Today is the 30th anniversary of the loss of the good ship Edmund Fitzgerald, whose story is fixed in our minds by Gordon Lightfoot's haunting ballad. I say "whose" because the ship was a friend to those who sailed her. Her sinking has always haunted me because shipwreck at sea, seemingly safely distant in another era, came crashing back to my state on the lake that had been so calm when I visited during summer vacations.

Lightfoot's song is one of the best I have ever heard. The music -- hinting at old sea chantey -- is mournful, and the lyrics are poetry. The art of memorializing significant events in song has pretty much died out, but this shows us what can be done.

Let's remember the sailors and the families of the lost in our prayers.

The legend lives on from the Chippewa on down
Of the big lake they call Gitche Gumee
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 the 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 ships bell rang
Could it be the North Wind they'd been feeling?

The wind in the wires made a tattletale sound
And a wave broke over the railing.
And every man knew, as the Captain did, too,
T'was 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 West Wind

When supper time came the old cook came on deck
Saying fellows it's too rough to feed ya.
At 7PM a main hatchway caved 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
And later that night when his lights went out of sight
Came the wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald.

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 fifteen more miles behind her.
They might have split up or they might have 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.

Hat tip to Dale Price, who has some fine links, for the reminder.

1 Comment

1. TS on 8:52 AM

   Haunting song. I recall trying to write a poem from the perspective of one of the poor fellows:
   
   http://poncer.blogspot.com/2003/09/written-upon-hearing-song-wreck-of.html