Stranded (9 page)

Complicating matters was the fact that the ship had the latest in wireless technology, but it was completely dependent on the vessel's dynamos that provided electrical power to the ship; no battery backup had been installed. Wireless operator W.R. Keller had just enough time to tap out a single message, but it was a powerful one that saved the lives of those on board:

S.S. PRINCESS MAY SINKING SENTINEL ISLAND; SEND HELP
[7]

While all those aboard the
Princess May
had been successfully rescued, Canadian Pacific was less than pleased with the damage inflicted to their ship. Refloated in September 1910, repairs to the
Princess May
would continue until the spring of 1911, when she finally resumed service. In all, one hundred twenty steel hull plates had to be completely replaced. The largest hole in the ship's hull had measured over fifty feet in length, and was just one of dozens that had to be repaired before the ship could sail again. The cost to Canadian Pacific was enormous for the time: $115,000 U.S. dollars, plus the cost of compensation to her passengers and the revenue lost while she was out of service.

Eight years later, the men on the bridge of the
Princess Sophia
are eager to avoid a repeat of that career-ending performance.

Princess Sophia
's whistles sounded again. The snowstorm had lent the night skies a surrealistic orange hue, and increasingly large snowflakes continued to whip past the curved windows of the wheelhouse. Captain Locke and First Officer Shaw stood on opposite sides of the wheelhouse, quietly looking into the darkness. Except for the howling of the wind and the creaking of the ship as she drove through the night, the two men remained silent for the most part. The odd exception was made for commands given to the quartermaster, who would repeat each command as it was given and then confirm to the two senior officers once the ship had reached her desired heading.

Both men were acutely aware that they would soon pass Point Sherman. Once they were there, Locke could take a compass reading to determine the exact course that would allow him to pass between Vanderbilt Reef and Sentinel Island. That is, if he could see the point. With the snow still obscuring visibility, he used an old mariner's trick. He ordered
Princess Sophia
's whistle to be sounded once again. As it cried out into the darkness, the old sea captain slowly shifted his weight from his left foot to his right and back again. Quietly, under his breath, he began to count: One thousand and one. One thousand and two …

The grounding of the
Tees
would weigh heavily on First Officer Jerry Shaw, who was eager to avoid a repeat of that accident the night
Princess Sophia
sailed from Skagway.
City of Vancouver Archives AM54-S4 -: Bo P325.1

Locke waited for the echoes from the ship's whistle to reverberate back from the high mountain peaks of Lynn Canal. When they finally returned, he could gauge — more or less — where she was in relation to the canal itself.
[8]
Noting the ship's position, he had either First Officer Shaw or the quartermaster sound the ship's whistles again. Again, he shifted his feet. “One thousand and one. One thousand and two …”

Satisfied with his findings, Locke now ordered a change in course.
Princess Sophia
began slowly swinging around to port, lining up on a heading that the men on the bridge believed would lead them safely into Favorite Channel and on to Juneau. First Officer Shaw entered the time and heading into the ship's log book. It was a little after two in the morning on October 24, 1918.

Exactly what happened in the wheelhouse during those lonely hours after departure from Skagway remains unknown. The thick log books kept in the chart room aboard the
Princess Sophia
that recorded every change of watch, every course correction, and every anomaly encountered on the journey south were headed for the same fate as her passengers, crew, and cargo. What is known is that the officers on watch that night were certainly not lacking in experience. They drew on that experience to navigate through Lynn Canal just as they always had in inclement weather. If Captain Locke was overconfident in his abilities, it's reasonable to assume First Officer Shaw's shakeup in April on board the
Tees
made him wary of what he could not physically see. He would have been aware of every perceived increase or decrease in the severity of the weather, sensitive to every wayward creak and groan in the ship's superstructure. He probably hovered near the ship's compass, taking whatever readings he could.

The real question, though, is whether First Officer Shaw — at half the age, half the rank, and half the pay of his commanding officer — had the courage to pass along any doubts he had that evening to the higher-ranking, more experienced Captain Locke.

In most maritime accidents there is a striking moment of clarity, just before trouble is encountered. The crew of the RMS
Titanic
experienced this on the evening of April 14, 1912, when they had only seconds to identify the iceberg that lay directly in their path. Orders were given: the ship's helm was put “
hard-a
-starboard” and the engine telegraphs forcefully rung to signal “Full Astern.”

Aboard the RMS
Lusitania
in 1915 fog had prevented the officers on her bridge from seeing much of anything on the morning of May 7th. By the time lunch was underway in the ship's dining room, the fog had been replaced by a brilliant, sunny afternoon. That sunshine allowed a lookout stationed on the bow to see the wake of a torpedo racing through the water. It took only seconds to reach the ship, but in those few moments clarity came through with surprising force.

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.