Even in the middle of June, fog can roll in unexpectedly in Alaska. This modern photograph, taken near Sitka, shows how fog can completely obliterate the landscape. A similar situation faced the would-be rescuers who struggled to reach the wreck of the Princess Sophia in the days before radar navigation.
Princess Sophia’s whistles rang out through the night again — and this time they echoed back differently. The report was burbled, garbled somehow. The time was ten minutes after two in the morning. History doesn’t record who saw it first, or if anyone saw it at all. Chances are if someone did it was one of the lookouts stationed out on deck. Cold, stamping their feet and breathing into their hands to keep warm, they probably glimpsed it ever so briefly. It looked like a shadow to begin with — a bit of nothing in the water. The shadow had depth to it, though. Could it be a wave? Someone went over to the railing to look at it, but as quickly as it had revealed itself it seemed to have disappeared again, lost in a mass of snow and heavy seas. Eyes squinted, peering into the darkness. Straining. Searching. Something was off.
It’s not difficult to imagine the snowstorm letting up — just for a second. Just long enough for clarity to slam into the two lookouts on deck. Captain Locke probably saw it, too, along with First Officer Jerry Shaw. At his station set back from the wheelhouse windows, and with dozens of feet of bow in front of him, the quartermaster on duty likely remained blissfully unaware that Princess Sophia was headed straight for Vanderbilt Reef.
No one remembers hearing the ship’s propulsion suddenly grow louder, or vibrate with a sudden change in direction. There were no alarms, no bells, and no metal clanging that might have foreshadowed what was to come. If they saw Vanderbilt Reef lying in their path, no one on the bridge that night had time to react.
In seconds, fate would come to call on the Princess Sophia. For her passengers and crew, however, the ordeal was just beginning.
At ten minutes past two in the morning, on Thursday, October 24, 1918, the 245-foot Princess Sophia crashed head-on into Vanderbilt Reef. She was making between eleven and twelve knots at the time, and her twin screws thrashed violently at the water around them as her long, slender bow rose out of the water. Driven forward by the still-turning propellers, her bow ripped and scraped its way along the sharp reef, popping rivets and crunching the lowest plates of her hull and keel as if they were made of tin.
MIDNIGHT, JUNE 23, 1995
ON BOARD STAR PRINCESS
Separated by nearly eight decades from the Princess Sophia, Princess Cruises’ Star Princess was nevertheless making her way down the same stretch of water. After their departure from Skagway on the evening of June 22, 1995, the massive vessel had entered into Lynn Canal proper and was beginning the relatively short journey down to Juneau.
The weather for their overnight cruising was generally quite good. Except for some moderately strong winds coming at them from the south and overcast skies, it was a nice evening to be sailing in Lynn Canal.
Second Officer Gampiero Landi peered into the growing darkness and let his eyes slowly adjust to the light that was, at long last, slowly fading. Officially, the sun had set at 10:08 p.m., but this far north in the middle of June, twilight lasted for hours. If anything, it was slightly darker than usual out, thanks to the partly cloudy skies that sheltered much of the ambient light, but Landi knew the sun would be back up in about three hours. Star Princess was making an easy ten knots as she sailed toward Juneau, the halfway point of her seven-night Alaska cruise from Vancouver.
Landi was in the first minutes of his watch rotation, which would last until four in the morning, and he had already run into problems. At their current speed of ten knots, Landi calculated that Star Princess was going to arrive in Juneau much sooner than she had been scheduled for — and that presented the experienced mariner with a logistical problem. Longshoremen had already been contracted to be on the pier in Juneau at 05:15 to receive the first lines from Star Princess, but Landi figured they were going to arrive much sooner than that; possibly as early as 03:45. An early arrival would throw everything off, and force Star Princess to anchor in Gastineau Channel for well over an hour and a half.
As the senior officer on watch aboard the Star Princess in the early morning hours of June 23, 1995, their unexpectedly early arrival became Landi’s overriding problem.
Assisting Second Officer Landi with the ship’s navigational operation was Third Officer Vincenzo Alcaras. At twenty-nine years of age, he’d been at sea since 1986 and had been employed by Princess since November 1990. This was his second season in Alaska, and he’d spent about seven months serving aboard the Star Princess. He knew the ship well, and had even met Pilot Nerup before, on his first season in Alaska back in 1993. That night his primary task was helping Second Officer Landi to monitor the pilot’s navigational choices and plotting the ship’s position on the navigational charts for the voyage. He had never met Pilot Ronald Kutz before.
Also located on the bridge — albeit further afar — was Quartermaster Hilmi Masdar, who at age thirty-one had been an able-bodied seaman for more than half his life. He’d been with Princess Cruises since 1991, but that night he had the unenviable task of acting as lookout on the port-side bridge wing, which was open and exposed to the force 3 winds that were racing along the channel toward the Star Princess at a speed of ten knots. Even though it was the beginning of summer, the chilled air still nipped at Quartermaster Masdar, who shifted back and forth on his feet in an effort to keep warm.
At the ship’s helm, back inside the enclosed wheelhouse, was Quartermaster Basri Hasan, a forty-seven-year-old seaman who had been with Princess since December 1991. He was responsible for turning the ship when one of the officers or the pilot called out a navigational instruction. Each hour on the hour he swapped places with Quartermaster Masdar on the bridge wing to allow his colleague to keep warm.
Not wanting to contend with the unwanted scheduling effects of an early arrival into Juneau, Second Officer Landi strolled over to Pilot Kutz at ten minutes after midnight and told him that the ship was moving too fast. Landi asked Kutz to swing the vessel around in Lynn Canal to burn up some speed and time, a move that Landi had performed — and had seen performed — many times before. At its widest point, Lynn Canal spans nineteen kilometres from side to side; at their current position over eleven kilometres remained, more than enough space to bring the 245-metre Star Princess around. Landi reckoned the entire turn should take about thirty minutes to complete, and would put the ship in better shape to arrive in Juneau on time.
Pilot Kutz told Landi that he was leery about performing the mid-channel manoeuvre, and suggested that they simply drop their speed to below eight knots. With the reduction in propulsion power, Star Princess should come in closer to her scheduled arrival time.
This was when a brief tug of war occurred between the two men.
On board modern ships an interesting balance of power exists between pilots and the crews of the vessels they’re overseeing. Nowhere is this truer than in Alaska, where marine pilots essentially have control over a vessel for the entire duration of its journey due to the unique navigational challenges these waters present. But it also creates a unique double standard whereby pilots have control over the vessel, but the crew — who remain on board for months at a time — know the performance characteristics of their ship better than the pilot.
The senior officer of the watch is responsible for matching up the ship’s plotted track with the current position, and for ensuring the navigation orders of the pilot are carried out promptly. If the senior officer of the watch notices something is amiss and the vessel is moving into danger, his duty is to warn the pilot of any navigational or operational hazards that might exist. If the pilot takes no action, watch officers are to notify the master of the vessel.
Second Officer Landi stared out the windows of the navigation bridge and considered the proposal. Turning to Ronald Kutz, he told the experienced pilot that he was reluctant to drop the speed of the S
tar Princess below eight knots because he felt the ship’s performance began to seriously degrade at that speed. The 810-foot-long ship did not steer well at very low speeds, and Landi wanted to keep his options open in the event an emergency manoeuvre was required. Instead, he again recommended that Pilot Kutz simply bring Star Princess around in a “slow starboard swing” that would backtrack around on their current position before rejoining their previously plotted course. With no traffic in the canal, Second Officer Landi’s idea seems like a safe and ideal solution that would allow them to arrive in Juneau later while keeping the vessel’s speed up, in case anything should arise.
As odd as it may sound, turning ships around in Lynn Canal isn’t that uncommon. When other marine traffic isn’t present, the manoeuvre represents little to no danger to a ship. In fact, the only real notification provided by Princess on the line’s Nav.7.2. Pilotage Information Card about swinging a vessel around in pilotage waters reads: “When a ship is being swung in pilotage waters, the position must be monitored throughout the swing by radar ranges and/or clearing bearings or angles.” [1]
Pilot Kutz once again voiced his preference to simply drop Star Princess’s speed to below eight knots, but Second Officer Landi put his foot down and quashed the idea. He ordered Kutz to make the turn.
The two men weren’t unhappy with each other; far from it. Pilot Kutz was just as happy to make the turn as he was to slow the ship’s speed, but completing the turn required an increased amount of work and vigilance from the entire navigation team on the darkened bridge of the Star Princess. While Kutz still felt that decreasing the speed of Star Princess was the best option, he honoured the wishes of Second Officer Landi and told Quartermaster Basri Hasan, who had been at the helm the entire time, to bring the vessel around to starboard using a maximum turn of five degrees right rudder. Quartermaster Hasan complied, moving the ship’s wheel over to the right. In the channel, the massive Star Princess began to slowly swing around to starboard. The clock on the bridge read fifteen minutes past midnight.
Halfway into the turn, at 00:30, Pilot Kutz requested that Pilot Nerup be awakened to relieve him. Kutz’s five-hour stint on the bridge was coming to a close, and Nerup would take over piloting duties from him until the vessel reached Juneau in the morning. The bridge was quiet, except for the occasional beep or clack from the navigation equipment. At 00:40, satisfied that the turn to starboard had been completed successfully, Pilot Kutz had Quartermaster Hasan put Star Princess back on a course of 143°T, bound for their navigational waypoint at Sentinel Island Light.
Just as Quartermaster Hasan was bringing the ship back on course, relief Pilot Robert Nerup emerged on the bridge. As is common practice whenever a change of watch is taking place, he and the outgoing Pilot Kutz spent about fifteen minutes together while Nerup let his eyes adjusts to the darkness before the bridge. The two men made small talk and discussed the recently performed manoeuvre, without involving Second Officer Landi. This in itself was not uncommon; at the time, pilots typically didn’t share information with the other officers on watch, and the officers on watch didn’t typically ask. When he entered the bridge, Robert Nerup’s presence wasn’t even formally announced to the bridge team, nor was his assumption of command, at forty-five minutes past the hour. It was as if he and Pilot Kutz were one and the same.
Before departing the bridge for the warmth of his own stateroom, Pilot Kutz showed the incoming Nerup their current position. He led him over to the ship’s automatic radar piloting aid (ARPA) unit, located on the starboard side of the wheelhouse. Kutz also showed Nerup visually — as best he could in near total darkness — their location physically by looking out of the wheelhouse windows. Nerup also pointed across the expanse of the bridge to Quartermaster Masdar, who was still acting as lookout on the exposed portside bridge wing.
At 00:55, Pilot Ronald J. Kutz bid his colleague farewell and exited the navigation bridge via the doorway at the aft end of the room, next to the fire control panel. It had been a long day, and Kutz was looking forward to turning in to his comfortable berth on board the Star Princess for a few hours of shut-eye.
On the bridge, Second Officer Landi stared into the darkness ahead. Quartermaster Masdar was on the bridge wing. Quartermaster Hasan held the vessel on her current course. With his colleague gone, Pilot Robert Nerup took his eyes off the bridge windows overlooking the bow and adjusted the ARPA radar’s twelve-inch view screen to the six-mile scale, offset to provide a larger view of radar coverage in front of the vessel. He bent over in front of its softly glowing screen as the digital clock in the wheelhouse changed from 00:59 to 01:00.
No one noticed that Star Princess was actually sailing one mile to the west of her intended track.
THURSDAY, OCTOBER 24, 1918
ABOARD PRINCESS SOPHIA ON VANDERBILT REEF, ALASKA
In the four hours she’d put between her and Skagway, the Princess Sophia had managed a rather remarkable feat. Pounded by heavy seas and enveloped by a raging snowstorm that refused to let up, she had nonetheless managed to travel over forty nautical miles through Lynn Canal. That was a respectable distance, which was no doubt aided by the winds that roared into her stern at up to fifty miles per hour.
However, no one noticed she was completely off course.
At ten minutes past two in the morning, on Thursday, October 24, 1918, the 245-foot Princess Sophia crashed head on into Vanderbilt Reef. She was making between eleven and twelve knots at the time, and her twin screws thrashed violently at the water around them as her long slender bow rose out of the water. Driven forward by the still-turning propellers, her bow ripped and scraped its way along the sharp reef, popping rivets and crunching the lowest plates of her hull and keel as if they were made of tin. The reef, barely visible above the churning seas, acted as a miniature launch: rather than crumpling her bow and stopping her dead in her tracks, the massive steel hull of the Princess Sophia went up and over the top of the reef that she now travelled along. She continued her violent journey until the propellers came clear of the water. Freed of any resistance from the water, they spun wildly on their shafts, screaming into the night air.
Princess Sophia was aground on Vanderbilt reef.
Up in the wheelhouse, the sudden impact had thrown Captain Locke, First Officer Shaw, and the ship’s quartermaster to the deck. The three men picked themselves up and glanced around at the array of papers, pens, booklets, and navigational instruments that had been thrown to the floor. Out on deck the two lookouts rushed to the side of the ship where, through the darkness, they could see the ocean crashing and receding from a stationary object beneath their keel: the rocky skeleton of Vanderbilt Reef.
Feeling the vibration from the wildly spinning screws, Captain Locke immediately rang “all stop” on the engine room telegraph. The comfortable whump, whump, whump of the ship’s engines was replaced with the sounds of the wind howling through the rigging and ripping across the decks. But there was another, far more unsettling, noise that quickly filled their ears after the engines stopped: a low, creaking death rattle that came from deep within Princess Sophia’s hull and reverberated about every space on board. Made up of straining woodwork, scraping steel, and the dull, thunder-like noise of the sea coming in contact with her keel, the sound was the ship literally being twisted around on Vanderbilt Reef like a cork by the swirling seas and relentless winds.
Princess Sophia’s 278 passengers had been fast asleep in their warm staterooms, but were quickly awoken by the collision. Sudden and violent, the impact threw many people from their berths to the floor of their small staterooms. In the darkness they fumbled for the switches that would activate the electric lights. They also sought out the solace of others; doors were quickly opened and heads poked out into corridors. John (Jack) Maskell, a thirty-one-year-old from England who was travelling to Manchester, looked out from his own stateroom to see that many women had emerged into the corridor clad only in their nightgowns. Some were crying while others stood in the windowless
corridor, frozen in an apparent state of semi-shock.
In the age before public address systems, news of the accident travelled solely by word of mouth. Throughout the Princess Sophia’s passenger corridors, people were conferring as to what, if anything, they should do next. Lifebelts were generally felt to be a prudent idea, and the ship became a hive of activity, with stateroom doors clattering open and shut. United States Army Private Auris McQueen witnessed two women faint in front of him, while another began to change from her night clothes into her best formal black dress in the middle of the corridor, unconcerned as to who, if anyone, might be watching.
Still, despite the tense faces and worried looks worn by his fellow guests, McQueen noted that there was no panic among the passengers of the Princess Sophia. Clad in warmer clothing and strapped into their lifebelts, many began to make their way above decks for the evacuation that, surely, was to follow such an unusual occurrence. The ship had developed a slight but perceptible list to port, and heavy seas continued to pound into her stern and sides, shaking her right down to the keel and amplifying the terrible sounds made by her hull as it struggled to cope with this newfound stress.
Around this time Captain Locke immediately ordered the lifeboats swung out and prepared for launching. Princess Sophia’s uppermost boat deck didn’t travel the entire length of the ship; six lifeboats were mounted on the open deck area around the ship’s wheelhouse, while an additional four were situated at her stern above the smoking room, which was separated spatially from the rest of the superstructure. This resulted in a cumbersome process of having to descend one deck, then re-ascend the ladders that led to the roof of the smoking room to swing the last two boats out. The spare boats would be placed in davits once the first two were successfully away.
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