Читать книгу The Wexford - Paul Carroll - Страница 13

PROLOGUE

My late uncle, Captain Albert Roy Munday (1919–2008) was a dedicated seaman. He knew the waters of the Great Lakes well, having plied their full extent over many years. He also knew the temperament of the oceans, salty channels, and the adjacent seas — gleaned from the war years, when he served in the Royal Canadian Navy, from 1939 through the mid-1940s.

A British citizen, he had come to Canada with his parents, Bertram Roy Munday and Daisy May Whitehouse, when he was an infant. My grandparents had decided to emigrate in order to embark on a new life in this country after the ravages of the Great War. Throughout his childhood, he lived within sight of Lake Huron. A natural attraction to the Goderich waterfront, with its busy mix of sailing ships, tugs, and lakers, steered his life toward a full career on the water.

“Sol” or “Solomon,” as he was called by his associates and close friends, worked the old fishing schooners and the later tugs with colourful mariners like Reddy MacDonald of the famous MacDonald lifesaving clan. He served on the J.T. Wing, the last lumber schooner to carry timber to Goderich Harbour in the 1930s. He was a leading seaman and anti-aircraft gunner in the Royal Canadian Navy during the Second World War, serving on five ships, with the most time spent on the Ottawa, which he helped to commission in 1943 and to decommission in 1945.

Captain Albert Roy Munday as a young man. Roy is relaxing on deck, leaning against the gaffrigged boom on lumber schooner the J.T. Wing, circa 1940.

Courtesy of Mary Munday.

Sol joined the crew of a laker after the war, and worked his way through the ranks to become captain, acquiring his master’s ticket in 1973, in time for that season’s opening. He concluded his 49th year on the water at lay-up 1983, and worked relief assignments for the next few years. Throughout his nearly 20 years of retirement, he was an avid shipmodel builder, crafting detailed and cherished replicas of lakers, naval vessels, tugs, and schooners. His work can be found in halls, private homes, and museums across Canada and the United States. One of his creations is even on display in England. His final model, his rendition of the Wexford, was completed in his 83rd year, in a time of failing eyesight and deteriorating health. It was a gift for me, as he knew my passion for the sea and my love for marine history.

I had the chance to gam with him, in his later years, about some of the perils he had encountered on the seas. The following are three of his personal memories. I have paraphrased the words he shared about situations relevant to introducing the story of the Wexford.

Roy’s Worst Storm

The closest call I ever had was on Superior — late one season on the old steamer Goderich. The forecast called for northwest gales and snow. It would be a fearsome trip, so we anchored up behind Pie Island.¹ We weren’t alone. We were lying with some 730s² — all the big ones had decided to wait out the storm, as well — even the Fitz [the Edmund Fitzgerald] was here. And I figured if they were here, I should be waiting in a lee along with them, to the best of my ability, too. It would be the sensible thing to do.

Ours was about 550 feet — the same length as the James Carruthers. We waited out the night, and the mate came to me and said, “Cap, some of the 730s look like they’re getting on their way. Do you think we should weigh up and set out, too?”

I queried him about the weather — and although there might be some improvement, he thought, I was convinced it was not yet time to leave. This just might be another sucker hole, I thought.

I told him, “Call down to the engineer, get the engines warmed up, get the crew ready — and wake me in a couple of hours. I’ll make my final decision then. Let’s let these big fellows get out there. We’ll see how they’re doing. And if it sounds good, we’ll follow along.”

Well, in two hours the mate woke me. He said that some more of the big ones had set out — and on the radio, it didn’t sound too bad. So I told him we’d haul anchor and go. And it wasn’t too bad. There was a heavy roll, but it was slow, and there wasn’t any danger. As we listened to the radio, it sounded as though the big boys were doing okay, and there wasn’t much to be worried about.

After an hour or two, the mate touched my shoulder and said, “Cap, have a look behind us.” I turned and looked toward our stern, and I could see a wall of white — looked like a blizzard coming toward us.

The mate uttered, “Squall line?”

I stared. I’ll bet my mouth was hanging open. “Squall line?” I responded, with a sense of desperation in my tone. “That’s a wall of water coming at us — sound an alarm. Get everyone ready.”

And within a minute, that wall of rampaging water thundered over us, hitting dead on the stern quarter. The entire stern section strained. We lifted and turned — and started to roll. Everything around me came crashing to starboard. Books, papers, charts, coffee mugs, glasses — they all flew wildly, crashing against the downside wheelhouse bulkhead. If ever I felt close to death on my ship, this was surely the moment. This was the instant where the tempest would rule — or our good ship, with the grace of God, would overcome and withstand the fierce pounding of this giant sea. A rogue? I’d never seen one like this before. The liquid mercury actually poured out of the gyro,³ we were over so far. The compass card was dislodged from its pivot. My two radar scanners went down. Surely, we were finished. The watery tomb below was sucking us down to our final demise.

Yet, ever so slowly, our good ship overcame the insult and the injury of this sudden brash assault and righted herself — but only to roll past her even keel to submerge the gunnels of the port side well below the surface, but for just an instant less, a moment short of the deep initial roll. And we rolled for a good half hour or more — ever so gradually regaining our stability.

Frightened? Of course I was frightened. But, was it over? Fortunately, my radios stayed up and I was able to talk to a big guy beyond me — a 730 somewhere out there who wanted to know how we were doing. He warned of more to come. And it had to be taken on the stern quarter — to turn away would take us to shore and aground. In this fury, we’d be broken up for sure. The gale had swung unexpectedly to the southwest. We weren’t ready, nor was anyone else. But we survived. And if we’d gone down, there be nothing we could have done. Just swallowed by an angry sea. And gone.

Rudder Damage

Another time we were caught in a storm on Lake Erie. It’s a little lake, but it can sure whip up a fury. We were off the Erie shoal, trying to make Port Colborne in raging gales, blinding snow, and crushing ice. We had much anguish making way — feared going aground. The Canadian Coast Guard had been ordered in to help. Their job was to assist ships carrying cargoes of most value first, unless lives were in danger on other ships, and then get the other vessels to safety. If things went wrong, we’d all be frozen in on the lake for the duration of winter. We carried a cargo of grain, so we were first on their list.

Through the various marine ages, ice in the rigging and the resultant instability, sometimes called “top-hamper,” posed big problems and created great risks for mariners.

Courtesy of Captain Roy Munday.

We were being heaved so badly that the rudder was lifted right out of her shoe. She was twisted around beyond her turning radius, forced by the raging swells, and her rudderstock above was ripped from its quadrant and twisted like a pretzel. It was an iron bar, reinforced and almost a foot through in thickness, wrenched and twisted in a fleeting moment — in the blink of an eye, no steerage. None. People who think there is little that can go wrong don’t understand the power and the fury of the sea — even on a little lake like Erie.

We were finally thrown up on the shoal. We sent the crew with axes to cut us loose from the Coast Guard vessels. If they kept trying to pull us loose, they would rip us apart. We would wait. They could free the other ships. We could hold on until the storm abated, and get hauled off in calmer weather. We’d suffered enough damage already. To be impatient would certainly bring more distress. We’d had enough already.

After a winter storm of December 1907, an unidentified vessel, perhaps the Meaford, is shown arriving at the security of Goderich Harbour after a rough ride on the stormy waves. It was a fearful time for master and crew, as tons of ice could accumulate and sometimes cause the vessels to list dangerously.

Courtesy of Goderich Elevator and Transit Company Ltd., Annual Report, 1948.

Language of the Sea

The language of the sea is confusing. There is a vocabulary for the saltwater sailors and for those on the lakes. It’s very different. We can’t talk eye to eye and understand the real meaning, unless we both speak the same version. This is especially critical in times of crisis.

In one inquiry, following some ships breaking loose in a storm, a lawyer who used the language from the salty sea grilled me. The terminology just wouldn’t match my own words. I told the judge I would answer no more questions until we could talk the language of the Great Lakes. This was a problem from Lake Huron. We had to use the freshwater words that would suit that case.

The judge agreed.⁴