It’s been 70 years since Japan attacked the U.S. military base at Pearl Harbor, the single catastrophic event that launched the United States into World War II.  Today we remember December 7th, 1941 – a date which will live in infamy.

"Damaged ships after the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor. The USS Cassin (DD-372) and the USS Downes (DD-375) in drydock no.1", image courtesy U.S. Naval Academy Museum Collection

"Divers are shown here removing powder from magazines of the battleship Arizona. The Arizona was damaged in the Japanese raid on Pearl Harbor, December 7, 1941.", image courtesy U.S. Naval Academy Museum Collection

RIP shipmates.

Today marks the 36th anniversary of the sinking of the SS Edmund Fitzgerald, the Great Lakes freighter that sank in a strong gale on eastern Lake Superior resulting in the loss of all 29 of its crew.  Today, the November 10, 1975 sinking remains the Great Lakes regions most famous and mysterious maritime disaster.  To learn more about her story, just listen above to the lyrics in Gordon Lightfoot’s famous song, The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald.

Another good writeup can be found at failure magazine, HERE.

Do any Great Lakes guys remember her sinking?  We’d like to hear your stories in the comments section below.

Some of you may remember a cartoon which appeared during World War I, a drawing showing an inquisitive stranger talking with the gateman at a railway crossing. The gate was painted with the usual black and white stripes, and lying on the river beyond the tracks was a steamer painted with similar markings. The stranger asked, “Why do they paint the stripes on the gate?” And the gateman answered, “Oh, that’s to make them more visible.”

And then the stranger asked, “Well, why do they paint the stripes on the vessel out there?” And the gateman replied, “Oh, that’s to make the ship less visible.”

-Everett Warner [paraphrased from his lecture notes]

A ships in costume, gCaptain brings you Razzle Dazzle; history’s most unusually painted ship. What is Razzle Dazzle? GoTouring.com tells us;

During World War I, the British and Americans faced a serious threat from German U-boats. All attempts to camouflage ships at sea had failed, as the appearance of the sea and sky are always changing.  Any color scheme that was concealing in one situation was conspicuous in others. A British artist and naval officer, Norman Wilkinson, promoted a new camouflage scheme that was derived from the artistic fashions of the time, particularly cubism. Instead of trying to conceal the ship, it simply broke up its lines and made it more difficult for the U-boat captain to determine the ship’s course. The British called this camouflage scheme “Dazzle Painting.” The Americans called it “Razzle Dazzle.”

Artists were enlisted to draw up the camouflage designs. Early in the war, designs were drawn for individual ships, with each ship having its own distinctive pattern. As the war progressed, standard patterns were devised and applied to large numbers of ships. Even the great passenger liners were camouflaged for the duration of the War.

It is unfortunate that there are no color photographs of these WWI ships. People who witnessed convoys of dazzle painted ships reported that the scene was quite dramatic. Imagine sailing across the North Atlantic surrounded by dozens of brightly painted ships, each in different colors and patterns. If you compare the colored drawing with the black and white photograph of the ship “War Clover”, you can get an idea of how much we are missing. Read More…

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The problem confronting a submarine, once his prey has been sighted, resolves itself solely into estimating course and speed of the target, in order to determine how the approach to torpedo fire position should be made. The “dazzle” system of painting is based on this one consideration and that is, of rendering the problem confronting a submarine more difficult, confusing him as to how his approach shall be made and thereby adding in some degree to the safety of the vessel attacked.

U.S. Admiral William S. Sims (1917)

Camopedia has this amazing information on the World War I design team assigned to the project;

ONE METHOD camoufleurs might have used (but did not, apparently) to generate a large number of unique dazzle schemes is the stencil method.

It is indebted to American artist Abbott Handerson Thayer (1849-1921), sometimes called “the father of camouflage,” who (circa 1909) devised a clever, easy way for individuals to design their own camouflage, using cut-out silhouettes.

Whatever the surrounding, said Thayer, a person “has only to cut out a stencil of the soldier, ship, cannon or whatever figure he wishes to conceal, and look through this stencil from the viewpoint under consideration, to learn just what costume from that viewpoint would most tend to conceal this figure.” However, the purpose of dazzle camouflage was confusion, not concealment, so, in the examples below, we have used the silhouette as a mask with which to “find” valuable dazzle designs in an abstract, geometric plan. In studies of human vision, Gestalt psychologists and others have investigated embedded figures or “puzzle pictures” (Wolfgang Köhler called them “camouflaged figures”) in which a simple shape has been adroitly hidden within a larger, more complex surrounding.

In pre-computer days, one could make arbitrary compositions in art by overlapping “systems” on layers of tracing paper, viewed on a light table. Today, it is ever so easy to do the same thing (and much more) by using the “layers” function in software such as Adobe Photoshop. This could have been useful as a way to generate dazzle designs, had all that been available in World War I.

If you are looking for more information on this topic be sure to read things magazine‘s extensive ship camouflage links section.

Technicans navigate the ROV around the sunken World War II tanker S.S. Montebello, Oct. 12, 2011. Photo by NOAA Robert Schwemmer

After 11 days of survey and sampling using both the latest in technology and physical sampling, no oil remains were found on the sunken World War II tanker, SS Montebello.

An on-scene assessment conducted by the Coast Guard and California Department of Fish and Game’s Office of Spill Prevention and Response of the tanker, which happens to be located just miles from gCaptain’s hometown of Morro Bay, California, has determined that there is no substantial oil threat from the Montebello to the surrounding waters and shorelines.

The S.S. Montebello sank after a Japanese submarine torpedoed the large oil tanker on December 23, 1941. The vessel broke apart landing upright with her bow separated from the majority of the wreckage. At the time of sinking no release of the 3.2 million gallon cargo was observed.

Over the past few days Global Diving & Salvage, working under the direction of the unified command , has assessed cargo and fuel tanks as well as collected ocean floor sediment samples. “Our number one objective for this mission was to determine what threat, if any, the Montebello poses to the waters and shorelines of California,” said Coast Guard Capt. Roger Laferriere. “After careful evaluation of the data, we have concluded with a high level of confidence that there is no oil threat from the S.S. Montebello.”

With the assistance of its Cougar XT ROV Global combined visual and sonar imaginary into 3D models of the vessel. These models where then combined with data from thickness gauging, backscatter tooling, samples of the tank contents  and nearby sediment to determine the results.

“Knowing that this wreck does not pose a significant pollution threat is great news”, says Devon Grennan, President of Global Diving & Salvage, Inc. “The combination of the latest technology, sound planning and project management, excellent collaboration between Federal, State and private enterprise shows the possibilities in investigating these deep water wrecks and the ability to determine the pollution potential.

“This is a new era of prevention,” said DFG OSPR Capt. Chris Graff. “This has been a cooperative partnership using cutting-edge technology and surgical precision. The procedures and techniques used could help conduct threat assessments on other sunken vessels.”

Solitude at Sea

Three years, 30,000 miles

Reviewed by John Rousmaniere, edited by Gene Epstein, Barrons

Anybody hoping for a happier second act in life will find inspiration—as well as caution—in the story of Captain Joshua Slocum (1844-1908). Praised by Theodore Roosevelt as the hero “who takes his little boat, without any crew but himself, all around the world,” Slocum stimulated thousands to change their lives with his 1900 book, Sailing Alone Around the World, which recounts that adventure.

That Geoffrey Wolff tells this story knowledgably and sympathetically should be no surprise. He is, after all, the author of The Duke of Deception, Black Sun and other books about tipping points in the male ego. Wolff is also a fine writer who understands how another fine writer could produce one of the very best books ever about going to sea.

Slocum initially went to sea not for romance, but to escape his father’s beatings and the tiny Nova Scotia island of his childhood. For years he thrived as a captain of commercial sailing ships. But by his fortieth birthday, steam was supplanting sail, so he lost his livelihood. Then he lost his wife—the only person who ever loved and understood him. At 50 years old, the former clipper-ship captain was working on shore as a carpenter when a friend offered him an ancient and decrepit 37-foot fishing sloop. As Slocum rebuilt Spray, he devised a daring plan.

Ever since Magellan, large crews of sailors had been sailing around the world for cash. Slocum, already the accomplished author of short pieces, would make the trip alone and sell his words about it. This scheme led to a great voyage and a masterpiece of maritime writing.

Before setting out, Slocum faced two crucial questions: Was Spray up to the job? Was he? Without another sailor, Spray would have to steer itself for days on end. Unsure that this was possible, Slocum kept delaying his departure. After he finally got under way, in July 1895, Spray showed a wondrous ability to steer any course without his hand on the wheel. Modern boats are as flighty as butterflies; Spray was as steady as a whale.

But could her skipper cope with the loneliness? He confessed that loneliness first got to him when he dreamed up the ghost of an old seaman who identified himself as a pilot of Columbus and assured Slocum that all was well. After that, wrote Slocum, “The acute pain of solitude experienced at first never returned.” He was a contented man as he sailed through the Straits of Magellan to Australia, and then to South Africa and home. Like so many solitary men, Slocum found it a little too easy to cross the line from the social world to the lonely world. Loneliness was his identity. He credited it for his fame and success, bragging that his navigation was precise because he had no shipmate to distract him.

After three years and 30,000 miles, Slocum’s journey was over. But he loved solitude too much to be at home on land. Happy only at sea, unable to resume domesticity with his second wife, he sold himself cheap as a sideshow exhibit at the Buffalo World’s Fair and spent his winters in the West Indies, collecting conch shells to sell to American yachtsmen. He reached bottom when a scandal involving a girl ended with a term in a New Jersey jail.

Ironically, as Slocum the man declined, his reputation only grew. Even after the sex scandal, President Roosevelt sent his son Archie off sailing with Slocum in Spray for a tutorial in heroic manliness.

Yet that one word, alone, at the heart of his reputation, also undermined him for keeps. In 1908, lonelier than ever, he sailed off in Spray and vanished in the Atlantic.

JOHN ROUSMANIERE’s maritime books include Fastnet, Force 10, After the Storm and The Annapolis Book of Seamanship.

Cat-o-nine-tails, Gift of Captain I. Olch, US Naval Academy Museum Collection

The dreaded cat ‘o nine tails, also known as the “captain’s daughter”, was finally outlawed by the U.S. Navy 161 years ago today.   Weighing approximately 13 ounces and consisting of a baton handle and 9 cords, this small whip was designed to inflict severe pain and break even the toughest sailors.

The US Naval Academy museum explains however, that although the flogging of enlisted sailors ended in 1850, the “cat” was used at the Academy until much later. Naval cadets (Midshipmen) had the option of taking a few lashes instead of receiving a demerit, thus keeping their official records spotless.

According to Wikipedia:

All formal punishments—ordered by captain or court martial—were administered ceremonially on deck, the crew being summoned to “witness punishment” (although usually adults and boys separated, which was apparently not strictly observed in practice) and drama enhanced by drum roll and a whole routine, including pauses, untangling of the tails, a drink of water and so on, which it is believed were intended more for the benefit of the watching crew than for the actual participants. Informal “daily” punishments, usually without assembly, including canings, were often left unrecorded.

The thieves’ cat, to inflict punishment for theft, which was considered a particularly offensive crime aboard ship, had each of its thongs knotted three times to cause additional pain.

In the British Royal Navy,

This was carried out “according to the customs of the service”, namely at the gangway. The indicted was given twenty-four hours in which to make his own cat. He was kept in leg-irons on the upper deck while awaiting his punishment. When the cat was made the boatswain cut out all but the best nine tails. If the task was not completed in time the punishment was increased.

With heads uncovered to show respect for the law, the ship’s company heard read the Article of War the offender had contravened. The prisoner was then brought forward, asked if he had anything to say in mitigation of punishment, then removed his shirt and had his hands secured to the rigging or a grating above his head. At the order “Boatswain’s mate, do your duty” a sturdy seaman stepped forward with the cat – a short rope or wooden handle, often red in colour, to which was attached nine waxed cords of equal length, each with a small knot in the end. With this the man was lashed on the bare back with a full sweep of the arm. After each dozen lashes a fresh boatswain’s mate stepped forward to continue the punishment. Each blow of the cat tore back the skin and subsequent cuts bit right into the flesh so that after several dozen lashes had been inflicted the man’s back resembled raw meat. After each stroke the cords were drawn through the boatswain’s mates fingers to remove the clotting blood. Left-handed boatswain’s mates were especially popular with sadistic captains because they would cross the cuts and so mangle the flesh even more.
After the man was cut down he was taken to the sick berth, there to have salt rubbed into his wounds. This was done not so much to increase the pain as for its antiseptic qualities.

From 1750 into the 19th century twelve lashes were the maximum authorized for any one offense.

Painting of Commodore Uriah Phillips Levy (1792-1862), Oil on canvas, Artist unknown, US Naval Academy Museum Collection 1929.8

Commodore Uriah P. Levy was one of the principal officers responsible for ending the practice of flogging enlisted sailors. As commander of the U.S. Mediterranean Fleet, and the Navy’s first Jewish commodore, Levy promoted justice and human rights throughout his career.

Odyssey Marine Exploration announced today that it confirmed the identity and location of the SS Gairsoppa, a Nazi treasure ship, nearly 4,700 meters below the surface of the North Atlantic.

On a dark North Atlantic winter night in 1941, the SS Gairsoppa was running low on fuel and left her convoy to seek refuge in Ireland when a Nazi U-boat sunk her. Loaded with tea, pig iron and seven million ounces of silver, her final resting place was in international waters 300 miles off the coast of Ireland. Today the 7 million ounces of silver have a street value of over $200 million not including the historic value of individual pieces.

The vessel was a 412-foot steel-hulled British cargo ship torpedoed by a German U-boat in February 1941. Contemporary research and official documents indicate that the ship’s load of silver had a 1941 value of £600,000, and nearly half her cargo, over 3 Million ounces of silver bullion, was privately owned and insured by the UK government. The total weight of silver makes it the largest known precious metal cargo ever recovered from the sea.

In hopes of recovering the treasure the UK Government Department for Transport last year awarded Odyssey the exclusive salvage contract for the cargo of the SS Gairsoppa. Under the salvage agreement, Odyssey will retain 80% of the net salved value of the silver bullion recovered under the contract.

The Odyssey team recently conducted ROV (Remotely Operated Vehicle) operations from the RV Odyssey Explorer to inspect the site. The video and photographs acquired during the exploration of the shipwreck were reviewed and analyzed at length to confirm the identity of the shipwreck as that of the SS Gairsoppa. The expedition and resulting data was also used to evaluate the condition of the shipwreck and to begin planning for recovery operations.

“Under the direction of Senior Project Manager Andrew Craig, the target was located with side-scan sonar and then visually inspected in less than two months from the start of the operation,” stated Mark Gordon, Odyssey President and COO. “Given the orientation and condition of the shipwreck, we are extremely confident that our planned salvage operation will be well suited for the recovery of this silver cargo.” said Andrew Craig, Odyssey Senior Project Manager.

“Being the son of a merchant mariner who worked for the same shipping line as the Gairsoppa’s and as a former merchant mariner myself, the visit to the site via ROV was particularly personal,” stated Neil Cunningham Dobson, Odyssey’s Principal Marine Archaeologist. “By analyzing the known configuration and research about the Gairsoppa and her final voyage and painstakingly exploring the shipwreck site to record each element and item, our team of experts was able to positively identify the site as the Gairsoppa. Even though records indicate that the lifeboats were launched before the ship sank, sadly most of her crew did not survive the long journey to shore. By finding this shipwreck, and telling the story of its loss, we pay tribute to the brave merchant sailors who lost their lives”

“While some people might wonder about the potential complexity of salvage at this depth, we have already conducted a thorough analysis of the best tools and techniques to conduct this operation and are confident that the salvage will be conducted efficiently and on a timely basis,” commented Greg Stemm, Odyssey CEO. “Hundreds of modern cargo ships like this have been salvaged since the mid-20th century, some at depths of thousands of meters. We were fortunate to find the shipwreck sitting upright, with the holds open and easily accessible. This should enable us to unload cargo through the hatches as would happen with a floating ship alongside a cargo terminal.”

Odyssey has begun the process of specifying and assembling the tools and equipment for the salvage, and will begin recovery of the treasure as soon as the weather window begins to open up in the North Atlantic this Spring. The company also has several other projects and contracts that will potentially begin during the balance of this working season and may be conducted through the winter months. Some of these projects are also in partnership with governments and feature pre-negotiated salvage awards.

Video Of The Find

Click here to view the embedded video.

On this day, 232 years ago, the 50-gun HMS Serapis engaged the Bonhomme Richard in the North Sea off Flamborough Head, England.  Skippered by Captain John Paul Jones of the Continental Navy, the Bonhomme Richard was devastated inthe initial broadside between the two ships, losing much of her firepower and many of her gunners.  Captain Richard Pearson, commander of the Serapis, called out to Jones, asking if he surrendered.  Jones’ famous reply: “

I have not yet begun to fight!”

With the wind dying, and the decks of both ships strewn with the carnage of battle, the two ships became hitched together with grappling hooks.  Sharpshooting sailors (Marines) in the rigging slowly picked off the the English sailors one-by-one.

Following a crippling broadside from the Continental Navy frigate Alliance, one that reportedly damaged the Bonhomme Richard as much or more so than the Serapis, Captain Pearson realized the futility in continuing the fight and tore down his colors, surrendering the Serapis.

Captain Jones and what was left of his crew transferred to the Serapis the next day and watched as the Bonhomme Richard burned and sank into the sea.

US Naval History Command describes Jones’ legacy:

[He] is remembered for his indomitable will, his unwillingness to consider surrender when the slightest hope of victory still burned. Throughout his naval career Jones promoted professional standards and training. Sailors of the United States Navy can do no better than to emulate the spirit behind John Paul Jones’s stirring declaration:

“I wish to have no connection with any ship that does not sail fast for I intend to go in harm’s way.”

By John J. Miller

Tropical Storm Emily petered out over Cuba last week, but the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration warns of “high hurricane activity” in the months ahead, with three to five major hurricanes forming in the Atlantic Ocean and threatening coastlines. Next on the NOAA’s list of nicknames is Franklin, followed by Gert and Harvey. By December, we’ll know what became of them, as well as whether the storm-desk professionals made it all the way down their alphabetical list to Tammy, Vince and Whitney.

A little more than three centuries ago, a violent tempest with no name—and no meteorological forewarning—ripped through England. It was probably the fiercest storm in British history, which is saying something for an island whose inhabitants are famous for gripes about the weather. Yet it left more than a legacy of destruction. It also became a source of creative inspiration, giving birth to the first substantial work of modern journalism: “The Storm,” by Daniel Defoe.

On the morning of Wednesday, Nov. 24, 1703, Londoners felt the first strong breezes. By 4 p.m., the winds had picked up. The worst of the storm was still more than two days away, but that night the gusts were powerful enough to knock over part of a house and nearly crush Defoe, who was then a minor poet and pamphleteer in his early 40s. If he had died in that moment, he would not have gone on to scale the heights of English literature 16 years later with “Robinson Crusoe.”

When the storm struck, Defoe was fresh from prison. He had written a satirical tract on the religious intolerance of high-church Anglicans. For this offense he was fined, placed in a pillory and jailed for several months. Upon his release, Defoe was desperate for money to support his family and wrote at a frantic clip. The scholar Paula R. Bachscheider estimates that more than 400,000 words poured from his pen over the next year. About 75,000 of them went into “The Storm,” the first book-length work of his career.

After Defoe’s close call with the collapsing house, the winds remained high in London. On the night of Friday, Nov. 26, Defoe looked at his barometer. He had never seen the mercury so low and suspected that “the Tube had been handled and disturb’d by the Children.” Defoe rarely wrote about private matters, but in this line he provides a brief glimpse into what must have been a boisterous family life with six children.

As Friday turned into Saturday, the storm unleashed its full fury. The wind shrieked and homes rattled. “Most People expected the Fall of their Houses,” wrote Defoe. Even so, they judged it safer to stay put than to seek new shelter: “Whatever the Danger was within doors, ’twas worse without; the Bricks, Tiles, and Stones, from the Tops of the Houses, flew with such force, and so thick in the Streets, that no one thought fit to venture out, tho’ their Houses were near demolish’d within.” From start to finish, the mayhem lasted an entire week.

The human toll was substantial: 123 dead in and around London and an estimated 8,000 drowned at sea, including about one-fifth of the sailors in the queen’s navy. The physical wreckage was equally immense, with 800 houses flattened, 400 windmills demolished and the newly built Eddystone Lighthouse, off England’s southern coast, washed away. Whole forests blew over. On a tour of Kent, Defoe started to count the fallen trees but quit at 17,000, having grown “tired with the Number.” So it’s little wonder that he reached for superlatives to describe what he called “The Greatest, the Longest in Duration, the widest in Extent, of all the Tempests and Storms that History gives any Account of since the Beginning of Time.”

Defoe’s eyewitness account is valuable, but his real innovation was to collect the observations of others. Journalism was then in its infancy, and there was nothing like systematic and objective reporting on contemporary events. Within a week of the storm’s strike, however, Defoe was running newspaper ads that asked readers to submit stories. He and his publisher, John Nutt, must have regarded this invitation as an investment, knowing that they would absorb the cost of correspondence: In those days, the recipients of mail paid for postage.

While Defoe waited for the stories, he learned everything he could about the science of weather. He also contemplated metaphysical lessons: “I cannot believe any Man so rooted in Atheistical Opinions, as not…to apprehend the Possibility of a Supreme Being, when he felt the terrible Blasts of this Tempest.”

All of this appeared the following summer in “The Storm,” which might be called the world’s first instant book. The heart of the manuscript contains about 60 accounts of the tempest from around England, selected and excerpted by Defoe. He regarded them as truthful because “most of our Relators have not only given us their Names, and sign’d the Accounts they have sent, but have also given us Leave to hand their Names down to Posterity.” And so the name Elizabeth Luck survives along with her report from Tunbridge Wells, where hundreds of trees fell down, a church lost its steeple, and two horses perished beneath a smashed stable.

Like any good reporter, Defoe understood the importance of drama and human-interest stories. A letter from the Rev. James King of London tells of a chimney that crashed through a house and buried a maid. She was feared dead, but emerged the next morning from a small cavity in the rubble. Thomas Powell, a shopkeeper in Deal, was so appalled that his neighbors would not rescue sailors stranded on a sandbar that he paid them five shillings per head to help out. Defoe credits Powell’s initiative with saving 200 lives. Defoe also relates grimmer anecdotes, including the tale of the captain of a leaky ship who tried to escape his fate by committing suicide—only to have his vessel survive.

“The Storm” was not a best seller. A proposed sequel with additional material never went to press—a reminder that journalism and book publishing, for all of their occasional pretensions, are ultimately commercial enterprises and vulnerable to the whims of consumers. Yet Defoe had invented a new way to examine the world, and today’s journalists are his descendants.

Mr. Miller is director of the Dow Journalism Program at Hillsdale College.

Dow Jones & Company, Inc.

Captain Henry Morgan may be more famous for the Rum named after him but to the marine archaeologists diving wrecks off Panama the find has less to do with parties and more to do with hard historical fact. MSNBC tells us:

It may not be a $500 million golden hoard, but underwater archaeologists are nevertheless excited about finding what they believe are traces of the five ships that British privateer Henry Morgan lost off the coast of Panama in 1671.

The discovery was made at the mouth of Panama’s Chagres River, near another underwater site where six iron cannons were found. Taken together, the evidence suggests that the three-century-old story of Captain Morgan’s lost fleet is finally near its conclusion.

The story begins with Morgan, a Welsh sea captain who was given the British crown’s official sanction to prey on Spanish sea trade. Some would call Morgan a pirate, others a buccaneer, but “privateer” is the more charitable term.
In 1671, Morgan aimed to weaken Spain’s control of the Caribbean by sacking Panama City, and the first step was to capture Castillo de San Lorenzo, a Spanish fort on the cliff overlooking the entrance to the Chagres River. That river served as the only water passageway between the Caribbean and the capital.

Morgan and his pirates of the Caribbean took over the fort and went on to overwhelm the city’s defenders. But in the process, he lost his flagship and four other ships to the rough seas and shallow reef surrounding the fort.
From there on, the story takes some dark twists and turns. Continue reading…