorable weather to continue. After all, it was November-- the time of year when Great Lakes weather is most fickle. That afternoon, as the Edmund Fitzgerald, loaded with taconite (iron ore pellets), steamed toward a steel maker on Zug Island in the Detroit River, the Witch of November was becoming restless over the southern Great Plains.
Earlier that morning, a low-pressure system from Colorado had reached central Kansas with a well-organized circulation around its 1000 mb (29.53 inch) center. At the same time, a deep trough aloft reaching from Montana to New Mexico helped transport huge amounts of warm, unstable air northward. The cauldron had been stirred.
The National Weather Service (NWS) forecast winds the evening of the 9th to be from "east to northeast increasing to 25 to 37 knots (29 to 43 m.p.h.) during the night . . . shifting to northwest or northerly 24 to 40 knots (28 to 46 m.p.h.)" the afternoon of the 10th. Gale warnings were posted for eastern Lake Superior at 2:39 p.m., just 20 minutes after the "Fitz" had left the docks.
About the same time, Captain Jesse "Bernie" Cooper on the Arthur M. Anderson, downbound (headed east) with taconite for Gary, Indiana, radioed a freighter he saw behind him.
ANDERSON: "W4805, Arthur M.
Anderson to the vessel northbound abeam Knife River. Do you read me?"
FITZGERALD: "Anderson, this is the Edmund Fitzgerald. Over."
ANDERSON: "This is the Anderson. Have you picked up the gale warnings
the Weather Service just posted? Over."
FITZGERALD: "This is the Fitzgerald, ah, Roger."
ANDERSON: "I am thinking I'll take the northern track; get over to the
north shore for shelter in case it really starts to blow. Over."
FITZGERALD: "I've been thinking the same thing. I'm steering sixty-five
degrees for Isle Royale."
Captains McSorley and Cooper had been around too long to shrug off the
potential of the storm. Once the storm crossed the lake, the winds would
shift, hauling out of the north then northwest, and wave height would
increase offshore. The greater the distance the wind blew over open water,
termed the fetch, the taller the waves would be. By staying near the lee
shore to the north, chances were better the loaded freighters would avoid
the violent "graybeards" and, as a weathered Great Lakes sailor would
say, "make good weather of the storm."
The Witch Awakens.
According to the NWS, the intensifying cyclone over south-central Kansas
was a "typical November storm." It was born over the southern Rocky Mountains--
the child of an early season cool air mass from Canada and warm, humid
air off the Gulf of Mexico-- and energized by a strong jet stream aloft.
The spawning ground for Great Lakes winter storms resides in two primary locations: the northern Great Plains/Rocky Mountains and the southern Great Plains. Northern track storms form along the lee of the Rocky Mountains in Alberta, Canada. Nicknamed Alberta Clippers, these fast-moving storms are generally weaker than their southern counterparts. The southern track storms occur most frequently in November and tend to be the most dangerous. This is where the Witch invokes her strongest wrath. And this is the type of storm that had "made the turn," as most strong storms do, and was headed northeast preparing to whip the waters of Lake Superior to a frenzy.
At 1:00 a.m. on the 10th, the Fitzgerald battled a 52 knot (60 m.p.h.) head wind 20 miles south of Isle Royale. Waves reached 10 feet tall. A cold, heavy rain fell, and the temperature was a brisk 37 degrees Fahrenheit. The storm was intensifying over central Wisconsin, and an hour later the NWS upgraded the gale warning to a storm warning with winds expected during the following afternoon from the northwest up to 50 knots (58 m.p.h.). Sometime during the early morning, the Fitzgerald plodded past the Anderson in the icy, black waters.
We can speculate Captain McSorley knew the worst was yet to come. As the storm moved into Canada, the wind would shift and become gusty out of the northwest. McSorley had to be thinking of big waves in the eastern part of the lake where he was headed-- waves that were bound to build across a fetch the length of Lake Superior and amplify as converging shorelines funneled them into towering walls of cold water.
Indeed, by the afternoon of the 10th, the Fitzgerald had reached the eastern part of the lake and the Witch of November had been punishing her and the Anderson for 14 hours. At 3:15 p.m., Captain Cooper and the Anderson's First Mate Morgan E. Clark watched the Fitzgerald on their radar as she crossed into dangerous water.
COOPER: "Look at this, Morgan.
That's the Fitzgerald; he's in close to that six fathom spot."
CLARK: "He sure looks like he's in the shoal area.²
COOPER: "He sure does. He's in too close. He's closer than I'd want this
ship to be."
At six feet to the fathom, Six Fathom Shoals is only 36 feet deep-- dangerous
ground for such a big ship in a storm. Shallow water causes wave height
to increase dramatically, and a big, heavy freighter like the Fitzgerald
can strike bottom in the troughs of big waves.
At 3:30 p.m., Captain McSorley radioed the Anderson:
FITZGERALD: "Anderson, this is the Fitzgerald. I have sustained topside
damage. I have a fence rail down, two vents lost or damaged, and a list.
Will you stay by me 'til I get to Whitefish?"
ANDERSON: Charlie on that Fitzgerald. Do you have your pumps going?"
FITZGERALD: "Yes, both of them."
Investigators later determined the list was from taking on water either
through damaged vents or from striking bottom.
Then, at 4:00 p.m., the Witch unleashed a screaming 87 knot (100 m.p.h.)
wind gust on the Anderson-- a gust that continued straight toward the
Fitzgerald. Ten minutes later Captain McSorley again radioed the Anderson:
FITZGERALD: "Anderson, this is the Fitzgerald. I have lost both radar's.
Can you provide me with radar plots 'til we reach Whitefish Bay?"
ANDERSON: "Charlie on that, Fitzgerald. We'll keep you advised of your
position."
Next in line for the raging wind gust was the lighthouse at Whitefish Point. When it struck, power was lost to both the light and the radio beacon. The 29 storm-weary sailors on the Fitzgerald, now steaming ahead blind without radar or beacon, continued to do battle with the unrelenting northwesterly gale completely dependent on the eyes of the Anderson. The safety of Whitefish Bay was just a few hours away.
Although advised to stay in
the shelter of Whitefish Bay, the sea-going vessel Avafors had headed
upbound for the western part of the lake. "This is just a lake," the captain
had said, "we go" At 5:45 p.m. he made radio contact with the Fitzgerald:
AVAFORS: "Fitzgerald, this is Avafors. I have the Whitefish light now,
but am still receiving no beacon. Over."
FITZGERALD: "I'm very glad to hear it."
AVAFORS: "The wind is really blowing down here. What are the conditions
where you are?"
FITZGERALD: [Shouted on the bridge of the Fitzgerald, heard by the Avafors:]
"DON'T LET NOBODY ON DECK! (something unintelligible) . . . vents."
AVAFORS: "What's that, Fitzgerald? Unclear. Over."
FITZGERALD: I have a bad list, lost both radar's, and am taking heavy
seas over the deck. One of the worst seas I've ever been in."
Recipe for a Witch's
Brew.
With four decades of experience, McSorley had certainly seen his share
of violent seas. But the witch was on a rampage, and McSorley had to know
he was in trouble. The strongest storms over the western Great Lakes (Superior,
Huron, and Michigan) tend to occur during November, even though storm
intensity and frequency over the lakes as a whole don't reach a peak until
February.
The single most important ingredient in this early season witch's brew is the orientation of the jet stream. The jet stream-- a river of fast-moving air located over 30,000 feet above our heads-- controls both storm intensity and movement by producing areas of upward motion and deepening low pressure.
In the Arctic, as the autumn sun lowers more each day, and weak sunshine fades into the long Arctic night, the land and the atmosphere begin to cool and the pool of cold air that caps the Northern Hemisphere intensifies and expands southward. When this cool air seeps into the western United States, it displaces the jet stream southward and produces a western trough. An accompanying northward "kink" is typically produced in the east. Storms entering the trough over the western United States continue to strengthen and in turn further amplify the trough. Here, both the storm systems and jet stream act in concert. These powerful storms, efficiently utilizing jet stream energy, are said to be "in-phase" with this river of fast-moving air.
During November, the preferred track takes these vicious storms over the western Great Lakes at the most intense phase of their life cycle. At their greatest intensity, these storms reach very low pressures, sometimes rivaling Atlantic hurricanes. The large pressure gradient, or decrease in pressure towards the center of the storm system, is what creates the tremendous winds that can stir the Great Lakes into a raging tempest.
Another important element contributing to the intensity of southern track storms is their proximity to the Gulf of Mexico. Moisture flowing north from the Gulf provides a substantial energy source for the developing storm systems. As water vapor condenses, energy is released that helps to further intensify the "in-phase" storms. The average surface water temperature of the Gulf is a warm 76 degrees Fahrenheit in November, contrary to a much cooler 70 degrees Fahrenheit in February when Great Lakes storms are most frequent. The warmer the Gulf of Mexico, the greater the amount of water vapor found in the overlying air. As winter approaches, Gulf of Mexico water temperatures cool, drying the overlying air and reducing an important source of energy.
Losing to the Tempest.
In her crippled state, the Fitzgerald battled on through the raging seas.
At about 7:00 p.m., the Anderson, 10 miles behind the Fitzgerald, was
assailed by two mountainous waves that put "green water" on the pilot
house 35 feet above the waterline. It was probably the result of several
waves combining in what is called "constructive interference." Wave heights
culminate to give birth to "freak waves" of immense proportion. As the
wave broke over the Anderson, the avalanche of foaming water rammed the
starboard lifeboat down on her saddles with enough force to damage the
bottom. The immense waves were heading for the Fitzgerald.
At 7:10 p.m. the Anderson radioed the Fitzgerald. "We are holding our own," answered Captain McSorley. These were the last words ever to be heard from the Edmund Fitzgerald. At 7:15 the radar on the Anderson showed the Fitzgerald disappearing into a squall. When the squall cleared 10 minutes later, there was no trace of the giant steamer. The Witch of November finally broke her back. Mariners in the vicinity, storm-weary and anxious for the security of shore, held their breaths as the news came over the radio.
Thomas A. Neuman was nearby aboard the Henry Steinbrenner. "It was blowing so hard on my return trip I paused at the bottom of the pilot house stairs. Because of the big waves and all the wind, the spray off the bow was really heavy, and I wanted to time my dash . . . to get the least soaking possible . . . The wind was blowing with such a force across the spout of the coffee percolator it had created a vacuum that was sucking the water right out of the pot . . ." Once inside the pilot house, I started to explain what had just happened . . . [but] I was quickly and firmly silenced . . . The speaker on the ship's radio had been turned up . . . and the skipper was using the binoculars to search the darkness . . . A voice on the speaker was explaining . . . that one minute there was a blip on the radar screen, and the next minute it was gone. They thought it was the Edmund Fitzgerald . . . My mind went numb . . . Lake Superior is deep, and it was also cold. Even if anyone had gotten off before she went to the bottom, they could not last very long in that kind of weather."
We will probably never know what sent the Edmund Fitzgerald to her chilly grave. With her list, a large wave could have capsized her. She may have broken in two, buckling in the middle as her bow and stern were carried to the crests of successive waves. Or, as she dove into a deep trough, she could have been overwhelmed by the next wave and never recovered.
Only the legend survives.
The Edmund Fitzgerald became the largest of more than one thousand craft
of all shapes and sizes to be wrecked or sunk by the volatile weather
of the Great Lakes. That so many ships lay buried beneath the waters of
the Lakes is not as much a mythological mystery as a combination of circumstances--
both economic and meteorologic-- that combine to make the Witch of November
as real to the mariners of the upper Midwest as the Mighty Serpent of
the Lakes was to the Iroquois and Algonquin.
In late autumn, the harvest must make it to market and industry must receive enough raw materials to operate through the winter. So before the Great Lakes become choked with ice and shipping must stop for the winter, there is a flurry of activity. This flurry just happens to occur at the very time ships are most vulnerable to serious weather.
And so it was that a "typical November storm" took down "The Pride of the American Flag." Meteorologically, it was fairly textbook-- a strong southern-track storm spawned by an early season cool air mass from Canada and warm, humid air from the Gulf of Mexico, and energized by a strong jet stream aloft. But to the mariners who battled the storm; to those who watched green water, churned from the depths of the lake, crash down over their decks, who strained to handle their craft in the face of hurricane-force winds; to those who scanned the dark horizon and listened to the radio for any sign of the mighty Edmund Fitzgerald, the Witch of November remains the stuff of legend.
Mace Bentley is a meteorologist/climatologist at the University of Georgia.
Steve Horstmeyer is an on-air meteorologist with WKRC in Cincinnati, and a Weatherwise contributing editor.
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