Under a brilliant blue sky in late July, the SS Wilfred Sykes gracefully navigated the northern waters of Lake Michigan, drawing close to Wisconsin’s picturesque Door County peninsula. With a commanding horn blast, it slipped through a narrow canal, then glided past the welcoming bridges and bustling marinas of Sturgeon Bay.
Suddenly, a familiar melody drifted across the water from a passing pleasure boat. It was an evocative guitar riff, a steady, somber beat, and that unmistakable deep voice recounting the haunting saga of a powerful iron ore freighter, its “well seasoned” captain, the notorious gales of November, and the 29 souls swallowed by the icy embrace of Lake Superior.
Just as New England cherishes “Moby-Dick” and the Mississippi claims Mark Twain, the Great Lakes hold a deep connection to “The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald.” For many who grew up hearing Gordon Lightfoot’s surprising 1976 folk-rock anthem, its enduring presence extends far beyond radio airwaves, appearing on bumper stickers, craft beer labels, collectible Lego sets, and even internet memes.
Despite its traditional folk sound and opening lines referencing Chippewa legends, many mistakenly believe the song tells of a 19th-century or even fictional shipwreck. Yet, this tragedy was very real and far more recent, occurring on the night of November 10, 1975. The Fitzgerald, then one of the largest and most advanced freighters on the Great Lakes, disappeared without a trace during an sudden, violent storm, sinking into the depths.
Affectionately known as “the Fitz,” the vessel has become a cornerstone of regional identity and a powerful draw for tourism across the Great Lakes. Next month will see numerous commemorations for the 50th anniversary of its loss. Often dubbed the “Midwest Titanic,” it remains the largest of over 6,000 ships claimed by these vast inland seas throughout history.
However, this tragedy is unique: there were no survivors, and no obvious collision like an iceberg. This lack of clear answers has fueled countless books, articles, documentaries, and ongoing online discussions, all seeking to unravel the precise reasons behind the celebrated steamer’s demise.
My journey aboard the Sykes was shared with John U. Bacon, author of the latest profound book on the subject, “The Gales of November: The Untold Story of the Edmund Fitzgerald.” His work, meticulously researched through countless interviews and archival documents, explores several theories but consciously steers clear of a sensational “whodunit” narrative.
“My aim wasn’t just to uncover what happened, but more importantly, to understand the 29 individuals on board,” Bacon explained. “Who were they? What were their dreams and lives like? I sought to restore their humanity, rather than letting them remain merely statistics of a tragedy.”
For Bacon, a seasoned journalist hailing from Ann Arbor, Michigan, the true “untold story” also encompasses the breathtaking beauty, inherent dangers, and immense scale of the Great Lakes themselves.
“I was astonished to discover that the combined area of the five Great Lakes surpasses that of all of New England and New York State combined,” he remarked. “Even growing up here, I never grasped their true magnitude.”
In the era of the Fitzgerald, over 300 Great Lakes freighters plied these waters. Today, that number has dwindled to less than half, including the Sykes. My week-long journey aboard it, covering nearly 1,000 miles and three lakes, was an opportunity to observe how the practicalities of modern Great Lakes shipping intertwine with the enduring legend of its most infamous disaster.
Now 75 years old, the Sykes is one of just a handful of remaining steam-powered lake freighters. For devoted followers of the Fitzgerald story, Bacon refers to it as a “V.I.B.” — a Very Important Boat.
Remarkably, the Sykes was loading cargo alongside the Fitzgerald at an iron ore dock near Duluth, Minnesota, on the unseasonably warm and bright afternoon of November 9, 1975. It subsequently endured the same ferocious storm, with winds reaching up to 100 miles per hour. When the Fitzgerald disappeared from radar, the Sykes was among the first to join the desperate search.
At 678 feet long, the Sykes provides one of the closest living parallels to the Fitzgerald, offering passengers an unexpectedly comfortable voyage. It’s a true step back in time, not only in its operational engine room but also in its guest accommodations, a mid-century modern capsule that harks back to the golden age of American steel, when shipping magnates often hosted lavish trips for executives and their families.
The lounge’s substantial stereo cabinet still contains 8-track tapes featuring classics like Guy Lombardo and Mantovani. A now-silent buzzer, once used to summon another martini, remains a quaint relic. Today, the ship maintains a dry policy, and any occasional guests enjoy excellent meals alongside the crew in the galley.
While modern 1,000-footers, introduced in the 1970s and ’80s, now dominate the Great Lakes, the Sykes, with its graceful lines and iconic forward pilot house, holds a special place in the hearts of both dedicated enthusiasts and the skilled mariners who keep it running.
“It’s a true privilege to sail on a vessel like this,” remarked Billy Geoffroy, the boatswain and head of the deck crew. “You can spend all day on the newer, larger ships, but nothing compares to the character of an old steamer.”
Exploring Fitz Country
From spring through early January, the Sykes transports pelletized iron ore from Lake Superior’s mines. During the summer, it transitions to limestone season, making runs between vast quarries in northern Michigan and steel mills situated on the lower lakes.
Bacon and I embarked on the Sykes early one Monday from Burns Harbor, Indiana, close to Chicago. Our planned route involved sailing up Lake Michigan, passing through the Straits of Mackinac, loading cargo at two quarries, then proceeding down Lake Huron — mirroring a portion of the Fitzgerald’s final journey — and finally crossing Lake Erie to Cleveland.
Great Lakes freighters are distinctively long and slender, engineered to carry maximum loads while still navigating narrow rivers and locks. As we prepared for departure, Bacon stood at one end of the deck, vividly describing how 30-foot waves would have crashed over this very spot during the storm that claimed the Fitzgerald.
Such turbulent imagery felt distant as we steamed northward on Lake Michigan, surrounded by nothing but brilliant sunshine and calm, cobalt-blue waters. However, an unforeseen layover in Sturgeon Bay presented an opportunity for an overnight road trip, five hours north, to the western shores of Lake Superior – the very point from which the Fitzgerald embarked on its ill-fated journey.
Duluth, Minnesota, and its twin city, Superior, Wisconsin, together form one of the world’s largest inland ports. Located an astonishing 2,300 miles from the Atlantic Ocean via the St. Lawrence Seaway, it’s the furthest inland point accessible to ocean-faring ships. This region is undeniably ‘Fitz country,’ with tributes to the ship found in parks, eateries, bars, and even a 10-foot scale model presiding over the swimming pool at the local Best Western.
Fifty miles north of Duluth, on Lake Superior’s rugged northern shore, lies Split Rock Lighthouse. Hayes Scriven, the site manager, guided us to the edge of its dramatic 130-foot cliffs. Next month, close to 2,000 visitors are anticipated to gather here for the annual lighting ceremony of the beacon, a poignant tribute.
Scriven estimates that a remarkable 75% of annual lighthouse visitors are already familiar with the Fitzgerald’s story. “I’ll often find someone here playing the song on their phone, about once a week,” he shared. Yet, among long-time residents, opinions on the famous ballad are quite diverse.
“Many locals admit they’re tired of hearing it,” confessed Tom Byrnes, a retired bartender we met at the town bar in Silver Bay, a former haunt for Fitzgerald crew members. “It was popular for a while, but it’s just so gloomy, doomy, and endlessly repetitive.”
Byrnes vividly remembers November 10, 1975. Just months after high school, he was working at the bar when a drenched figure burst in, announcing the Fitzgerald was in distress. He likened the shock to hearing his school principal announce President Kennedy’s assassination. “It was simply one of those days you never forget,” Byrnes concluded.
Bacon, an accomplished author with 13 books to his name, including one detailing a devastating 1917 maritime explosion in Halifax, Nova Scotia, that claimed almost 2,000 lives, dedicated nearly four years to researching and writing ‘The Gales of November.’ He meticulously interviewed over 100 individuals, including family members and others with connections to the crew who had never before shared their stories with a writer.
His book offers a gripping reconstruction of the storm, incorporating cutting-edge research. One computer model, utilizing historical weather data, illustrates how frigid Canadian air crashed into a storm system from the southwest, generating hurricane-force conditions that, as Bacon describes, transformed the lake ‘from calm to ferocious in just minutes,’ possibly producing waves exceeding 50 feet.
While the wreck triggered numerous investigations and legal battles, it was Lightfoot’s poignant song, reaching No. 2 on the Billboard charts, that truly cemented the tragedy deep within the public’s cultural memory.
Bacon even interviewed the journalist behind the brief Newsweek article that sparked Lightfoot’s inspiration, noting how it provided many of the song’s iconic phrases and rhythmic elements. From the initial references to Chippewa legends and ‘the big lake they called Gitche Gumee’ to the ‘slashing’ winds and the church bell tolling 29 times at Detroit’s Mariners Church, the article’s influence is clear.
Bacon also spoke with two of the musicians who performed on the track. Remarkably, the song was recorded in a single take – which was also the very first time Lightfoot (who passed away in 2023) had ever performed it with a full band.
Bacon was heartened to discover that Lightfoot was a man of integrity, fostering genuine connections with the families of the lost crew. He famously refused Jimmy Fallon’s request to use the song for a comedy sketch. Furthermore, in live performances, Lightfoot subtly altered lyrics, such as a line hinting at the main hatch ‘caving in,’ which referenced a now-debunked theory that the crew had improperly secured it.
“Gord’s primary concern was always the peace of mind for the families,” recounted Rick Haynes, the band’s bassist.
The shipping company, Oglebay Norton, presented a different narrative. Bacon notes that initially, they offered the victims’ families only a final paycheck and a meager $750 for personal belongings. When Bacon sought out the company’s archives (which declared bankruptcy in 2004), he discovered that crucial boxes pertaining to the Fitzgerald had mysteriously vanished. “How can that not seem suspicious?” he questioned.
For his part, Bacon refrains from drawing definitive conclusions about the wreck. He recalls the words of Bruce Hudson’s mother – a 20-year-old Cleveland deckhand whose body, like those of his 28 shipmates, remains 530 feet beneath the lake’s surface: “Thirty know: 29 men and God. And nobody’s talking.”
A Timeless Vessel
Upon returning to Sturgeon Bay, the Sykes recommenced its voyage, heading towards the northern expanses of Lake Michigan. We glided past forested islands edged with sandy beaches, with only an occasional lighthouse interrupting the untouched scenery. Instead of the expected icy Canadian winds, the air was thick with wildfire smoke, transforming the sun into a glowing reddish orb.
As twilight fell, we passed beneath the colossal Mackinac Bridge, a marvel connecting Michigan’s upper and lower peninsulas and ranking among the longest suspension bridges in the Western Hemisphere. On the aft deck, a deckhand strummed a well-worn boat guitar, while in the pilot house, the satellite radio unexpectedly played the Butthole Surfers.
Around 2 a.m., we arrived at Drummond Island, close to the Canadian border, where we were scheduled to collect a partial load of dolomite limestone the following morning. Geoffroy and Sean Erhardt, the second mate, made preparations to drop anchor. “Prepare yourselves for seven seconds of controlled chaos,” Geoffroy announced, distributing earplugs to everyone present.
In the late 1960s, the Fitzgerald’s Captain Peter Pulcer was famed as the ‘D.J. Captain,’ known for announcing baseball scores, playing Mozart, and sharing stories over the ship’s loudspeaker as they traversed rivers and locks. While those specific traditions have faded, vessels like the Sykes still manage to attract an enthusiastic crowd when passing through populated areas.
“This is one of the rare professions where people actually enjoy watching you work,” Erhardt quipped, “You certainly don’t see that at a fast-food restaurant.”
Tom Wiater, President of Central Marine Logistics, the company operating the Sykes, cultivated a lifelong fascination with maritime history while growing up in Detroit, and had no desire to join the family liquor store business. After graduating from the Great Lakes Maritime Academy in Traverse City, Michigan, he began his career as a deckhand on the Sykes.
“Today, when I step aboard this vessel, the faces may have changed,” Wiater observed, “but the unique personalities, the familiar sounds, and the overall atmosphere remain just as I remember them.”
Wiater is a fervent proponent of these venerable steamers and the rich history they embody. In the pilot house, he demonstrated the blend of antiquated and modern navigation: traditional paper charts and the original brass Chadburn – the telegraph system for relaying speed commands to the engine room – coexisting with advanced GPS and electronic charting systems.
He proudly declared the Sykes to be “a floating, operational antique,” emphasizing that its continued service is a testament to “the unwavering dedication of everyone involved.”
The Fitzgerald disaster, a catalyst for significant safety reforms, marked the last major shipwreck on the Great Lakes. For contemporary sailors, it remains a potent symbol of the inherent perils of life at sea.
Erhardt reminisced about his maritime academy graduation, where all the cadets sang ‘The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald’ during karaoke. Yet, on our journey, when a passenger jokingly began humming a line one afternoon, they were swiftly shushed.
Inevitably, conversation drifted to ‘the blackout’ – a frightening incident last January during one of the season’s final runs, when the Sykes completely lost power on Lake Superior, eerily close to the Fitzgerald’s final resting place.
Emergency lights flickered to life, but the vessel was left with minimal controls and no heating. A stark cellphone video captured the boat violently rocking amidst huge swells, its deck blanketed in snow, while a crew member’s expletives echoed the raw intensity of the moment.
Another ship soon arrived, securely lashing itself alongside the Sykes and towing it to a safe cove. Now, it stands as another compelling tale from the Great Lakes.
“A truly great sea story is one where everyone makes it out alive, but living through that was absolutely terrifying,” shared Mike Helmer, a mate’s assistant from Mackinac City, Michigan.
Lake Huron’s Legacy
Today, both commercial shipping and shipwreck tourism thrive on the Great Lakes. After loading at Drummond Island and en route to another quarry, Wiater highlighted remnants of rusted wrecks visible just beneath the surface in the DeTour Passage. This area is part of over a dozen protected diving preserves in Michigan, collectively spanning 2,300 square miles and containing some 200 historical shipwrecks.
Our next stop was Calcite, an enormous open-pit quarry spanning over 8,000 acres near Rogers City, Michigan – so vast it’s reportedly visible from space. With our cargo of stone, we then set a course, as the song famously states, ‘fully loaded for Cleveland.’ (Though it’s worth noting, the Fitzgerald’s actual destination was the less poetic, but equally important, Detroit.)
Heading south on Lake Huron, Saturday evening brought the sizzling aroma of enormous steaks grilling on deck. Below, in the scorching engine room where temperatures soared past 100 degrees, Al Oswald, a Navy veteran with a distinctive New Jersey accent, pointed out a faint, welcome breeze emanating from a hidden corner.
“You learn to live like a cat out here,” he quipped. “Always finding the warmest spots in winter and the coolest ones in summer.”
After sunset, we entered the St. Clair River. Around 3 a.m., south of Detroit, we sailed past the now-shuttered steel mill on Zug Island – the very place the Fitzgerald would have delivered its cargo. It’s also where, according to Bacon’s book, many crew members might have frequented colorful sailor bars. As one retired sailor vividly recalled, “The Honey Bee was for country alcoholics, and the Hinky-Dink was for psychotic alcoholics.”
By Sunday morning, a full week after departing Burns Harbor, we navigated into Lake Erie and approached the mouth of the Cuyahoga River. Here, the crew would expertly guide the massive ship through 13 challenging turns, right through the heart of downtown Cleveland.
Captain Mike Grzesiek, who began his career on the Sykes three decades ago as a dish washer, is set to retire next year. Throughout our journey, he had been a man of quiet demeanor.
However, after breakfast on our final full day, he opened up, discussing the virtues of different vessels he’d served on, the industry’s fluctuating fortunes, and his remarkably calm method for enduring storms that would send more anxious mariners “curled up in a ball.”
“You just confront it and push through,” Grzesiek stated, then chuckled, adding, “But looking back, honestly, nothing ever seems quite as bad as it felt at the moment.”