Under a clear blue sky in late July, the majestic SS Wilfred Sykes glided along northern Lake Michigan, nearing Wisconsin’s picturesque Door County peninsula. With a commanding horn blast, it gracefully navigated a narrow canal, then floated serenely past the uplifted bridges and bustling marinas of Sturgeon Bay.
Suddenly, a familiar melody drifted from a passing pleasure boat—a haunting guitar, a steady rhythm, and a rich baritone voice recounting the tragic story. It was the familiar tale of a powerful iron ore freighter, its experienced captain, the ferocious gales of November, and the 29 souls lost to Lake Superior’s icy depths.
While New England claims ‘Moby-Dick’ and the Mississippi river has Mark Twain, the Great Lakes hold ‘The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald’ as their quintessential epic. For many who grew up with Gordon Lightfoot’s surprising 1976 folk-rock hit, its legacy extends far beyond radio airwaves, appearing on everything from bumper stickers and beer labels to Lego kits and internet memes.
Despite the song’s opening reference to Chippewa legend, many mistakenly believe it recounts a 19th-century or even fictional shipwreck. In reality, this was a modern tragedy. On November 10, 1975, the Fitzgerald, then one of the largest and most advanced freighters on the Great Lakes, disappeared without a trace during a sudden, violent storm.
Affectionately known as ‘the Fitz,’ the vessel remains a poignant symbol of regional identity and a draw for tourism across the Great Lakes. Next month, numerous communities will observe the 50th anniversary of the wreck. It is often regarded as the Midwest’s own Titanic, being the largest among over 6,000 ships claimed by these vast lakes throughout history.
What makes this disaster particularly captivating is the absence of survivors and any clear external cause, like an iceberg. This void has fueled countless books, articles, documentaries, and fervent online discussions, all seeking to unravel the precise reasons behind the esteemed steamer’s sudden disappearance.
My journey aboard the Sykes was shared with John U. Bacon, author of the compelling new book, ‘The Gales of November: The Untold Story of the Edmund Fitzgerald.’ His work, based on extensive interviews and archival research, explores various theories surrounding the sinking. Yet, Bacon intentionally steers clear of a ‘whodunit’ narrative.
“While I sought to understand what happened,” Bacon explained, “my primary goal was to illuminate the lives of the 29 individuals on board. I wanted to restore their humanity, seeing them not just as victims, but as real people with stories to tell.”
For Bacon, an experienced 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 five Great Lakes collectively surpass the combined size of all New England states plus New York,” he remarked. “Despite growing up here, that fact utterly surprised me.”
During the Fitz’s era, over 300 Great Lakes freighters actively plied these waters. Today, that number has dwindled to less than half. I spent a week on one such vessel, the Sykes, traversing nearly 1,000 miles across three lakes. My aim was to observe how contemporary Great Lakes shipping aligns with, and diverges from, the enduring legend of its most infamous shipwreck.
Celebrating its 75th year, the Sykes stands as one of only about six steam-powered lake freighters still in operation. Among enthusiasts of the Edmund Fitzgerald, Bacon affectionately refers to it as a ‘V.I.B.’ – a Very Important Boat.
On November 9, 1975, the Sykes loaded iron ore alongside the Fitz near Duluth, Minnesota, enjoying an unusually warm and sunny afternoon. Both ships were subsequently engulfed by the same sudden, violent storm, with winds reaching up to 100 miles per hour. After the Fitz disappeared from radar, the Sykes bravely joined the desperate search efforts.
Today, the 678-foot Sykes provides one of the closest contemporary experiences to sailing on the Fitz. For passengers, the journey is surprisingly comfortable, offering a glimpse into the past not just through its classic engine room, but also its midcentury-modern guest quarters. These spaces serve as a time capsule from the American steel industry’s golden age, when shipping executives and their spouses were regularly entertained on board.
The lounge’s hefty stereo cabinet still houses 8-track tapes featuring classics like Guy Lombardo and Mantovani. A charming, albeit non-functional, buzzer is a relic from an era when one could summon another martini. Today, the vessel maintains a dry policy, with guests enjoying excellent meals alongside the crew in the galley.
While modern 1,000-foot freighters, introduced in the 1970s and ’80s, now dominate the Great Lakes, the Sykes remains cherished. Its elegant curves and distinctive front pilot house make it a favorite among both ‘boat nerds’ and the dedicated mariners who ensure its continued operation.
“It’s a true privilege to sail on a boat like this,” remarked Billy Geoffroy, the boatswain and head of the deck crew. “You can spend all day on the newer, larger vessels, but nothing compares to the experience of an old steamer.”
Exploring ‘Fitz Country’: A Journey to Lake Superior
From spring until early January, the Sykes transports pelletized iron ore from mines surrounding Lake Superior. Summer brings limestone season, with trips between immense quarries in northern Michigan and the steel mills of the lower lakes.
Bacon and I embarked on our journey early one Monday morning from Burns Harbor, Indiana, close to Chicago. Our route was planned to take us north through Lake Michigan, then through the Straits of Mackinac to load at two quarries. Afterward, we would follow the historical path of the Fitz, heading down Lake Huron and across Lake Erie to Cleveland.
Great Lakes freighters are distinctively long and narrow, engineered to maximize cargo capacity while still navigating rivers and locks. As we prepared to depart, Bacon stood on deck, vividly describing how 30-foot waves would have relentlessly swept over the vessel during the fateful storm that claimed the Fitz.
Such grim imagery felt distant as we steamed northward across a sun-drenched, calm, cobalt-blue Lake Michigan. However, an unplanned stop in Sturgeon Bay provided an opportunity for an overnight road trip, taking us five hours further north to Lake Superior’s western edge—the very starting point of the Fitz’s final, tragic journey.
Duluth, Minnesota, and its twin city, Superior, Wisconsin, form one of the world’s largest inland ports. Located 2,300 miles from the Atlantic via the St. Lawrence Seaway, it’s the furthest inland point accessible to oceangoing ships. This is unequivocally ‘Fitz Country,’ with memorials in parks, restaurants, bars, and even a 10-foot scale model of the ship prominently displayed near the swimming pool of the local Best Western.
Fifty miles north of Duluth, on Superior’s rugged northern shore, lies Split Rock Lighthouse. Hayes Scriven, the site manager, guided us to the edge of its 130-foot cliffs. He anticipates nearly 2,000 visitors next month for the annual ceremonial lighting of the beacon, a somber tradition.
Scriven estimates that three-quarters of the lighthouse’s yearly visitors are already familiar with the Fitz tragedy. “About once a week,” he noted, “I’ll hear someone playing the song on their phone up here.” However, local sentiment towards the ballad is more mixed.
“Many locals are tired of it,” Tom Byrnes, a retired bartender from Silver Bay, told us during a visit to a town bar that was once a favored spot for Fitz crew members. “It was cool for a bit, but it’s just so gloomy and long.”
Byrnes vividly remembers November 10, 1975. Just months out of high school, he was working at the bar when a patron, drenched from the pouring rain, delivered the devastating news that the Fitz was in distress. He likened the shock to hearing his school principal announce President Kennedy’s assassination. “It was one of those days you never forget,” Byrnes stated.
Bacon, whose extensive bibliography includes 13 previous books—among them a work on a 1917 maritime explosion in Halifax, Nova Scotia, that claimed nearly 2,000 lives—dedicated almost four years to researching and writing ‘The Gales of November.’ His exhaustive efforts involved interviewing over 100 individuals, including family members and associates of the crew who had previously never shared their stories with a writer.
The book offers a dramatic reconstruction of the storm, partly informed by cutting-edge research. A computer model, utilizing historical weather data, illustrates how a collision of frigid Canadian air and a storm system from the southwest generated hurricane-force conditions. This turned the lake “from calm to ferocious in just minutes,” as Bacon details, with waves potentially surging over 50 feet high.
While the wreck triggered numerous investigations and lawsuits, it was Lightfoot’s song, climbing to No. 2 on the Billboard charts, that indelibly etched the tragedy into collective cultural memory.
Bacon spoke with the Newsweek journalist whose brief article sparked Lightfoot’s inspiration. From this piece, Lightfoot drew many of the song’s iconic phrases and rhythms, from the haunting Chippewa invocation of “the big lake they called Gitche Gumee” to the imagery of “slashing” winds and the Detroit Mariners Church bell tolling 29 times.
Bacon also interviewed two of the musicians who performed on the track. Remarkably, the song was recorded in a single take, the very first time Lightfoot (who passed away in 2023) had ever played it with a full band.
Bacon discovered that Lightfoot was a man of integrity, forging strong bonds with the victims’ families. He notably refused Jimmy Fallon’s request to use the song for a comedy sketch, and in live performances, he altered lyrics, such as the line about the main hatch ‘caving in,’ after a theory suggesting improper clamping was disproved.
“Gord genuinely prioritized the families’ peace of mind,” Rick Haynes, the bassist, confided to Bacon.
The shipping company, Oglebay Norton, presented a different narrative. Bacon recounts that they initially offered the victims’ families only a final paycheck and $750 for personal belongings. Furthermore, when Bacon sought the company’s archives (which went bankrupt in 2004), he discovered the boxes pertaining to the Fitz had vanished. “How is that not suspicious?” he questioned.
For his part, Bacon refrains from drawing definitive conclusions about the wreck. He quotes Bruce Hudson’s mother, whose 20-year-old son, a Cleveland deckhand, lies 530 feet beneath the lake’s surface with the rest of the crew: “Thirty know, 29 men and God. And nobody’s talking.”
A Timeless Vessel on the Inland Seas
Upon returning to Sturgeon Bay, the Sykes continued its voyage northward on Lake Michigan. We passed serene forested islands bordered by beaches, with no signs of human activity save for an occasional lighthouse. Instead of icy Canadian winds, wildfire smoke painted the sun a reddish hue.
As twilight fell, we sailed beneath the Mackinac Bridge, a monumental structure connecting Michigan’s upper and lower peninsulas—one of the longest suspension bridges in the Western Hemisphere. On the stern deck, a crew member strummed a worn guitar, while in the pilot house, the sounds of the Butthole Surfers played softly on satellite radio.
At roughly 2 a.m., we arrived at Drummond Island, near 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, readied the anchor drop. “Prepare for seven seconds of controlled violence,” Geoffroy announced, distributing earplugs.
In the late 1960s, the Fitz gained fame for its ‘D.J. Captain,’ Peter Pulcer, who would broadcast baseball scores, classical music, and captivating stories over the ship’s loudspeaker while navigating rivers and locks. Although those specific days are over, vessels like the Sykes still attract crowds when passing through populated areas.
“This is one of the few professions where people actively enjoy watching you work,” Erhardt mused. “You certainly don’t experience that at a fast-food restaurant.”
Tom Wiater, president of Central Marine Logistics—the company operating the Sykes—grew up in Detroit, captivated by maritime legends and disinclined to join the family liquor store business. After graduating from the Great Lakes Maritime Academy in Traverse City, Michigan, he began his career on the Sykes as a deckhand.
“While the faces on board have changed over time,” Wiater reflected, “the unique personalities, familiar sounds, and overall atmosphere of the vessel remain constant.”
Wiater is a staunch proponent for these venerable steamers and the rich history they embody. From the pilot house, he demonstrated the blend of traditional and modern navigation: classic paper charts and the original brass Chadburn (the telegraph system for communicating speed orders to the engine room) coexist with advanced GPS and electronic charting systems.
“The Sykes is essentially a functioning antique,” he stated. “Its continued operation is a testament to the unwavering dedication of everyone on board.”
The Fitz disaster, a catalyst for significant safety reforms, marked the last major shipwreck on the Great Lakes. For contemporary sailors, it serves as a powerful reminder of the inherent perils of their profession.
Erhardt reminisced about his maritime academy graduation, where cadets collectively sang ‘The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald’ during karaoke. Yet, during our trip, a passenger who humorously began a line from the song was promptly silenced, indicating the reverence held for the event.
Conversation inevitably shifted to ‘the blackout’—an incident last January during one of the season’s final runs, when the Sykes lost all power on Lake Superior, uncannily close to the site where the Fitz met its demise.
Emergency lights flickered to life, but the vessel was left with minimal controls and no heat. A cellphone video captured it pitching violently in massive swells, the deck blanketed in snow, as a crew member uttered expletives with true sailor’s zeal.
Another ship eventually arrived, lashing itself alongside the Sykes and towing it to a safe cove. Now, it’s simply another compelling sea story.
“A good sea story ends with everyone surviving, but experiencing it was truly terrifying,” recounted Mike Helmer, a mate’s assistant from Mackinac City, Michigan.
Navigating the Waters: From Huron to Erie
Shipping and shipwreck tourism are thriving industries on the Great Lakes today. After loading at Drummond Island and en route to another quarry, Wiater highlighted rusted remnants of wrecks barely visible in the shallow DeTour Passage. This area is one of over a dozen diving preserves in Michigan waters, covering approximately 2,300 square miles and containing some 200 wrecks.
Our journey continued to Calcite, an immense open-pit quarry spanning over 8,000 acres near Rogers City, Michigan—so vast it’s observable from space. There, we collected another load of stone, and then, as the song famously narrates, we were ‘fully loaded for Cleveland.’ (Historically, the Fitz was bound for Detroit, a less poetic destination).
Sailing down Lake Huron, the air filled with the aroma of massive Saturday night steaks grilling on deck. Below, in the sweltering engine room, where temperatures soared past 100 degrees, Al Oswald, a Navy veteran with a distinctive New Jersey accent, pointed out a subtle breeze emanating from a hidden corner.
“You learn to live like a cat out here,” he explained. “Always finding the warmest spots in winter and the coolest in summer.”
After sunset, we navigated into the St. Clair River. Around 3 a.m., south of Detroit, we passed the now-shuttered steel mill at Zug Island—the very place where the Fitz would have discharged its cargo. This area was once home to legendary sailor bars, vividly described in Bacon’s book, such as ‘The Honey Bee’ for ‘country alcoholics’ and ‘The Hinky-Dink’ for ‘psychotic alcoholics.’
A week after departing Burns Harbor, Sunday morning found us entering Lake Erie, heading towards the mouth of the Cuyahoga River. There, the crew faced the challenge of navigating 13 intricate turns through the heart of downtown Cleveland.
Captain Mike Grzesiek, who began his career 30 years ago on the Sykes as a dish washer, plans 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. He shared insights into the merits of different ships he’d served on, the industry’s fluctuating fortunes, and his pragmatic approach to enduring storms that would send more anxious mariners “curling up in a ball.”
“You just deal with it and get through it,” Grzesiek said with a chuckle. “Looking back, nothing ever seems that bad.”