The 1958 Bradley sinking didn’t alter Columbia’s focus on profit. Success required loading ships to their legal limit, determined by the “Plimsoll line.” In the mid-1800s, British politician Samuel Plimsoll campaigned against overloaded “coffin ships,” resulting in the Merchant Shipping Act requiring load lines painted on hulls.

Despite severe penalties, crews regularly cheated the line by burning stern fuel, moving the hatch crane, hosing hot decks with cold water to contract the steel, and draining water tanks before inspections. On the Fitzgerald, each inch equaled 120 additional long tons.

The risks were obvious: Less freeboard meant ships were closer to sinking or breaking apart. Yet between 1969 and 1973, regulators reduced required freeboard by 39.25 inches. For the Fitzgerald, this allowed 4,710 long tons of extra cargo per trip, or 235,500 annually. Fully loaded, 28 of the ship’s 39.5 feet sat underwater. Tom Walton, who served as porter in 1963, recalled that he could nearly touch the water while reaching over the side.

Tom Walton received his berth through family connections. His father and uncle both worked for Columbia Transportation. Tom’s father, Wade Walton, had become a chief engineer through self-study.

In May 1963, Tom received an unexpected call offering a porter position if he could report within six hours. He dropped his Bowling Green classes and reached the ship by 3 pm. His duties included serving VIPs, assisting in the kitchen, cleaning staterooms, and providing concierge services.

Walton loved the ship. His stern cabin reached brutal temperatures exceeding one hundred degrees, and the foghorn prevented sleep during fog—yet he considered these positive memories.

When Wade was transferred to the Fitzgerald midseason as chief engineer, father and son were overjoyed to work together on the same ship. Tom never felt afraid, trusting the ship’s engineering. However, while in the tunnel beneath the deck during rough weather, he noticed the ship bending in waves—lamps at the tunnel’s far end would disappear and then reappear. Crew assured him this was normal, but years later, wondered if the bending was excessive.

In May 1965, the SS Cedarville sailed into heavy fog near the Straits of Mackinac. Cedarville captain Martin Joppich maintained high speed, inadvisable in such conditions, and the Norwegian ship Topdalsfjord—also sailing too fast for the fog—collided with the Cedarville, rupturing its hull. Another nearby ship, the German-owned Weissenburg, offered to rescue the Cedarville’s crew, but Joppich refused, determined instead to reach shore four miles away. The ship sank within 30 minutes. Weissenburg rescued 25 of the 35 crewmen, but the other 10 died.

In November 1966, the SS Daniel J. Morrell sailed Lake Huron. Dennis Hale, a 26-year-old watchman, had marked hundreds of weak rivets and welds on the 603-foot freighter, which had first launched in 1906. Late in the season, the company sent the aging vessel on one final run.

On November 28, as a storm intensified, loud bangs woke Hale. The steel decking tore apart. Electrical failure prevented distress calls. The bow tore off and sank in eight minutes, taking 14 men down.

Hale jumped into near-freezing Lake Huron and found a life raft with three crewmates. Waves broke over the raft repeatedly. By morning, his companions had died. He drifted alone with their bodies for over 24 hours. Coast Guard helicopters found Hale on November 30—38 hours after the sinking.

Hale recovered physically except for frostbitten feet, but he experienced lasting mental health issues. The disaster prompted short-lived reforms, but the industry soon returned to the status quo.

November 1971 marked dual endings: the Fitzgerald’s dominance and Captain Peter Pulcer’s tenure. The 1968 Poe Lock extension enabled thousand-foot freighters, almost 300 feet longer than the Fitzgerald. In 1972, the Stewart J. Cort hauled 62 percent more than the Fitzgerald’s best.

Columbia promoted Ernest McSorley to command the Fitzgerald for 1972. Born in 1912 near Ottawa, McSorley started sailing at 18 and became the youngest Great Lakes master at 31. He captained nine ships before reaching the Fitzgerald at 59.

Unlike showman Pulcer, McSorley led through skill and character. He excelled at piloting, recruiting, and crew leadership. His straightforward, selfless demeanor earned loyalty—crew members repeatedly followed him from ship to ship.

When Cadet Craig Silliven got stuck at a railroad crossing while the ship prepared to depart, McSorley ordered the vessel to move slowly using winches, officially leaving port while buying Silliven time to board. Neither mentioned it afterward, but it exemplified why McSorley commanded such respect.

McSorley typically didn’t seek shelter from storms, a fearlessness that defined his reputation. Silliven believed McSorley was the best captain on the Great Lakes.

The western tip of the Great Lakes shipping system—encompassing the port towns of Silver Bay, Two Harbors, and Duluth Minnesota, as well as Superior, Wisconsin—is known as the “Head of the Lakes.” Silver Bay, population 1,876, is dominated by the Reserve Mining complex.

The Silver Bay Municipal Liquor and Lounge became the Fitzgerald crew’s favorite hangout. Tom Byrnes, who began bartending there in 1975, recalls captains buying rounds then leaving so crews could relax.

Regular patron Nolan Church was a Fitzgerald porter from Silver Bay. Born in 1920, Church moved to Silver Bay with his wife Thelma, a nurse, raising five children. He was beloved for playing holiday organ music, painting window scenes, and buying ice cream for children.

After decades of factory work, Church joined the Lake Carriers’ Association in 1971 at age 50 and earned a Fitzgerald berth as porter. He loved the job and brought crewmates home for dinner whenever the ship docked. In 1975, with six grandchildren and a seventh coming, Church reassured his worried children of the ship’s safety.

Two Harbors, population 3,633, exists for iron ore. Two massive docks accommodate 800 railroad cars dumping taconite through 112 chutes. The American Legion Post 109 served as the sailors’ preferred bar.

Duluth, Lake Superior’s largest port at nearly 90,000 residents, once boasted more millionaires per capita than any American city. Michael Zronek participated in a May rescue drill wearing a wetsuit; after fifteen minutes, his extremities became numb and useless. He learned that victims can sometimes be revived after prolonged cold-water immersion once rewarmed.

Superior, Wisconsin houses Burlington Dock No. 1—the world’s largest at 2,244 feet. The Edmund Fitzgerald loaded its final cargo of 26,116 long tons there on November 9, 1975.

The President Bar regularly served the Fitzgerald crew that November 8-9 weekend—except first assistant engineer Eddie Bindon. Deckhand Patrick Devine notes Bindon was considering retirement. That weekend, Bindon purchased a two-carat diamond ring for his wife Helen for their 25th anniversary. Strangely, instead of taking it aboard, he gave the ring to a friend for delivery. Only Eddie Bindon knew why.

The Fitzgerald’s route from the Head of the Lakes ran toward Whitefish Bay, Lake Superior’s southeastern funnel. This 100-mile stretch earned names like “the Graveyard of the Great Lakes,” claiming two hundred vessels since 1816. Superior’s 350-mile fetch produces powerful waves that squeeze through Whitefish Bay’s 15-mile-wide opening.

Before the locks, the St. Marys River featured treacherous rapids. Congress approved construction in 1852, finishing in 1855. During the Civil War, the locks became strategically vital, supplying Union forces with iron.

The modern Poe Lock, completed in 1968, stretches 1,200 feet and uses gravity to move 22 million gallons in twenty minutes. Operating 24 hours daily during shipping season, the Poe handles 25 lockages per day, moving 95 percent of North American iron ore—worth $500 billion annually. Losing the Poe for six months would cost 11 million jobs.

Chief park ranger Michelle Briggs notes that workers keep yellow rubber cubes with ropes every 50 feet for anyone who falls in. Whipping cables can decapitate inattentive workers. After the locks, captains navigate 63 miles of tight turns, including the Rock Cut with only 18 inches between keel and bottom.

Zug Island became Detroit’s industrial hub after Samuel Zug sold it in 1891. Companies built factories and cut a canal, creating a small, man-made island. The Fitzgerald was heading for National Steel’s Zug Island dock on its final voyage. Before the EPA and Clean Air Act, toxic air on the island induced dry heaves; workers’ handkerchiefs turned black. Six of Michigan’s 10 most polluted zip codes sat on or near the island.

East Jefferson Avenue’s three bars were dangerous places. The Honey Bee kept its door locked; prospective patrons buzzed for entry while the bartender sized them up. If admitted, the bartender reached for his sawed-off shotgun until convinced they posed no threat. Mel Hall’s served as informal dispatch.

The Fitzgerald crew preferred Toledo primarily because it used Hulett cranes. Patented in 1898, these enormous structures unloaded vessels in five to ten hours. Their 17-ton buckets took about 14 hours to empty the Fitzgerald—three times longer than loading, providing lengthy shore leave.

In 1970, Toledo was the 34th largest city in the US with 383,818 residents. Fortune 500 companies fueled prosperity. Toledo boasted a symphony, top-ten art museum, minor league baseball, a zoo, and an airport.

Mancy’s Steakhouse, built in 1921 and Captain McSorley’s favorite, embodied old-school elegance. Teamsters president Jimmy Hoffa held one of his final public meetings there in spring 1975 before his July 30 disappearance. McSorley brought fresh whitefish and pickerel from the ship to be cooked at Mancy’s. His daughter Delores worked there.

McSorley and his wife Nellie lived in Ottawa Hills. Nellie’s had chronic health problems, requiring a wheelchair and round-the-clock care. Former deckhand Terry Sullivan recalls how McSorley would rush to visit Nellie at Lake Park Nursing Care Center before stopping at Mancy’s. McSorley planned to celebrate his retirement with a dinner at Mancy’s.