After long stretches on the water, sailors eagerly anticipated shore leave. Upon docking, crews rushed to payphones to call home. Hayes recalls how pleasant a woman’s perfume seemed after days of fuel fumes.

Those with time off headed to nearby bars. Older sailors chose country artists like Loretta Lynn; younger crewmen selected rock bands like the Rolling Stones. Songs about homesickness resonated across generations.

One song united both groups: “Brandy (You’re a Fine Girl)” by Looking Glass, about a harbor-town waitress and a sailor devoted to the sea. Hayes felt the song captured a sailor’s soul and considered it practically a theme for Tom Bentsen.

Shore leave ended when cargo operations finished. Missing departure meant catching up at the next port and facing pay deductions or termination.

Craig Ellquist served as a deckhand on the Edmund Fitzgerald from late November 1974 through January 1975. A 1974 high school graduate, he worked four-to-eight watches, maximizing overtime at $10.87 per hour. Smart deckhands could make $20,000 to $30,000 per season—twice the average American income.

The Fitzgerald’s 21 hatches used 68 Kestner clamps each (1,428 total). Securing all clamps took three deckhands nearly two hours. In calm summer conditions, first mates sometimes allowed crews to secure only corner clamps (168 total), cutting the job to 30 minutes. In bad weather or late season, they secured every clamp.

Ellquist found the Fitzgerald’s crew exceptionally cohesive; of the 29 men on the final voyage, he knew 18. He credited a strict “no ‘asshole’” policy that began with Captain McSorley, whom he respected as a fair, quiet leader who trusted his crew.

Ellquist befriended 50-year-old wheelsman Eugene “Red” O’Brien, who treated him like a son. Near the end of 1974, McSorley and senior crew debated returning for another year.

Ellquist planned to rejoin the Fitzgerald in March 1975 but accepted a summer job delivering milk for Al’s Dairy, giving notice to the first mate.

Command at sea requires thick skin and decisive judgment. McSorley stood apart as a calm, respected leader who put ship and crew above ego.

John Tanner likens captains to elite coaches—intensely aggressive competitors. McSorley had a reputation for pushing through weather and beating others to port.

Former cadet Craig Silliven recalls a race on Lake Huron between the Fitzgerald and the Cliffs Victory near the St. Marys River entrance. The Victory had superior specs—8,500 horsepower and 20 mph top speed versus the Fitzgerald’s 7,500 horsepower and 16 mph. Riding light and piloted by McSorley, the Fitzgerald had an edge.

As the race intensified, McSorley quietly urged, “Beat the Victory.” Silliven notes that a whisper from McSorley was enough; no one wanted to disappoint him. The Fitzgerald reached DeTour first “by a nose,” securing the first slot through the locks.

Great Lakes sailors are defined by stoic professionalism and an ethos that can be distilled to a few dictates: Know your job, do your job, don’t quit, and don’t make excuses.

The Edmund Fitzgerald required 29 men in 13 roles. On November 9, 1975, the deck officers were Captain Ernest McSorley (63, Toledo); First Mate John McCarthy (62, Bay Village, Ohio); Second Mate James Pratt (44, Lakewood, Ohio); and Third Mate Michael Armagost (37, Iron River, Wisconsin).

The wheelsmen—John Simmons (62, Ashland, Wisconsin), Eugene “Red” O’Brien (50, Toledo), and John Poviach (59, Bradenton, Florida)—steered under officers’ direction. Senior wheelsman Simmons, McSorley’s longtime best friend, had promised his wife Florence that 1975 would be his final season.

Watchmen Ransom Cundy (53, Superior, Wisconsin), William Spengler (59, Toledo), and Karl Peckol (30, Ashtabula, Ohio) handled maintenance, lookout, and docking. Cundy, a decorated Iwo Jima Marine, became withdrawn after his younger daughter was murdered in March 1974.

Deckhands Paul Riippa (22, Ashtabula), Bruce Hudson (22, North Olmsted, Ohio), and Mark Thomas (21, Richmond Heights, Ohio) handled painting, cleaning, and clamping.

The engine crew was led by Chief Engineer George Holl (60, Cabot, Pennsylvania) and included assistants, oilers Ralph Walton (58, Fremont, Ohio), Blaine Wilhelm (52, Moquah, Wisconsin), and Tom Bentsen (22, St. Joseph, Michigan), plus maintenance men and others.

Steward Robert “Bob” Rafferty (62, Toledo) and Second Cook Allen Kalmon (43, Washburn, Wisconsin) handled meals. Great Lakes Maritime Academy cadet David “Cowboy” Weiss (21, Agoura, California) was training to become a captain. Ideally, the crew of a Great Lakes freighter operates as harmoniously as its machinery; the Edmund Fitzgerald exemplified that ideal.

A ship’s culture hinges on the relationship between its captain and chief engineer. If they cooperate, the ship runs smoothly; if not, everything becomes a tug-of-war.

Deck and engine crews think differently. Rivalry was common, but on good ships, mutual respect prevailed. Hayes compares the relationship to a pitcher and catcher; a strong chief can ease the captain’s burden or complicate it.

McSorley cultivated a different culture. He welcomed maritime academy cadets, whom many captains disliked. When cadet Craig Silliven boarded, McSorley put him at ease with a joke. A hostile wheelsman who harassed cadets was transferred once McSorley grasped the situation.

In 1975, professor John Tanner visited twice to check on cadet David Weiss. Having inspected 30 ships per season, Tanner could sense tension immediately; he found the Fitzgerald calm and drama-free, a credit to McSorley’s leadership.

Oliver “Buck” Champeau was born in Sturgeon Bay in 1934. At 13, Buck’s father died. With five children and no life insurance, Buck left school in eighth grade to support the family. At 18, he joined the Marines and fought in Korea, sending his pay home. After discharge, he married Eileen Egan and had a daughter, Debbie, in 1958. He rose to second engineer but accepted a demotion to join the prestigious Fitzgerald under Chief Engineer George Holl.

Debbie describes her father as handsome and humorous with a booming laugh. Family was paramount. He was joyful with his daughter but lonely when away.

During the 1975 season, Buck sent Debbie gifts and regular postcards saying he missed and loved her. When she found a prom dress, he agreed to send money but set a curfew. He later bought her a used car, a gift that came with strict rules.

They often drove to Sturgeon Bay, stopping for blueberries. He hired men from the Milwaukee Rescue Mission to work at his cabin. When a boyfriend shouted at Debbie, Buck ended the relationship immediately. Debbie remembers him as a protective teddy bear: She was Daddy’s girl because he made her feel that way.

Blaine Wilhelm, a 52-year-old oiler on the Fitzgerald, kept a blue Maxwell House coffee can by his bunk for spare change, thinking of his seven children. One of eight children himself, he served in the Navy during World War II and Korea.

He married Lorraine Ida Clark and raised their family in Moquah, Wisconsin. Their sixth child, Heidi, remembers her parents as attractive, friendly people. Wilhelm was bowlegged from years of balancing on rolling decks and read Zane Grey westerns while missing his family.

On the freighter Reserve, Wilhelm befriended fellow oiler Frank Kobasic, who recalls him as hardworking. Though an excellent mechanic, he repeatedly failed the engineer’s license exam because of severe testing anxiety.

Hired as second oiler on the Fitzgerald in 1973, Wilhelm was proud to join a crew known for breaking cargo records. Despite dedication, he took two costly weeks off each summer to take his children to Long Lake.

Each winter, Wilhelm dumped nine months of change from the coffee can onto the table and divided it among the children—enough for piles of candy bars.

By 1975, with 11 years in the Navy and 20 at Columbia, Wilhelm was nearing comfortable retirement. First, he was determined to earn his license. He also eagerly anticipated his first grandchild, due November 14, 1975. In retirement, he planned to teach her to play catch, ride a bike, and visit national parks—experiences he had missed with his children while at sea.

The Fitzgerald’s November 1975 crew reflected a sharp generational split. The median age was 50; 15 crewmen were in their fifties and sixties, and six were in their early twenties. The older group shared the hardships of the Great Depression and World War II. Most had served in World War II, Korea, or Vietnam.

The younger crew had grown up expecting steady employment and comfort. None had served in the military, having graduated between 1970 and 1973 when avoiding the Vietnam draft was paramount.

Craig Silliven, from landlocked Hillsdale, Michigan, chose maritime life to avoid Vietnam. When he finished high school in 1969, the draft lottery gave him number 46. He enrolled at the new Great Lakes Maritime Academy in Traverse City.

Creating the academy required congressional approval and Coast Guard support. Only five coastal maritime academies existed before Michigan’s; none have opened since.

After federal approval in 1969, the academy opened in modest facilities—a former cannery and old brewery. Labor relations classes met at Jack’s 7-11 Bar across the street.

Early cadets dominated intramurals. Though the application pool was mixed, graduates proved knowledgeable and durable, many becoming captains and chief engineers. Today, the academy has a first-rate training ship and an impressive new building.

Of the Fitzgerald’s 29 crew members, only David “Cowboy” Weiss hailed from California. Aaron and Selma Weiss raised four boys in Agoura Hills, a suburb of Los Angeles, with David the most troublesome. He favored a full beard, large sunglasses, and a white cowboy hat. He enrolled sight unseen at the maritime academy in Traverse City in 1973.

Professor John Tanner describes him as a character who explored angles without malice. In June 1974, high school junior Cindy LoCicero met Weiss while shopping. They later met at adjacent campsites at Lake Ann, bonded over the music of Neil Young, and exchanged numbers. After weeks, he called; she insisted he meet her father first. Weiss aimed high—saying he would make a million dollars by age 25—and charmed her parents.

In spring 1975, Weiss began his apprenticeship on the Fitzgerald. Tanner spotted him hitchhiking to Toledo, saying he preferred Michigan’s green landscape—symbolic of leaving his old troubles behind.

Generational conflict aboard was intense: senior sailors expected obedience, younger ones questioned everything. In July 1975, when Tanner visited the Fitzgerald, First Mate John McCarthy reported that Weiss had criticized the older crew’s intelligence to a VIP and refused to apologize—violating unwritten rules.

Weiss asked Tanner for a transfer. Tanner warned that the request would damage Weiss’s reputation and advised him to repair relationships and regain trust. Weiss nodded and returned to duty.

John Hayes sees Great Lakes shipping as a story of fathers and sons. Hayes’s father, grandfather, and great-grandfather were all sea captains; Hayes planned to be the fourth in his family until his first day at the academy in 1970, when he met Tom Bentsen.

Slender at six feet and 148 pounds, Bentsen exuded swagger. When Bentsen chose engineering, Hayes switched programs to join him, displeasing his own father.

In winter 1971, while both worked in Buffalo, New York, Bentsen beat a hustler at pool. When the man drew a gun, Hayes happened to pull up outside; Bentsen sprinted out as shots were fired, and they escaped.

Hayes saw two sides to Bentsen: one intent on being tough; the other a bassist with the Traverse Symphony Orchestra, a secret he shared only with Hayes. Though popular with women, Bentsen kept his distance emotionally. Hayes sensed a fatalistic streak and identified him with the song “Brandy.”

On Bentsen’s 21st birthday in January 1973, Hayes met Helen Filip. That semester, Bentsen’s grades fell, and he dropped out months before graduation to become an oiler. Bentsen once said he would date Helen if she and Hayes broke up, nearly prompting a fistfight. 

In spring 1975, Bentsen invited Hayes and Helen to breakfast and announced his new job on the Fitzgerald, praising McSorley’s crew. In August, he took vacation to spend a week with Hayes, Helen, and Gagnier; for the first time, Hayes thought Bentsen was genuinely happy.

In September 1975, Hayes sent a letter announcing his engagement and asking Bentsen to be his best man. Bentsen accepted. The wedding was set for August 21, 1976.

Bruce Hudson wore his hair long with prominent sideburns and dressed in jeans, T-shirt, and flannel.

In fall 1974, while a deckhand on the Ashland, Hudson joined his friend Paulie Spence at Toledo’s Woodville Mall to meet two Oregon High School juniors, Cindy Reynolds and Cyndi George. Reynolds’s father had left engineering to fish commercially on Lake Erie. Reynolds immediately noticed Hudson—finding him pleasant and funny—and they clicked.

They arranged to see each other when he returned to port. Their dates included errands and dinners at Ponderosa steakhouse. Reynolds’s strict father and Hudson bonded over boats. She later met Hudson’s parents, Oddis and Ruth; Ruth thought Reynolds was too young.

After the Ashland’s 1974 season ended, Hudson stayed as winter “ship keep.” He rarely left the ship, preferring overtime. He saved his excellent pay and bought a burgundy 1974 Dodge Challenger. He often told Reynolds his mother worried too much. Hudson still planned to return to Ohio State but liked sailing and the money.

In spring 1975, Columbia promoted him to the Edmund Fitzgerald. He made friends including deckhand Mark Thomas, with whom he planned a cross-country trip in his Challenger after the season. Hudson wrote Reynolds affectionate letters and suggested places they might visit together. In late June 1975, he injured his back and left for several months to recuperate, continuing to date Reynolds. Hudson began to feel Reynolds might be someone special.

Patrick Devine was not a typical deckhand. Born in 1955, he grew up in Toledo’s old West End. His father, Andy Devine, a Marquette University-trained lawyer and juvenile court judge, had worked summers on a Lake Michigan car ferry and loved boats.

Patrick was enterprising. After church on summer Sundays, he and his father watched ships load at the coal docks; the choreography of Hulett cranes hooked him on freighters. In summer 1973, before enrolling at Marquette, he joined his first laker. After flunking out fall of sophomore year, Devine registered at the union hall.

He started the 1975 season on the Crispin Oglebay. In June, he joined the crew of the Edmund Fitzgerald, replacing injured Bruce Hudson. His duties included hosing, painting, and constant cleaning.

Devine considered the Fitzgerald superior to all ten other ships he had worked on, with the best quarters, food, and crew. Breakfast was made to order; Saturday night was steak night. The crew was “elite.” Devine grew close to cabinmate Paul Riippa, a kind, generous man who loved Devine’s Moody Blues cassette.

The culture started with McSorley. Devine respected his piloting and standards but kept his distance. He held special affection for First Assistant Engineer Eddie Bindon, who mentored him. Bindon was considering retirement. It was widely known that 1975 would be McSorley’s last season and that he was trying to break his load record.

In early September 1975, First Mate John McCarthy told Devine he was getting off because Hudson was returning. Devine, furious, finished his duties, packed, and gave his Moody Blues cassette to Riippa. After goodbyes—including to Bindon—he climbed down the ladder. Minutes later, Bruce Hudson climbed aboard. They never met.

Shortly after he replaced Devine, Hudson’s life changed dramatically. In September, his girlfriend Cindy Reynolds became pregnant. She kept it secret while continuing school and work, waiting for Hudson to call from a port.

When he called, Reynolds carefully revealed the news. After initial surprise, Hudson reassured her that they would get an apartment together—relief that confirmed for Reynolds he would stand by her. She told only her best friend and avoided seeing a doctor.

In a later call, Hudson asked if he should still take the planned cross-country trip with Mark Thomas. Reynolds supported it, as she was not due until June.

Hudson’s immediate future seemed clear: In two months, once the Fitzgerald finished the season in Toledo, he and Thomas would embark on their road trip in the Challenger. On their return, Hudson and Reynolds would get an apartment in Toledo and start a family. Bruce Hudson was on the cusp of the biggest year of his life.

Don Frericks, an efficient and respected dock supervisor at Reserve Mining in Silver Bay, developed a decade-long friendship with Captain McSorley. Whenever the Fitzgerald was in port, Frericks would have lunch with the captain aboard the ship. Frericks held McSorley and the Fitzgerald in the highest regard, believing them to be the best on the lakes in rough weather.

It was widely known that the Fitzgerald would lay up early in November 1975. An inspection on October 31 had noted that several hatch covers were not sealing properly and required repairs before the 1976 season. Columbia Transportation likely scheduled the early layup to perform this work and save money by avoiding the busy winter repair season.

During their final lunch, McSorley confirmed to Frericks that the ship had to make “one more run.” He explained that his wife, Nellie, was ill and needed medical care, and the money from this final trip would help cover the costs. It was the last time the two friends spoke.