Announcer: There are still no trace of survivors
from the Great Lakes freighter, the Edmund
Fitzgerald, which capsized in Lake Superior
last night. From Thunder Bay--Jim Simmonak.
Jim: We don't know whether the 729-foot ore
carrier, the Edmund Fitzgerald, broke in half,
capsized, or nose-dived into Lake Superior,
but its disappearance last night was sudden.
There wasn't even a mayday or even an SOS.
The boat was on radar surveillance for 10
minutes by an accompanying boat, but about
7:30 last night it vanished.
The legend lives on from the Chippawa on down
Of the big lake they call Gitchegumee.
The lake, it is said, never gives up her dead
When the skies of November turn gloomy.
With a load of iron ore, 26,000 tons more
Than the Edmund Fitzgerald weighed empty,
That good ship and true was a bone to be chewed
When the gales of November came early.
The ship was the pride of the American side,
Coming back from some mill in Wisconsin.
As the big freighters go, it was bigger than
most,
With a crew and good captain well seasoned.
Concluding some terms with a couple of steel firms,
When they left fully loaded for Cleveland.
And later that night when the ship's bell
rang,
Could it be the north wind they'd been feeling?
Transmission: When we last had contact with
them, the mate had talked to him. At about
10 minutes after 7--19:10--and he said he
was going along fine and no problem.
The wind and the wires made a tattletale sound
As the waves broke over the railing.
Every man knew as the captain did too
'Twas the witch of November come stealing.
The dawn came late and the breakfast had to
wait
When the gales of November came slashing.
When afternoon came it was freezing rain
In the face of a hurricane westwind.
When suppertime came, the old cook came on
deck, saying, "Fellas, it's too rough to feed ya."
At 7pm, a main hatchway gave in. He said, "Fellas, it's been good to know ya."
The captain wired in, he had water coming in,
And the good ship and crew was in peril.
Later that night, as his lights went out of
sight,
Came the wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald.
Transmission: I asked him how he was making
out with his problem and he said he'd lost
those vents and he had a list and he said
he was holding his own--the last time I talked
with him he said he was holding his own, and,
uh, that's all I heard--that's the last--I
lost contact after that.
Does anyone know where the love of God goes
When the waves turn the minutes to hours?
The searchers all say they'd have made Whitefish
Bay if they'd put fifteen more miles behind her.
They might've split up or they might've capsized, they may have broke deep and took water.
And all that remains is the faces and the names
Of the wives and the sons and the daughters.
Lake Huron rolls, Superior sings
In the rooms of her ice-water mansion.
Old Michigan steams like a young man's dreams--The islands and bays are for sportsmen.
Father below, Lake Ontario
Takes in what Lake Erie can send her.
And the iron boats go, as the mariner's all
know,
With the gales of November remembered.
In a musty old hall in Detroit, they prayed
In the Maritime Sailor's Cathedral.
The church bells chimed till they rang 29
times, for each man on the Edmund Fitzgerald.
The legend lives on from the Chippawa on down
Of the big lake they call Gitchegumee.
Superior, they say, never gives up her dead
When the gales of November come early.
