Taking the Sea
by Dennis M. Powers
© 2009, 2011 by Dennis M. Powers
Published by: Webster House Books™, a division of Jeanne Fredericks Literary Agency, Inc., www.jeannefredericks.com.
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ADVANCE PRAISE FOR TAKING THE SEA
“Maritime historian Powers (Treasure Ship, 2006, etc.) offers a series of vignettes from the golden age of American marine salvage. While these stories cover disasters on the Atlantic and in the Great Lakes, Powers uses as the centerpiece the operations of Captain Thomas P.H. Whitelaw, an emigrant Scot who, beginning as a hard-hat diver in San Francisco in the late 1860s, founded a marine-salvage empire covering the California and Pacific Northwest coasts. These often-foggy waters teemed with reefs and shoals not yet charted, lying in wait for the inexperienced skipper out for easy money. Whitelaw, who had gone to sea at age twelve, saw the vast potential in wrecking and seized it with both hands, building a reputation for personal courage by often risking himself when crews and passengers were in immediate jeopardy on a vessel in peril. Many of these colorful Pacific stories are not well known -- for example, that of ‘Dynamite Johnny’ and the Umatilla, a diehard ship wrecked on its maiden voyage and five times subsequently. But while most shipwrecks tend to be similar -- winds howl, seas crash, hulls crack -- the native ingenuity of Whitelaw and his peers in raising vessels from the dead puts meat on the bones of the salvage stories. Occasionally plodding, but there are plenty of interludes blending tragedy and triumph, and a few wondrous, death-defying finales.”— Kirkus Reviews
“Incredibly well researched and descriptive, Taking the Sea, skillfully draws the reader into the precarious life of shipwreck salvage...A fascinating read.”—Jennifer Hooper McCarty, co-author of What Really Sank the Titanic: New Forensic Discoveries
“Definitive and engrossing history of those fearless and determined seagoing entrepreneurs of yesteryear known as the 'master wreckers'...No maritime library is complete without Dennis Powers's Taking the Sea.”—Bruce Henderson, author of Down to the Sea: An Epic Story of Naval Disaster and Heroism in World War II
“A wonderful story that all shipwreck hunters, wreckers, and lovers of the sea will enjoy.”—Jim Kennard, shipwreck explorer and discoverer of the HMS Ontario
“A compelling story of the brave and ambitious men who forged a new industry in the waning days of sail...Dennis Powers salvages valuable treasure form the depths of America's rich maritime history.”—Brian Hicks, author of Raising the Hunley and When the Dancing Stopped: The Real Story of the Morro Castle Disaster and Its Deadly Wake
“Taking the Sea is a book to be relished by readers who love tales of maritime adventures...a fine book.”—Willie Drye, author of Storm of the Century: The Labor Day Hurricane of 1935
“Dennis Powers dives deeply into the long-forgotten tales of ingenuity and bravery in search of what was thought lost to Neptune...Rivals Bella Bathurst’s The Wreckers and Henry Kittredge’s Mooncussers of Cape Cod as the definitive work in this area.”—John J. Galluzzo, Executive Director, U.S. Life-Saving Service Heritage Association
“A page-turning story that readers of all ages will find both interesting and exciting...”—Floyd Shelton, Commissioner of Ports, State of Oregon; Harbor Commissioner of Astoria, Oregon, and Redwood City, California.”
“With a skillful and intriguing narrative, the author explores a facet of maritime history that’s little explored...This belongs in every maritime library.” —Bill Kooiman, Porter Shaw Library, San Francisco Maritime Museum
TABLE OF CONTENTS
1
Early
Years
2
The
Wrecker Chronicles
3
San
Francisco Bay Times
4
The
Tragedy of Merritt’s Circassian
5
Dynamite
Johnny and the Umatilla
6
Midwest
and Coastal Operations
7
Success,
Sealing, and the Arctic
8
Failures
Follow Accomplishment
9
Wrecks—and
a Ghost Ship
10
No
Rewards Without Risk
11
Used
Parts, Scrap, and a New Bow
12
The
Decade of the Great War
13
The
Roaring Twenties
14
The
Change of Eras
Photographs
Selected
Bibliography
About
the Author
As I worked through the voluminous files in writing my last book, Sentinel of the Seas, I became curious about the vessels used in the building of the St. George Reef Lighthouse—and especially with one man who owned the ships in the construction. Starting in 1883, Captain Thomas P. H. Whitelaw leased out the schooner La Ninfa as the building crew’s quarters, as well as the steamer Whitelaw that towed it and supplies to the reef. I wondered, what kind of a man would rent out good ships in such a risky venture? In answering this question, I discovered a new world: the adventurous times of Captain Whitelaw and the master wreckers.
The premier ship salvager of his day, T. P. H. Whitelaw watched as ships and their designs changed. He and his crews pulled tall-masted ships from reefs, refloated steamers whose hulls had been slashed by rocks, and salvaged schooners from the bottom of bays. I discovered that over time, Whitelaw had become a large shipowner, in addition to owning huge maritime used-parts lots.
Whitelaw had arrived in San Francisco at age sixteen with a quarter in his pocket. By age forty-five, he was extensively engaged in mining and real estate ventures, operated a stock ranch of 43,000 acres, and had accumulated substantial holdings of land. Internationally recognized, Whitelaw had become regarded as “The Master Wrecker” and “The Great Wrecker of the Pacific.” His world encompassed the other important ship salvagers that operated across the United States, and his career spanned the era from sailing ships to steamers and from wooden to steel-hulled vessels.
Wrecking as a livelihood originated along the rugged coastlines of Europe, which had been a haven for wreckers and smugglers, and immigrants to the United States brought along the traditions. Wreckers in the nineteenth century built the town of Key West, Florida. When ships foundered, the first mariner on the scene—from a flotilla of streaking schooners—was designated the master of that wreck and ran the operation. Salvors later received their cut as a share of the auction proceeds, a part of the saved goods, or some “in kind” payment. Abuses and calls for reform led to this rough-and-tumble world becoming regulated and eventually maturing into a competitive business for hire.
The United States had its share of standout salvors starting in the late 1860s, including the East Coast’s Captain E. R. Lowe and Israel J. Merritt, as well as Captain Thomas A. Scott and William Chapman. Like Whitelaw, they were about salvage—not plunder. They saved ships and people, putting together ventures to refloat sunken or beached ships for a fee. Or they might buy the salvage rights to what could be saved. However, the wrecker who stood out with success, respect, and publicity was Captain T. P. H. Whitelaw.
Whitelaw came from a poor Scottish family, and at age twelve apprenticed himself to a British vessel that traveled the East India trade. When this ship docked a few years later in 1863 in San Francisco Harbor, he decided to stay. With charisma, persistence, and brilliance, Captain Whitelaw started and built up his operations. He was an avid reader of the Greek classics, a self-taught philosopher, and a literary genius. And he worked on different nationally recognized efforts to save wrecked ships. One of his most noteworthy was the raising of the steamship Umatilla, which sank in Esquimalt Harbor, British Columbia, in 1884. This feat resulted in the British Admiralty giving international accolades to Captain Whitelaw.
“A terrible, always hungry monster, with long white teeth is the sea,” observed the Captain. “It is a smiling witch one day—a terrible monster the next.” He understood the incredible, combined powers of the winds, waves, currents, and tides that reduced the sturdiest vessels to piles of splintered wood and shards of steel plates. For Whitelaw, “Ships have individuality, each leading its own life, sometimes against the will of man. Some ships survive almost incredible disasters, as do some men, while others leave their wood and steel bones on the first reef.”
For decades, ships of all sizes and shapes dominated the movement of goods and people. Before railroad networks and airplanes or trucks and buses crisscrossed this country, these were the times when ships ruled the transportation world. Owing to inadequate charts, lack of warning lighthouses, and limited weather forecasting, however, vessels continually slammed into reefs, were thrashed by storms, and rendered helpless by strong currents. I became awed by the stories of these shipwrecks, the courage of the men and women, and the epic salvage efforts of the wreckers.
Using pontoons, powerful tugs, and strong steam engines on huge wreck ships, salvagers saved sunken ships—and under terrifying conditions. When performing their work, they were confronted by the same capricious seas and frightening winds that had caused the disasters in the first place. The accounts of the most memorable incidents—and the bravery the salvagers showed in the face of death—are detailed here.
Operating from his San Francisco base, Captain Whitelaw’s ventures took him to Mexico and then north along the lengthy West Coast to British Columbia and the Bering Sea. Countries overseas and the U.S. government alike called upon him for his expertise. His counterparts on the East Coast, such as Merritt, Chapman, and Scott, also rose in importance as they steamed into savage waters to save ships and passengers. Their experiences and operations are part of this story as well.
This book is about the era when shipping was the dominant form of transportation throughout the world. It pictures the savage seas and times that Whitelaw and other wreckers faced, their human failures, and their triumphs. The stories are about courage, achievement, and the historical challenges of these times.
The writing of Taking the Sea required a blend of sources in bringing together the stories of adventure, courage, and heartrending wrecks that spanned from the mid-1800s into the twentieth century. I wish to thank everyone connected with this project—maritime museum curators, librarians, experts, and researchers—for their gracious help, suggestions, and information.
The San Francisco Maritime Museum, and especially Bill Kooiman of its Porter Shaw Library, were invaluable resources with their historic pictures and extensive files on Captain Whitelaw and his ships. Bill helped to track down important details and found a treasure trove of files on T. P. H. Whitelaw that brought out his family life and philosophies. In this regard, I also thank Steven Canright, Park Curator-Maritime History, and David Hull, Principal Librarian, for their insights and input on this work.
Maritime museums deserve special recognition for their help in tracking down information about vessels, their captains, and maritime life. Dave Pearson and Jeff Smith of the widely respected Columbia River Maritime Museum greatly helped by opening up their files and pictures on the Oregon connection. Thanks also go to Jim Delgado and Susan Buss at the Vancouver Maritime Museum for supplying vital photographs and information about Whitelaw’s ventures in Canada. Julie Greene of the Bridgehampton Historical Society was very helpful regarding the Circassian, while Amy German and Wendy Schnur with the Mystic Seaport Museum in Connecticut provided their extensive files on captains Merritt, Chapman, and Scott.
Jim Gibbs, the informative and well-regarded maritime author, provided welcomed background on shipping. John J. Galluzzo—the respected maritime historian, writer, and executive director of the Cape Cod Maritime Research Association and United States Life-Saving Service Heritage Association—also gave appreciated help.
Experienced librarians are always a key to successful research. Anna Beauchamp, the coordinator of interlibrary loans for Southern Oregon University, was very helpful in tracking down old publications and articles. Researcher Kevin Knapp did an excellent job in the same respect, and the History Center at the San Francisco Public Library (Tim Wilson, librarian) was very generous with its files of newspaper clippings on the times and wreckers. A diver, historian, and Great Lakes maritime expert, Brendon Baillod (www.ship-wreck.com), gave appreciated assistance with that region’s background and sea stories, as did Dr. Richard J. Boyd, who has similar expertise with that region.
In historical research, pictures are important in supporting the personal accounts. Reviewing the archived pictures of wrecks, cities, and Captain Whitelaw’s family gave as much accuracy to this story as any other resource. In this regard, the aforementioned maritime museums were very helpful, as were the Puget Sound Maritime Historical Society and the Royal British Columbia Museum in Vancouver. Tim Campbell of the San Francisco Maritime Museum also went beyond the call in helping me to find the necessary pictures to put these stories together.
I wish to give special thanks to Sandy Clunies, who provided very valuable historical and genealogical research, as well as Stan Wakefield and Andy Ambraziejus of AMACOM Books for their continual positive attitude, insights, and professional suggestions. Chris Murray also gave welcomed suggestions and thoughtful comments, as did two friends of mine, Chris Honore and Jim Simms. I thank Shelley Shadowsky for her fine formatting and conversion work on this eBook application. My literary agent, Jeanne Fredericks, deserves a special mention, not only for her support, but also for being a constant friend throughout the years.
My wife Judy accompanied me on trips involving this project and, without any question, made the difference in this book becoming a reality and being enjoyable. I am fortunate in being able to do what I truly enjoy, and I am grateful for those who join me in this quest.
Early Years
The Sydney steamed into the straits of the Golden Gate, the mile-wide gap in the coastal mountain chain leading to San Francisco’s docks. On the bridge, the harbor pilot suggested a different course to the captain, and the vessel slowly turned into another heading through the wide expanse between the green-and-brown hills. Numerous small islands of rocks littered the entrance, “lifting their moss-grown heads above water, and beat by the eternal surges of an ocean ten thousand miles wide,” according to one voyager’s observation. The year was 1863.
Dense black smoke poured from the ship’s smokestack as the winds sweeping in from the ocean quickly twisted the thick trail into grotesque swirls. A curving wake of blue-white froth trailed behind the vessel toward the horizon and seemingly back to the other side of the world where the seamen had once been. On board, young Tom Whitelaw smelled the sharpness of the sea—even with his years spent on the ocean—as the rocking, staggering steamer pushed into another port.
San Francisco’s harbor was one of the finest in the world. Landlocked by surrounding hills and points, the bay was large enough to give shelter to all the fleets of the globe some said. As the ship moved through the expansive strait that connected the enclosed waters with the Pacific Ocean, on the left, or port side, six promontories of land projected from the higher ground. On the right, or starboard side, an arena of hills appeared with the browning amber colors of early summer.
The sixteen-year-old seaman felt the tremors from the freshwater currents flowing out of the bay that met the ocean in a massive vortex of energy. Hauling in weighted measuring lines, seamen yelled out that the water depths were now decreasing from the initial 300-foot soundings outside the entrance. The water would soon become much shallower, averaging twenty feet inside the bay’s deep interiors.
The Sydney passed scores of huge sea lions, weighing one ton and up, as the closest seals rose up mightily on their flippers to bark at the passing vessel. They acted like a pack of dogs protesting the stranger ambling by their neighborhood. Staring intently at the scene unfolding in front, Tom became amazed at the long, stretching wharves that reached hundreds of feet into the cove, filled with different-shaped ships.
Clipper ships with masts that reached high into the sky were anchored or docked next to large riverboat paddlers and steamers, some with wisps of smoke rising from their stacks. The Sydney slowly passed the large black hulk of a paddleship steamer at anchor, ten-story sails fore and aft, with three-story paddle wheels. Small lighters with fat smokestacks behind enclosed pilot cabins chugged toward the docks with off-loaded goods. Horns sounded, bells clanged, overhead gulls squawked, and steam whistles blew. The harbor teemed with activity as the windy city of hills and structures appeared.
A crewman had told him this country was in the throes of a terrible civil war, but he couldn’t see any evidence of that. He was curious about this new land. “Tom! What’s the problem! Get movin’!” The rough yell startled him and spurred Whitelaw into action. He quickly began hauling ropes and moving goods around the deck like the larger, beefy men who surrounded him.
The captain telegraphed the engine room’s crew to cut the ship’s power, and the vessel began its glide toward one spot of densely wooden structures and ships. The long arm of a wharf stretched toward them as the steamer approached the docks with the city’s streets and hills dotted by wood, brick, and stone buildings behind. When the deep-throated rumble of the engine pounded in reverse, the large ship slowed dramatically. The sounds then ended abruptly. Another long grumble and the ship nudged against the protective fenders of the wharf now two-stories down.
Crewmen tossed down light lines with heavy “monkey fist” tops. After tying each end to a thick hawser and bowline, dockworkers pulled the heavy rope to them and made the ship fast to the bollards, the large mush-room-shaped iron posts on the dock. The crews shouted to one another as the gangplank was maneuvered into place and then helped the passengers disembark.
A tentacle of wharves stretched away from either side of the ship. Wall-less, wood-roofed shelters were by gates and ticket booths with multicolored flags, all connecting to streets and buildings that teemed with people and horse-drawn trolleys. Three-story, box-like structures with signs announcing hotels, restaurants, and shops angled from the wharves to where avenues swept away. Bales of wool, boxes of tallow, wine casks, copper ingot stacks, and goods of every size and shape were heaped on the dock from ships being off-loaded.
Stevedores in frayed corduroys with rough, open-necked shirts sweated while they worked, and passengers walked away or toward them to board an adjacent clipper ship. Bearded men in three-piece suits with wide lapels, high-necked collars and thick bowties strolled with women wearing plump-sleeved, high-collared dresses with bustles and tight bodices in bright colors. The men wore bowlers and stovepipe hats, while the women carried shawls or held an umbrella. The less-well-to-do wore beaten hats and dungarees with their wives dressed less stylishly in plain cotton dresses.
Rebuilt after the destructive fires of past years, impressive buildings with Corinthian columns and marble facades rose majestically. Four and five stories high with iron-fenced patios that encircled the windows, these grand residences and ornate commercial structures lined the cobblestoned streets, filled the level areas, and then swept up the hills. Black wrought-iron streetlights enclosed oil-burning lamps on tall stands, and clopping horses with strolling pedestrians shared the streets.
Looking forward to their leave after months at sea, Tom and the seasoned seamen swarmed about the Sydney to move off the luggage, barrels, and crates. A century before huge container ships and cranes plied the oceans, ships carried cargo bundled in rope nets and crates, and the difficult and dangerous task of unloading a heavy ship could take two or more weeks. As no one knew when a ship would arrive in port, owners didn’t employ full-time workers, but instead only hired laborers when they needed them for a particular job. The shipowners walked along the docks yelling, “Men along the shore!” These cries led to the name “longshoreman” for someone who loaded or unloaded a ship.
Those on the Sydney had a particularly difficult voyage this time when the ship had steamed around the Horn. In the decades before the Panama Canal was constructed, Cape Horn at the southernmost point of Chile and Argentina was the course taken to sail between the Atlantic and Pacific Oceans. The strong winds and large waves had nearly capsized the vessel, and the size of the huge icebergs that the ship had to dodge still stood out in Tom Whitelaw’s mind.
Whitelaw was born in Irvine, a coastal town in North Ayrshire, Scotland, on August 21, 1847. Located on the Atlantic Ocean, Irvine was a major seafaring port for western Scotland and handled a large flow of goods destined for the industrialized city of Glasgow. He grew up there with his brothers, and with the closeness of the ocean, they fished, sailed, and knew the seas.
He was from a poor family, and youths didn’t have the opportunities of education as they have now: Children were thrown early on upon their own resources to survive. Having a natural love for the power and beauty of the ocean, Whitelaw shipped out to sea at an early age. As a twelve-year-old lad, Tom began singing sea chanties as a “midshipmite,” or apprentice seaman, when he signed onto the Sydney in Glasgow on its voyages to the Far East and India.
Being a young person on a ship with rough seamen was not an easy time for anyone. Stories abounded about the rites of initiation for the “newbies,” who were forced to take on the most dangerous of tasks during the worst storms and endure verbal and physical abuse. Whatever happened stayed with Whitelaw, but he sailed on the Sydney for four years, growing up in the company of tough men and times, while also rising to the position of “able body seaman.”
Whitelaw finished helping the crew move the baggage, goods, and people to the dock and joined the men on the wharf. When asked if he was going to head off with them into the city, he told them that he’d catch up later. As his term of apprenticeship had expired, Tom Whitelaw had decided to stay. He had only one quarter in his pocket.
Tom was a small man who weighed at most 125 pounds. His Scottish brogue would last his lifetime, but he was also energetic, good-natured with a strong positive outlook, and blessed with a fine intuitive mind. He strolled off on his own, as was his nature, to see and learn for himself what San Francisco and this new country was about—despite his tiny amount of funds.
* * *
OVER 100,000 people resided in the San Francisco area in the 1860s, which made it the largest and most populous city on the West Coast; by comparison, New York City was eight times as large. Travel was by stagecoach and ship, since interconnecting railroads between San Francisco, neighboring Oakland, and Los Angeles had not yet been built. Cars, electric streetcars, or even cable cars were not in existence, and sending news depended on where the closest telegraph line was located. The telephone wouldn’t become a reality for another fifteen years.
The region would still be remote and sparsely populated had it not been for the discovery of gold and the historic California Gold Rush. Once the news about the glittering, valuable metal was out, the population of San Francisco exploded from a sleepy town of 2,000 folks in February 1849 to a booming, lawless place of 50,000 in two years—joining other burgeoning cities and towns in Northern and Central California—and these populations increased greatly each year. Almost every immigrant who came by sea passed through this port, as did most of the goods imported from the outside world. And the rowdy city, crowded with hotels, saloons, brothels, and gambling houses, was the place to which the weary, dirty miners came to spend their hard-earned wealth. When women, families, and the law finally settled into governing San Francisco and its neighboring cities, more respectable opera houses and libraries quietly began replacing the “dens of iniquity.” By the late 1850s, San Francisco had left much of its tumultuous times behind and had taken on the look of a major cosmopolitan city.
In 1861, the horrific Civil War began to rage between the states. A million Americans died or were wounded by the time it came to a merciful end four years later. Although San Franciscans enlisted and generally supported the Union cause, due to their fortunate isolationism they were spared the destruction that rained down on much of the country. The San Francisco Mint continued to coin multimillions of dollars in gold for its wealthy residents’ accounts, and steamers routinely sailed through the Golden Gate with a million dollars of gold dust, bars, ingots, and coins destined for the East Coast.
The noted San Francisco historian of the times, Charles B. Turrill, wrote:
And during all of the time [of the Civil War], the wheels were revolving here at home. Ships were being built, streets improved, new and better homes were being built, and larger and more sumptuous hotels erected. Fires removed structures and better ones took their places.
After seeing San Francisco, however, Tom Whitelaw then left the city. He headed to Samuel Brannan’s vineyards at Calistoga, located in the Napa Valley seventy-five miles north of San Francisco and near the city of Santa Rosa. Tom had met the owner on board the Sydney.
Sam Brannan was born in 1819 and lived for seventy years. He was a famous Mormon apostate, who had his hand in nearly every aspect of early California State history, and helped develop the wine and brandy industries in the upper Napa Valley. He concentrated his efforts in this valley and named its “urban” center Calistoga, hoping that his investment there would make it the California counterpart of New York’s resort spa in Saratoga. Calistoga still exists today as a small town in the Northern California wine country.
Brannan had sailed to France and sent home 20,000 cuttings of French grape varietals, which was a sizable importation of European vines. When Brannan’s grapevines were en route to San Francisco, he and Tom became acquainted, and the vintner had offered a job to the young seaman. After nine months of working the vineyards, however, Whitelaw regained his yearnings for the sea, left Brannan, and headed back to San Francisco.
Tom secured a position on the steamer George S. Wright with Western Union Telegraph Company’s expedition to conduct surveys for a telegraph cable route across the Bering Sea into Asiatic Siberia. The Bering Sea covers more than three-quarters of a million square miles and is bordered on the east and northeast by Alaska, on the west by Russia’s Siberia, on the south by the Alaskan Peninsula and Aleutian Islands, and on the north by the Arctic Ocean. This voyage was to discover the best route to lay a competitive telegraph cable “the long way” through the United States, across Alaska, underneath the Bering Sea, and then overland through Siberia and Russia to Europe. This region was also one of the world’s richest fishing and sealing grounds.
The experiences that young Whitelaw had on board the George S. Wright would be very helpful in his business career. He saw the problems and inner workings of another steamer. With an inquiring mind and confident manner, he learned how ships weathered storms and needed repairs, as well as about voyages on the Bering Sea. Later in his life, he looked at the Bering Sea as another business opportunity for sealing and whaling, knowing the trade well from his early travels.
The Western Union expedition selected the best cable approaches and landings inside the protected harbors. The party recorded numerous soundings of the bottom, and the relatively moderate depths and soft beds were considered advantageous. Floating ice fields were prevalent and dangerous, however, even during the early summer months. The team leaders continued on, however, disregarding the threat of icebergs ripping apart the ship and any laid cable. “Ice flows into the Arctic Ocean—not from it,” one report concluded in justifying their decision.
With the survey completed in 1865, Whitelaw returned to San Francisco and apprenticed himself to the shipwright firm of Middlemas & Boole to learn the ship-carpentering trade. One year later, he learned that the completion of the great transatlantic telegraph cable from Newfoundland to Ireland had ended Western Union’s trans-Siberian dream. Its crews had by then buried 300 miles of cable under Alaska, 350 miles through Siberia, and 400 miles in the Canadian wastelands, but all had to be abandoned. The venture eventually sold the line’s glass insulators to Siberian peasants to use as teacups.
Meanwhile, Sam Brannan set up a distillery and later shipped his Calistoga Cognac around the Horn to New York City. In the 1870s Brannan’s economic world fell apart, and creditors eventually foreclosed upon his Calistoga estate. He lived out his years in obscurity in Southern California.
* * *
TOM WORKED hard to learn his trade at Middlemas & Boole on San Francisco Bay. He had come to love the city and its maritime ties with the sea. With names such as Clarke’s Point, Vallejo, Shaw, Central, and Flint, numerous wharves jutted out into the huge cove, ensuring more than enough work for the locals on the ships that came to port. As an apprentice ship’s carpenter, Whitelaw worked on the California Drydock Company’s construction of the Hunters Point drydocks in southeastern San Francisco, and what is now Oakland rose across the bay from the point. Finally completed in 1868, the yard encompassed 638 acres of waterfront and the site of the first commercial drydock on the West Coast. (Once a vessel is inside the structure, pumps force the seawater from the enclosure, allowing workmen to work on the ship; after the vessel is repaired, water is forced back inside, allowing the vessel to be towed out.)
During this time, “Cappie” Whitelaw, as he later would become known to his friends, built his own sailboat, the Put-Up-or-Shut-Up. In the days when the nearby Hay Wharf was used to offload hay, the young men docked their boats there and raced them on the bay. A keen rivalry had developed between the lads with different dares and challenges. Although Whitelaw didn’t own even a sailboat, he “put chisel and saw to work” and built a boat of his own design. Once finished, he named it in a way typical of these competitions. The men wagered as much as six dollars a race, which was a good sum when a day’s wages were a quarter and this amount represented nearly one-month’s wages. He did well. “Whitelaw cleaned them all up,” one newspaper reported later.
When he was twenty-one years old at Middlemas & Boole, Tom was nearing the end of his apprenticeship and work on the drydocks. After the company’s diver was injured, Whitelaw later said, “I, though I never had put on a diver’s suit, applied for his place.” Tom went to the foreman and sold himself as someone “who could do what the diver had not yet completed and do it as well.” He argued that the diver couldn’t do what Tom did, because the man wasn’t a carpenter, and while Tom wasn’t a diver, he was certainly an excellent carpenter. “Blowing weather” must have done well by him, for the little bluff he ran on the foreman worked. He was “permitted to try it,” as Whitelaw subsequently relayed, and put on a diving suit for the first time.
Tom headed out that day on a steam-tug for his first wreck dive. The injured diver had been working on the underwater repair of the sunken schooner Golden Rule, which had collided with a steamer and quickly sank from the holes in its side. Once the tug anchored over the spot, Whitelaw eyed the gleaming bronze air-pump with its upright wheel that rested on the deck from where he would descend. A rotating drum stood nearby—also ready to be turned by the attendant or driven by a hoisting engine—to haul him back to the surface.
His crude diving outfit consisted of a canvas-and-leather diving dress, breastplates of lead weighing twenty-five pounds each on his chest and back, and heavy lead shoes. (Natural India rubber would be used later for the diving dress.) The air-line hose attached to the back of his weighted copper helmet with wire-protected glass faceplates in front and all sides for peripheral vision. A thick rope wrapped around Tom’s waist and underneath his arms to haul him back.
The heavy shoes and weights were needed to counterbalance the natural buoyancy of his inflated suit and helmet. Moving underwater was very limited in this gear; however, when a diver spread his arms, the suit inflated more and he could rise some feet to float over underwater objects. A signal line was also tied to the diver’s wrist to let people on top know what was going on by a series of pre-agreed, Morse-code-like tugs. Depending on the number of pulls, different messages were sent, such as “Pull me up immediately,” “I’m coming up,” or “Send down another diver.” Since telephone (or radio) communication with divers wouldn’t be possible for decades, they operated with these crude ways of communication, regardless of the storms that suddenly raged above or currents that ripped below.
Whitelaw hung his canvas haversack over one shoulder. This bag held his chisel, tools, a water compass, and all-important knife in case of trouble. He tightened the wrist straps that kept the ocean from rushing into his suit. Tom donned his helmet and, with a last word to his tender, tucked his chin inside the opening and waited for the attendant to screw on his faceplate. Inhaling several times, Whitelaw confirmed by a nod from inside the glass that life-giving air was pumping in. He made a final check and then stepped down the crude ladder into the sea. Letting go of the final rung, Tom Whitelaw entered a new world.
As Tom sank down, he kept his arms close to his body and pressed his knees together; the attendant had told him that this position forced the excess air from his suit through a valve in the helmet. The thick lead soles of his shoes kept his feet down and head up, while the breastplates steadied his descent. As Whitelaw plummeted down, the ocean took on a filtered look with decreasing light amid the tiny plankton and algae in the water.
He watched long strands of sea kelp stretching toward him and felt their bulbs pass by his legs. Seeing a large rock quickly loom up, Tom instinctively arched his body, missed the obstacle, and landed on a soft bottom. Looking around, he found dark sand kelp bobbing in the currents, irregular boulders, fish darting in schools, and tiny crabs scuttling about. Off to one side, the large shadowy hulk of the schooner loomed up, its sails and rigging moving with the currents in the surrealistic gray darkness.
Tom felt an excitement rise within at these sights. He had dived before without equipment into the ocean, but this time he could stay and study what was there. Feeling a sharp tug on his wrist, Whitelaw pulled back on his lifeline and signaled to the top that his landing had gone well. His visibility at the bottom was initially good—not a very common experience, especially at deeper depths.
Next, he had to learn how to move about in the suit. Walking on the seafloor took effort, and he needed to figure out how to manipulate the air inside his suit to rise or stay on the bottom. Whitelaw quickly learned that a diver’s apparatus was not made for maneuverability: The weights were designed to bring divers down and moor them on the bottom. Visibility then lessened, the water was colder below, and the currents were noticeable. However, he headed to the Golden Rule after his first trial walks.
While his air bubbled out from the valve, small fish darted around in front of him. As Tom came closer, the ship’s silhouette lost its shape and its hull dominated his view. He touched its slipperiness and continued around the vessel to where he discovered the gashes in its side. Feeling around the ship’s holes where the first diver had worked, he quickly decided on what had to be done. After making his inspection, he moved back and tugged on his lifeline. The winch quickly hauled him back up to the surface. As the schooner had settled in relatively shallow water, Whitelaw didn’t have to take time and stop at different levels to avoid the bends, the painful buildup and bubbling of nitrogen in a diver’s blood, which has deadly effects. Once topside, he was elated over the solitude, adventure, and total control that he had when below.
On his next dive, Tom took a hammer and nails. The workers on top sank rough boards down to him on weighted lines. Positioning himself again by the schooner’s side, he tried to hammer a plank against one small hole. He found that moving and working in the water while fully dressed in the diver’s suit was difficult, especially when he had to use his tools underwater. Tom experimented and discovered how to make sharp wrist cracks with short strokes on a pre-positioned nail and drive it into the wet wood.
Although warned not to stay down longer than two hours—and risk exhaustion, mistakes, dizziness, or even unconsciousness from the buildup of carbon monoxide—he continued working on. After the tugs on his wrist insisted that Whitelaw return, he reluctantly decided to ascend. Above the ocean’s surface, the only sounds heard were the wheezing of the air pump and the swish of the lifeline cutting through the seawater as Tom “told” his attendant by his short tugs to haul him up. Whitelaw would learn later the complete code of short and long tugs, whereby divers could communicate with their land partners on a variety of points.
Once back on land, the attendant screwed off his faceplate and helped him take off the lead breastplate and backplate. Whitelaw stepped out of the lead-soled shoes and finally removed his diving suit. He didn’t feel tired, as he loved what he was doing and looked forward to the next day.
Although the weather was foggy, he didn’t have to contend with sixty-mile-per-hour winds and harsh waves. However, even given this decent weather, working inside the Golden Gate wouldn’t be an easy task. The tides flow strongly through the bay four times a day—twice surging in and twice withdrawing. The quantity of saltwater in motion each day between the high and low tides alone averaged 400 billion gallons.
The flows of tides and rivers coursing out made work difficult, and he learned that the currents underneath the sea could sweep him about just as they did on the surface. Depending on how deep a diver was, the water temperatures were chilling, despite the thick clothing and diving suit with its heavy canvas wrapping. The lack of light made visibility near impossible. The currents swept unknown objects against him, and he had to fight past his initial worries over roving sharks or octopuses hiding inside the cold, dismal darkness.
The following day the Scottish lad geared up once again. This time he felt around in the shadows and currents to accurately measure the size of the largest punctures in the Golden Rule‘s side. After he gained an idea of their shape, he signaled for the attendant to haul him back. Once on board the hovering mother ship, he drew a diagram of a patch plate and the cofferdam that needed to be constructed. This watertight, wooden compartment is built to keep out the sea when there is a large hole in a ship. The cofferdam can surround the entire vessel (if the bottom is very shallow) or, as is usually the case, it is nailed underwater to a ship’s hull to cover a jagged opening. When the water is pumped from the sunken ship, these chambers hold out the seawater so the vessel can rise to the surface. Once permanent repairs are underway on land, workers dismantle the cofferdam.
With his carpentry skills, Tom knew what would work and then could precisely cut the planks and wood plates. The initial design concept and procedures were important and might involve nailing large planks or first sending in divers to work inside and shore up broken beams. It wasn’t necessary that the patching be completely watertight, as steam-driven pumps could handle minor leaking. What was important was that the design worked, could be completed on time, and would hold until permanent repairs were made.
The noise from saws on hard wood, hammers on long nails, and grunts of hard labor sounded out. The patch plate was soon ready to be sent down with the attached lead weights. Whitelaw then descended and nailed the wood plate over another opening. Next, he nailed a key door and openings shut so that the pumps could remove enough seawater to give the drowned ship sufficient buoyancy to rise.
Whitelaw knew that a downed ship didn’t need to have all of the ocean inside its hull drained—if that was even possible—and there were always pockets of air trapped inside compartments. Enough areas had to be made watertight, however, so that the pumps could drive out a “sufficient weight” of the sea to enable the vessel to rise by its own equilibrium. This meant divers had to work inside the ship and seal off areas, as ship designs back then didn’t call for watertight compartments. Determining what needed to be done and how required an expert, and Whitelaw had to be that from the very beginning.
The braced, wooden-box cofferdam was finally readied and lowered down on its weighted line. Whitelaw guided the compartment to the large hole and then nailed it to the sides. Given his experience in ship and dock carpentry, Whitelaw felt optimistic that his design was workable. But this was the first time he had been both a diver and the lead carpenter. There are different ways to raise a ship—if it was possible at all—and Tom had selected just one approach. The question was whether this would work.
When “all that could be done was done,” including shutting or sealing portholes, hatches, and doorways, the coal-driven engines fired up. As the steam built up with the engines clanging noisily, men activated the pumps that sucked the water from the sunken ship. Two six-inch canvas hoses snaked out to the surface over the mother ship’s sides and quickly sprang taut when powerful jets of saltwater spewed back into the ocean. The men waited anxiously for some sign of success. Then the main mast of the sunken ship pierced the ocean’s surface with the sounds of rushing water.
The vessel continued rising toward the gray sky, muddy water pouring off its trimmed sails and spars, followed by smaller masts, the raised afterdeck, forecastle, and gunnels. Rust-colored seaweed, debris, and bric-a-brac coated the vessel’s spars, deck, and hull as seawater drained away in a symphony of heavy rivulet sounds. The men shouted out cheers, while the ship bobbed back and forth with the ocean’s swells.
A surfboat quickly rowed out to the bouncing, unmanned vessel so that a crew could take charge. The closest man quickly pulled himself up and threw a rope ladder down to the waiting men. The ship seemed cold and forbidding, and what once had teemed with men and bustling action now was dripping mud, creaking, and smelled like rotting fish. The vessel, however, seemed to be otherwise in repairable shape.
Replacing the patches and cofferdam later with supporting ribs and planks of the same thickness, workmen completed the permanent repairs in a drydock. The men cleaned down the schooner, replaced machinery that had rusted, changed the rigging and canvas sails, and refurbished the ship for a fraction of its initial cost. The Golden Rule soon sailed away on another voyage.
Tom worked hard on this particular repair project. As he remarked later, “I found the hardest part of the job to be driving nails underwater. I mastered this and in three weeks had the position permanently.” Tom Whitelaw was now a diving carpenter and had helped to float his first ship.
He also received a bonus of $250 on top of his usual wages of less than a dollar a day. This reward for his performance was a good amount of money, the most he had ever seen at one time. He also saw the opportunity to start a business that he could do—and did very well.
Whitelaw remarked later:
This was the turning point in my life. For when I received that bonus, I said to myself, “I’m going to be a ship salvager.” I purchased a diver’s suit with that money and became what was then known as a “wrecker,” afterward converted to the higher-sounding term of a “ship salvor.”
Tom Whitelaw became a salvor at a time when the risky crudeness of nineteenth-century wrecking clashed head-on with the complexities of salvaging the faster, larger fleets then in development. He and others would be part of this maritime history—and also experience a changing world.
The Wrecker Chronicles
For centuries, the rugged coastlines of Europe and England—particularly Cornwall with its treacherous rocks and strong winds— were a haven for wreckers and smugglers, and these activities reached a peak in the eighteenth century. Seizing the opportunity to ease their miserable lives a little, ordinary folks and even a few clergy plundered wrecked ships to smuggle the “saved” goods with unchecked enthusiasm. When one man interrupted a Sunday service to shout that a ship had just wrecked on the nearby rocks, the vicar was said to have begged his congregation to remain seated until he could take off his cassock “so that we can all start fair.” English authorities actually caught one rector possessing four casks of wine that had been looted from one wreck.
What was taken from shipwrecks and not declared was viewed by authorities as smuggling; this was equivalent to running goods into the country past customs. And millions of pounds of tea and gallons of brandy were smuggled into the country each year. Smuggling was a dangerous business, and the penalties for being caught were harsh, including heavy fines and even death. One memorial epitaph is in Talland Church and concerns the sad death of one such man, whom custom officers shot and killed in 1802:
In prime of life, most suddenly,
Sad tidings to relate;
Here
view my utter destiny,
And pity my sad state.
I by a shot which
rapid flew,
Was instantly struck dead.
Lord pardon the offender
who
My precious blood did shed.
Grant him to rest, and
forgive me
All I have done amiss;
And that I may rewarded
be
With everlasting bliss.
In Cornwall, smuggling and wrecking were popular pastimes, and numerous folks sought to enhance their lives by collecting the booty from wrecks or engaging in a bit of dealing in contraband. There are two popular misconceptions about shipwrecks in Cornwall. The first is that the wreckers caused most of the wrecks by hanging lights from the cliffs at night or building bonfires as misleading beacons. They didn’t have to go to these extremes because the frequent squalls, raging ocean, and deadly rocks produced a continuing string of shipwrecks. They acquired this reputation because they plundered the wrecks that came onto their coastline with such regularity.
The second mistaken belief is that the wreckers killed shipwreck survivors so they could loot what was on board. Although violence was at times a by-product of smuggling, the townsfolk were more interested in booty than they were in murder. Far more deaths occurred from drowning than from the conflict in grabbing goods.
The custom officers (or “preventive men”) sent to deter this looting nonetheless did bring violence to the times. It wasn’t rare for people to break into the officers’ warehouses—after these officials had taken and safeguarded the cargo from both the seas and the wreckers—and take back what they felt were theirs by right. Wreckers and custom men died alike in these battles. Moreover, little was left to salvage after the wreckers left: Not only did they take away as much of the cargo as possible, but the scavengers also stripped the railings, anchors, sails, rigging, equipment, and even timbers from the vessel. Custom officers were also known to include themselves in the action when the pickings were especially good.
All sections of society seemed to think the wrecks were fair game with hundreds of people at times following a troubled ship along the coast in hopes of finding a rich score. Decades were to pass before this pastime finally became a regulated, for-profit industry. The ship and cargo would remain the property of the original owners—subject to the wrecker’s agreement—and all of the salvaged articles were to be reported to England’s Receiver of Wrecks and its governing rules. With the large influx of European immigrants to the United States in the decades before the mid-1800s, however, it was natural that they would take along their ways of earning a living from the sea.
* * *
FROM THE VERY beginning, ships crashed onto the reefs of the Florida Keys in the New World. Vessels ripped their hulls out on the rocks or collided with others and sank; winds, tides, and downright captain error beached more. The early square-rigged merchant ships were often overloaded and difficult to control, and they did not sail well into or with the winds. Navigation charts were quite inaccurate and often failed to show the location of dangerous rocks, reefs, or currents. Reliable navigation equipment was nonexistent; more accurate weather forecasting had not yet been created; and guarding lighthouses had not been built.
The Florida Indians were the first wreckers. The Spaniards, for example, hired them to help salvage the Spanish fleet that wrecked in 1622 in the Marquesas Keys some thirty miles west of Key West, of which the Atocha and Santa Margarita are the better known galleons (discovered in 1985 by Mel Fisher with over forty tons of silver and gold valued at $450 million); the Indians spent eight years assisting the Spaniards in this salvage. Dutch mariners frequently harassed the Spanish salvagers, and it’s likely the native Indians profited by working for both in their diving for the sunken gold and goods. The Bahamians also were on the hunt for shipwrecks, which meant that competing wreck claims had to be decided at Nassau, Havana, or other locations the disputing parties agreed on.
The word wrecking referred to the saving of crews, ships, and/or cargoes—hopefully in that order. Payment or a rich “reward” for these services was not only demanded, but unconditionally expected. When Florida became a United States territory in 1821, no federal statutes governed these practices and only the maritime Common Laws at Sea and a Bahamian Admiralty Court existed to police these activities. From the very beginnings in old England, opinions differed and arguments resounded over the morality and reasonability of wrecking—but people had to find ways to earn their living.
Wrecking, sponging, fishing, and turtling were early industries in the Florida Keys, along with farming, cigar making, salt and charcoal manufacturing, and supplying the military’s needs. Of these livelihoods, wrecking and farming significantly shaped the early settling of the Upper Keys. Although nearly all of the wreckers worked as spongers, turtlers, or fishermen, or undertook other endeavors that placed them close to the scene of a wreck, the Key West fishing fleet became a centerpiece for wrecking, and this activity was a major industry in the Florida Keys through much of the nineteenth century.
During the golden age of sail, at least a hundred ships passed each day by Key West, and the waters they sailed through had some of the most treacherous reefs in this country. At least one ship wrecked each week somewhere along the Florida coast. Wreckers watched the reefs day and night from observation towers along the shoreline, some of which were over eighty-feet high. They anchored their crafts for the night, but then sailed quickly away at daylight to cruise the reefs on the lookout for distressed vessels. The fleet was not only prepared to put to sea upon receiving the first news of a disaster, but depending on the seas and storm conditions, wreckers anticipated the misfortunes of others, since they knew that coming upon the right ship could yield fortunes.
The wrecking operation was simple enough: Get aboard the distressed ship, contract with the captain for the “reward,” and then salvage the cargo. When a wreck was spotted, the cry of “Wreck ashore!” echoed over the islands as men scrambled to their boats to join the race for the foundering vessel. The ever-ready fleet of some 150 small schooners and sloops then quickly sailed off in “glorious haste and hope.” The waterfront would be alive with excitement while spectators crowded the wharves to eagerly await the news of the ship’s name and its cargo.
This was a race to the swiftest, since the first wrecker aboard from the flotilla of boats was the one who made the contract with the bewildered skipper. He controlled the salvage operation and gained the largest share of the prize as the “master wrecker.” The captain’s ship could be waterlogged on a reef, the seas breaking wildly over her deck, or the vessel might be stuck high and dry on a rocky shoal. She could be listing on the beach or rolling on a reef in the boiling surf miles out to sea. The crew could have hastily abandoned her, in which case the ship was considered to be a derelict with enormous salvage value—and there would be no trouble from a recalcitrant captain or the owners. Or the crew might be still aboard, either desperate to be taken off or equally fearful of the wreckers and their pirate reputation.
Regardless of winds or seas, men took chances to get their score. On a near daily occurrence, they found wrecks and made their “agreement” on how to divide the saved goods. The seamen then worked feverishly day and night to salvage the ship, hopefully before bad weather drove her farther onto the rocks or caused her to sink to the bottom. The wreckers saved cargo by working in ocean up to their necks or by diving into the relatively shallow seas. Since they didn’t wear diving suits, the oceans raged, sharks and other predators menaced, and the watered-down cargo, whether it was sugar or guano, covered their bodies.
Wreckers used different tools and equipment in these operations. They carried heavy anchors, strong chains, long hawsers, and large fenders to secure their vessels in rough water. For cargo recovery, they equipped their boats with a large number of blocks, ropes, tackle, and hooks to move the large cotton bales, kegs, and other goods that might be recovered. They wielded sledgehammers, axes, and saws to cut away broken sections of the wreck, open hatches, and save people and goods.
The ship’s captain could choose whomever he wanted to be the master wrecker. Other than a simple low-tide grounding, however, the selected captain usually needed help as soon as he had cut the deal. At times the agreement was being hammered out as other men jumped on board from pursing schooners. Ideally, only part of the cargo had to be removed to float the ship free at the next high tide. In practice the situations were more difficult, often requiring the assistance of other wreckers, who then divided the contracted share. The salvagers received their agreed cut later in kind or from a share of the Key West auction proceeds. The wreckers also rewarded their “agents” from their cut, such as the fishermen who first reported the shipwrecks to them. The richest cargoes of the world, whether they be fine laces, silks, wines, or silverware—in fact, everything that the commerce of the world afforded—reached Key West in this way.
One folktale was that wreckers would rig a line between two mules, hang ship lights on the rope, and walk the mules along the beach at night to give the impression that a ship was sailing by a treacherous reef. Although enforced laws didn’t rule these times, there is little evidence this was the practice. Like others before them, Key West wreckers had no hesitation in taking advantage of the misfortune that befell others.
Wreckers built the town of Key West, and shipwrecks occurred everywhere. In the Upper Keys, Carysfort Reef was an especially dangerous reef, and the waters around Tavernier Key became a favorite anchorage where salvagers waited for wrecks to occur on the shoals. (In early times, the name “Carysfort” was frequently used as a generic term to include all of the reefs in the general area.)
Owing to outcries over the unchecked abuses, the Territory of Florida in 1823 passed a wrecking act. To rectify this law’s limitations and to prevent shipwreck spoils within U.S. coastal limits from being spirited away to foreign ports, Congress passed the Federal Wrecking Act two years later. Among other provisions, this law mandated that all property shipwrecked in these seas had to be brought to a U.S. port of entry.
In 1828, the federal government established a superior court in Key West with maritime and admiralty jurisdiction. During these early territorial times, disputes over the ownership of a “ship in distress” or its goods could be resolved by agreement or arbitration, and this practice continued over time. The court’s decision was required when an agreement couldn’t be reached. It wasn’t rare for a ship’s owner to disagree later with the captain’s contract, which may have been made under “perilous” circumstances, or with how the salvager actually worked under that understanding.
The first case tried in the Key West court concerned the Nanna, which had run aground on Carysfort Reef. Three salvagers anchored in deep water, lightened the ship’s cargo by unloading 450 bales of cotton, and then, as the tide rose, pulled the stranded ship off the reef by their capstans (a rotating spool-shaped device used for pulling). The typical dispute arose over how much should the wreckers be awarded.
The percentage paid for salvage varied according to the circumstances; the more difficult the wreck and weather conditions, the higher the amount received. It mattered whether a dangerous gale was blowing, if the ship ran aground or became impaled on a reef, and whether the cargo could have been easily off-loaded by simply throwing it overboard. In the Nanna case, the salvaged cotton was valued at $60,000, of which the judged awarded the wreckers $10,000 for their efforts. Earlier court decisions seemed to favor the owners and underwriters, although the salvagers were always compensated and abuses still occurred.