The Blizzard of 1978 and the loss of the pilot boat Can Do

The Blizzard of 1978 and the Loss of the Pilot Boat Can Do…

INTRODUCTION

First, definitions from Webster’s: (1) blizzard: a blinding snowstorm; (2) hurricane: a violent cyclonic storm of wind (over 75 M.P.H.) and rain; (3) trauma: bodily injury caused by violence, emotional shock (psychic trauma) with a lasting effect.

Why define the above words?  Because it is important to know that what hit the New England coast, and experienced during those two unforgettable days in February 1978 would encompass all three words with all three meanings.  To say it was a blizzard and leave it at that would not do the storm justice nor describe its effects on the people and things of the region.

The winter of 1978 – the blizzard of 1978, to be more exact -- would be an exception to the already manifest rule of past storms that have hit this part of the world.

New England, noted for its spectacular fall season, is also known for some very severe winters; some of those winters are packed with powerful nor’easters.   These unstoppable juggernauts pound the coast with heavy seas, strong winds and snow to remind us of Nature’s power and dominance over man and his creature comforts.  

I have seen and read many different accounts of what transpired during that blizzard so many years ago, but I came across only one that was a first-hand report.    The report I’m referring to, was written by the chief-in-charge of Gloucester lifeboat station.  Gloucester was directly involved in the tragic events that would unfold during the course of the two-day monstrosity of a storm.

My account of the tragic events that unfolded on the fateful night of February 6 is different from the chief’s in that it was from my perspective as I operated the Group Boston communications radio room/center both during and after the storm.   Is there a major difference between the two accounts?  Yes, but only from the standpoint of what was said and who said it; the basic facts are the same – history is the witness to the tragedy which took place on the unforgiving North Atlantic.

But the question begs:  how can there be a difference if the basic facts are now a matter of history, and have been written and recorded for all posterity to see and hear?  

I feel that there is a matter of pride involved here; let me explain.  

The Chief-in-Charge of the lifeboat station was the highest ranking non-commissioned officer-in-charge of any lifeboat station in Group Boston’s area of responsibility, yet this chief and his station were directly subordinate to the group office at Base Boston.  That means if he wanted to become involved in a SAR (search and rescue) case – that didn’t directly involve his area of responsibility -- he had to ask for permission to do so from the group duty officer.   And that was regardless of the duty officer’s rank; even if it was below that of a chief!  Further, the chief of that station took a back seat to the group radioman on duty as far as radio communications was concerned.   In other words, he had to ask for permission even to communicate with a vessel that was in distress, that was out of his area of responsibility.  

This could be a sore spot for the chief because the group radiomen were either second or third class (E-5 or E-4) while the chief was an E-7 or higher.  Since I met and knew the chief somewhat, I knew this to be the case.  Here I was a radioman second class (E-5), giving or denying permission to a chief of a station!  But it must be understood that I had not only the authority of the group duty officer, but also the authority of the Captain of the Port, the Base Commander, and the District Headquarters to back me up.  

This situation caused just a little frustration for the chief of the station.  On more than one occasion, he called the group office to complain to the duty officer about having to go through the group radioman and to comply with whatever he told him he could or could not do.  

Our crew of radiomen knew their authority and responsibilities and never, to my knowledge, abused that authority.  But at the same time, the group office could not have a station that was under it tell it what to do or how to do it.  This was the Coast Guard and we all were to work together to get the job done.  It is as simple as that; if there were not the cohesiveness of helping each other accomplish the mission, many people would have died in the always-cold waters of this part of the Atlantic.  And we did cooperate with each other and did get the job done.  Our reputation was known far and wide and I was proud to be among the men of the Group Boston search and rescuers, even if only by being an unseen, yet heard, entity over the airwaves, still a grave responsibility.  

One of the reasons for that reputation was the fact that many of the civilians who held positions of harbor master, or pilot boat captain, or just plain concerned citizen came to the aid of those in distress.   These selfless folk cooperated with the Coast Guard on numerous occasions, and in many ways.  I can vouch for that as fact as I was in the position to communicate with so many of these fine people.   In many cases, they put their own safety in jeopardy in order to help and rescue others.  But even with their exceptional gallantry, their efforts to rescue a tiny band of men aboard a tough little pilot boat would prove fruitless. The overpowering force of the monster storm of the century would prove “victorious” and add to the list of those men that went down to the sea in their ships.

Many years ago, I attempted to put my experience of this titanic storm and the accompanying tragedy on paper but was unable to adequately express myself and give the events due justice.   And it is to those who lived through this time and those who did not, that justice must be given.  

I must make another attempt to relate just what happened on February 6 and 7, 1978, and to let the chips fall where they may.  I will be using notes that I wrote nearly 35 years ago, the chief’s article, other reports of the day, plus my memory, to give as accurate a picture as possible of this historic and tragic period of history.  

CHAPTER ONE

The radiomen of the Group Boston communication center had obtained permission from the Radioman-in-Charge to work 12-hour shifts.   The idea was to have longer periods of time off after completing a full cycle of days and nights.  This system had worked quite well – especially for the married personnel – and was now in its second year of operation.

It was February 6, 1978, – just before 6 p.m.  It was already snowing hard and the winds were blowing at gale force.  I remember walking from my room at the “Y” with the snow coming at me horizontally, hitting my face, feeling more like sleet.

I was glad to get to the comm. center and get out of that mess.  As usual, I relieved the previous watch a little early and told the radioman to get the heck home.  Little did I know that for the next three days, I and one other radioman would be snowbound and confined to the radio shack and the duty officer’s operations center.   There would be no relief and very little sleep until the Army National Guard was able to clear a single lane of Interstate 95 with their bulldozers and mechanized shovels.   Such was the immensity of this historical, meteorological event.

By the time I took over the radio room, the National Weather Service at Boston’s Logan Airport had officially changed the gale warnings to full storm warnings.  In fact, by 4:30 pm, the weather service had issued an urgent marine forecast relayed to ships and stations by the Group Boston radioman in the form of a “security” broadcast transmitted on the official FM distress frequency: “East to northeast winds 40 to 60 knots with gusts to hurricane force.  Visibility near zero in snow; seas 8 to 10 feet and building to 10 to 20 feet; tides above normal.”(1)

The weather, as in many cases, is the main player in any “game” of drama on the high seas, but there are also the lesser characters that figure in the plot of such stories that must be examined in order to make that drama complete.  Such was the case with the oil tanker of Greek registry, Global Hope. 

The huge tanker – some 600-plus feet in length – was carrying nearly 180,000 barrels of heating oil from Venezuela(2) within its hull.  It should be noted that this tanker did not have double hulls as is now required for all tankers transporting oil on the high seas, this law becoming mandatory many years later.

It also should be noted that the Greek oil tanker had a crew of 28 souls – this would be one of the elements that would figure prominently in the tragic story that was about to unfold before the eyes and ears of the world.

Let us now examine the pilot boat Can Do – the protagonist of this scenario -- and see how so many lives would be affected because of their heroic attempt to render aid to those 28 souls.  In addition, the just-as-important two- and three-man crews of the 41 and 44-foot Coast Guard rescue boats that also were characters in this story.  As the events of that night unfolded, there would also be several other Coast Guard boats and ships playing their part in the tragic story of the Can Do.

The Can Do – its crew and its mission…

What is a pilot boat?  A pilot boat is a small craft usually no more than 50 feet in length that carries with it a Captain of the boat, his assistant, and the Pilot.  The job of the Pilot is to board the ship that enters the inner harbor and guide it safely to its port or anchor.  But didn’t the Captains of the various vessels have charts and maps of the harbor they were to enter?   Sure, but the Pilot knew the “ins and outs” and any peculiarities that may lie unseen just below the surface and play havoc with the ships depending on the tides and weather conditions.

The Can Do was a 49-foot craft built to take a beating from the rough seas that sometimes batter this part of New England.  It was equipped with a steel hull and extra thick glass that the skipper had installed in the windshield.  This little, yet swift craft could handle just about anything that Mother Nature could throw at it.  One pilot boat captain (Frank Quirk, Jr.), compared the Can Do to “a little submarine.”(3)  But the massive blizzard that struck the New England coast this night was to prove that comparison to be a fatal overconfidence.

           As for this blizzard, the weather forecast for the day had predicted a storm of sorts, but already I could see that the original estimates of its intensity were way off the mark.  My fascination with the development of this storm and weather in general – meteorology being one of my avocations -- would soon turn to a certain type of fear, and finally despair.

          What was it like to live along the coast when the Blizzard of 1978 made its way up the New England coastline?   Concrete seawalls and granite breakwaters that stood for over a century protecting homes, businesses and piers, fishing and pleasure boats, crumbled like a house of cards.  Homes that families had lived in for generations washed into the sea; tidal floods made local streets impassible at best.   Whiteout conditions were common. The largest of ships sought shelter by leaving the sea-lanes if necessary rather than face the onslaught of the far-reaching tentacles of this behemoth storm.  On the highways, people had abandoned their cars for the nearest secure shelter.(4)  The cloud cover from this blizzard spanned nearly 1,000 miles in diameter and had all the characteristics and intensity of a hurricane.  

CHAPTER TWO

         

My duties…

I was a radioman second class (military pay-grade E-5) with just two-and-a-half months to go on my enlistment.  My job was that of search and rescue radiotelephone operator in the Coast Guard group communications center.   It was nestled in the southeast corner of the base Boston headquarters building located on Commercial Street in the heart of the Italian North End of this historic city.  The communications center was separated from the duty officer’s operations section by huge sliding glass doors of the newly remodeled and equipped “radio shack.”   

I relieved the day radioman just before 6 p.m., was briefed, and officially assumed control of the Group Boston communications center to begin my 12-hour shift.

As the radioman on duty, I was in charge of all things pertaining to radiotelephone communications when search and rescue (SAR) was initiated for a vessel or aircraft in distress.  In such cases, or when an emergency broadcast had to be made over the airwaves, the radioman on duty spoke with the authority of the Captain of the Port of Boston.  Because of this, when other rescue units – whether boats, ships, helicopters, or land-based authorities – wanted to initiate voice contact with a vessel in distress or to pass on information over the radiotelephone, regardless of their authority, they had to ask for permission to do so from the Group Boston radioman.

One of the most important aspects of the radioman’s (RM) job was to broadcast – to all ships and stations – weather warnings (gale, storm, etc.) as received from the National Weather Service located at Boston’s Logan International Airport.  Additional duties included manning two teletype machines – one that was linked directly to the First Coast Guard District Headquarters three blocks away (just above the old Boston Garden); the other machine was linked to all the lifeboat/rescue stations (Gloucester, Merrimack, Pt. Allerton, Scituate, as well as Boston Light) under the  Commander of Base Boston.  The Commander, Base Boston also held the title of Captain of the Port of Boston.  There were other duties as well:  receiving and sending “taped” messages from the ships moored at the Base and maintaining those message logs; re-writing to tape of the sit-rep – situation report – of SAR cases; monitoring the daily recording of all voice communications; monitoring of the three radio frequencies simultaneously (two FM and one AM); “running” phone patches between District HQ and rescue ships, boats and helicopters; and, of course, maintaining a good working relationship with the duty officer and the boating public via the radiotelephone, and on that rare occasion in person -- usually after a successful rescue.

The radioman also had the responsibility to wake the rescue boat crew and the duty officer via an alarm system tied in to the crew quarters during the overnight hours.   The idea here was to “start the ball rolling” and waste no time in alerting the duty officer so he could get to his station, in usually less than a minute.   Though it does not sound like a lot of time, in a life and death situation, a few seconds can make the difference between a successful rescue and the saving of lives, or the loss of those lives.

The duty officer – usually an enlisted man of the rank of First Class (E-6) or Chief (E-7 or higher) – would be responsible for the actual dispatch of our rescue boats (41- and 44-foot fast-chase boats and the 95-foot “Cape” class of vessels).   In addition, he would write situation reports (sit-reps) concerning all SAR cases and maintaining liaison between all civilian and military personnel.

  (The relationship of the radioman and the duty officer was crucial in the successful outcome of any case that had to be handled on their watch.  Because of my knowledge and the proficiency in my duties, I had a very good relationship with all those assigned as duty officer.  I had proven myself many times during SAR when the duty officer would write up a draft sit-rep and hand it to me to re-write, if necessary, and send via teletype to the District HQ.   Plus, the duty officer let me handle – without interference – the most critical and life-threatening SAR cases facing the Coast Guard in our area of responsibility.)

CHAPTER THREE

Boatswain’s Mate first class Jones (“Jonesy,” as he was called among the RMs) was on duty this night of nights.   It was the beginning of an odyssey that would include working a SAR case that would sear in my mind forever the physical destruction of those who meant a great deal to me.

Events begin to unfold…

Walking on the city streets now was becoming dangerous, if caught in this storm at sea; deadly.  Some of the larger fishing vessels – mostly factory-size ships -- home-ported out of Boston or Gloucester to the north, or New Bedford to the south, could possibly ride out or circumvent the storm then head back to port or continue fishing.  Still, if something went wrong on the high seas, it would be a busy 12-hour shift.  Little did I realize, however, that my 12-hour shift would turn into a three-day, snowbound adventure that I wish had never happened.

A common fact known about some of the fishing boats used in making a living among this hardy group of mariners is that they were old and leaky, in other words, they would take on water – a term that I had heard many times in my three-and-a-half-year career as a SAR radioman.  It was, in fact, almost common practice for the Coast Guard to run pumps out to such a boat with the anglers knowing that some of their boats were rickety, floating disasters waiting to happen.  Repairs to these boats were expensive; “hitching a ride” at the end of a towrope of a Coast Guard boat was the easy way out and less expensive.

The Global Hope had dropped anchor in Salem Sound on February 4, between Salem and Marblehead, just west of Bakers Island and south of Gloucester.  This enormous tanker’s cargo, 180,000 barrels of heating oil from Venezuela, was bound for delivery to the Salem Power Company but was delayed due to another ship occupying the pier space.  Because of this, the Global Hope had to remain at anchor in 40 feet of water in Salem Sound.   The Harbor Pilot, Captain George Landrigan, cautioned the Captain of the tanker that if weather conditions changed for the worse, he should put out extra chain on the starboard anchor and put out a second anchor.  Shortly after, the Can Do picked up Captain Landrigan and returned him to Salem; the Can Do then proceeded back to Gloucester.(5)

Many fishing boats called Gloucester their homeport.  I had visited there many times and found the town built up around the fishing industry as well as catering to a good-sized tourist influx during the warmer months.   Gloucester also was the summer retreat for many artists and yachtsmen.   There was money in Gloucester, and there were the working people -- fishermen, cannery workers, tugboat operators, as well as many small businesses that one would find in any small New England coastal town.  There also was an intricate network of civilian radio operators – some, under the title of Harbormaster for the various small ports that dotted the shoreline of northeast Massachusetts.  (These civilian radio operators would also figure prominently in the heroic attempt to locate the ill-fated Can Do and its crew.)

One of those working people, Frank Quirk, Jr., was a 49 year old, short, stocky, ex-Navy Seabee who had served meritoriously in the Korean War and continued to serve his neighbors as the Captain of the pilot boat Can Do.  The Seabee motto “can do” was also Frank Quirk’s personal motto.(6)

 

CHAPTER FOUR

As the night progressed, so did the “Blizzard of ‘78” -- as it was to become known.   In fact, shortly after I took over the helm of the communications center, I received, over the District teletype, a new warning from the National Weather Service to be broadcast immediately.  I therefore made the following emergency broadcast:  “Securite, (“Security” pronounced in French) Securite, Securite; all ships, all stations, this is United States Coast Guard Group Boston Massachusetts; United States Coast Guard Group Boston Massachusetts.  The following urgent marine forecast has been issued from the National Weather Service Boston Massachusetts:  East to northeast winds 60 to 70 knots, with gusts to 80 knots; visibility near zero in snow; seas 20 feet and building; all ships should seek immediate shelter.  I repeat:  East to northeast winds 60 to 70 knots, with gusts to 80 knots; visibility near zero in snow; seas 20 feet and building; all ships should seek immediate shelter.  This is United States Coast Guard Group Boston Massachusetts, out.”

When I made these broadcasts or conversed with a vessel in distress, my voice would carry well over a hundred miles to the north, east, and south thereby alerting any ship or station that there was an emergency in progress and to stay off the distress frequency until such case was officially terminated.  Most mariners recognized the seriousness of a search and rescue event and voluntarily limited or totally cut off their own transmissions or switched to a “working frequency” in deference to the Coast Guard units attempting the rescue.  They knew that they could one day be on the receiving end of such rescue attempts and would not want any interference during the sending and receiving of voice “traffic.” 

   

On this night, the Can Do crew was to be unofficially augmented with several of Frank Quirk’s friends:  Kenneth Fuller, Jr., 34, of Magnolia; Donald Wilkinson, 35, of Rockport; Dave Curley, 35, an electrician, and Charles Bucko, 29, an ex-Coast Guardsman, ironically, formerly of the lifeboat station at Gloucester that was to figure prominently in the attempt to aid the Global Hope as well as the Can Do itself.  The skipper of the Can Do told the four to leave because of the very real danger of this ever-strengthening storm; nevertheless, all four insisted on volunteering to help Frank.(7)

Bucko, as a former Coast Guard coxswain, was at the helm of one of the Coast Guard boats that took part in the life and death rescue of the men of the stricken tanker, Chester A. Poling, and because of his heroism, received the Mariner’s Medal.  His parents would later say about their dear son: “He was the kind of a guy who would rush into a burning building when you and I wouldn’t.  There is a type of person who when everyone else is backing away, will go forward.  Charlie was like that and so was Frank Quirk.  With them it was almost a compulsion.”(8) 

 I had personally worked with the well-known Captain of the Can Do on the radio distress frequency on several occasions as he assisted those mariners in need and effected numerous rescues in the dangerous waters of the North Atlantic.   In many instances the Can Do would effect those recues before the Coast Guard crews could arrive on-scene.  Because of this, Frank Quirk had twice received Gloucester’s Mariner’s Medal for heroism; he also received a special commendation from the Coast Guard for his part in a 1977 rescue.   The ex-Seabee was that kind of man, thinking of others before thinking of himself.(9)

CHAPTER FIVE

All was quiet for about 10 minutes in the communications center, but outside, the fury of the storm increased and began to consume everything in its path, making playthings of unsecured boats; piers were already shaken and shattered.  Then, the broken-English of a very scared Captain of the tanker, Global Hope, screamed over the radio distress frequency: “Coast Guard, Coast Guard we are taking on water in the engine room; water is coming in!”(10)  

(In times such as these, proper radio procedure goes out the window.   When people are in a perceived danger, all they want is help and they want it fast!)

I responded to the Captain: “This is Group Boston Coast Guard; Captain, you said that you are taking on water; is that correct?”

  Global Hope: “Water is coming into the engine room.   The hull is breaking; water coming into the engine room!”

 I responded: “Captain, slow down; did you say the hull is breaking?   Is that correct, over?”

Global Hope: “Hull is breaking; it’s breaking and water is coming into the engine room!”

I responded: “I understand that the hull is breaking and you are taking on water in the engine room.  We will dispatch a boat with a pump, over…”(11)

(It is important to note that when communicating in these circumstances, it is appropriate to repeat the question is order to make sure that what is heard is clear and factual.  In fact, there were times when I repeated everything twice and so stated to the captains of vessels in distress…)

Radio communications with the disabled tanker was lost shortly after this initial contact.

I immediately notified Jonesy, who contacted District HQ on the red phone with the news that this may become a major environmental as well as a human disaster about to happen.   It should be kept in mind that the Global Hope had 180,000 barrels of heavy oil in its breaking hull.

With this first frantic transmission from the Global Hope, a whole series of deadly events quickly followed in rapid succession…

Jonesy quickly contacted Chief Wylie, the Chief-in-Charge of the Gloucester Coast Guard rescue station, to see if he could dispatch one of his rescue boats with a pump and assist the Global Hope.   The attempt here was to keep the water from causing the huge ship to list and possibly overturn or sink beneath the now towering waves.  It’s not only the heavy oil that is of concern here, but the fact that there are nearly 30 souls on board (SOB) being battered by the ever increasing waves and winds.

   Chief Wylie alerted the crew of the 41-foot, fast-chase rescue boat with several high-power pumps onboard and gave orders for them to leave the inner harbor and head for the Global Hope.  

During this time, I began a phone-patch with the First District HQ and the Commander of the Cape George, a 95-foot cutter moored at Base Boston.  HQ gave the order for the Cape George to get under way immediately and head for the stricken tanker that was being tossed around like a toy in Salem Sound.  After the initial phone-patch was completed, I maintained radio communications with the Commander of the Cape George, Lieutenant Snyder.   In addition, the Captain of the Port ordered the rescue crews at Base Boston be put on high alert in case they had to be dispatched to help where and when needed. 

At this time, things were getting “hot” in my communications center. The first sit-rep was drafted by Jonesy; he relayed the hard copy for me to proof and put into tape format in order to be sent to First District HQ via teletype. 

 Meanwhile, I am getting busy with monitoring the radio transmissions, relaying breaking information to the duty officer, as well as “running” additional phone-patches from the Cape George and District.

Because of the fierceness of the still-building storm, it would be impossible for the Coast Guard helicopter to be ordered from Cape Cod, so help from the air was no longer a consideration even if that were the only way the crew from the Global Hope could be rescued.

In addition to the Cape George, the 210-foot cutter Decisive, moored at Provincetown, about 50 miles distant, as the crow flies, was ordered by District HQ to get under way and head for Salem Sound to assist the Global Hope, if possible. 

 The heightened activities cause the Gloucester station Chief to attempt to see if there was another, larger vessel in the Salem area that might be able to assist the Global Hope.  Chief Wylie sought permission by Group Boston to contact via radio the Director of Salem Control, Warren Andrews, whose job it was to supervise all shipping in the area and make a request for assistance.  Warren informed Chief Wylie that there were no other ships in the area that could assist.(12)

The legally blind Warren Andrews knew every inch of Salem Sound and every nook and cranny of his well-equipped communications room securely built into his home.  I had worked with Warren on several occasions on the radiotelephone distress frequency; I found him to be professional, knowledgeable, businesslike and well-informed.

A common thread among all the civilian and military personnel is that willingness to go the extra mile to help, especially those whose very lives are in danger from the always-unforgiving, cold Atlantic.

CHAPTER SIX

The radio traffic was getting thick at this point.   Messages were flying back and forth between units.  Quirk, the skipper of the Can Do, monitored the frequency and jumped into the conversation to say that he was ready to help if needed.

Meanwhile, the 41-footer left the relative safety of the inner harbor passing Round Rock Shoal.   At that moment, the reality of the force of this now hurricane-blizzard became apparent when a huge wave crashed down on the 41 and its terrified crew.  There was no choice now, but to turn back and seek shelter.(13) 

While the 41-footer was able to return to the relative safety of the inner harbor, the 44-footer, now dispatched, continued heading out of Gloucester Harbor en route to assist the Global Hope.  The 44 was built like a tank.   It weighed 20 tons due to its heavily reinforced steel hull.   It had eight watertight compartments, along with two, big twin-diesel engines.  Built to take the worst seas that Mother Nature could throw at any craft, even the sturdy, well-built 44 would be no match for this “perfect storm.”    But even if the 44 were to capsize (roll over), it was designed to right itself and stay afloat.   Manned by a crew of four enlisted men – coxswain Bob McIlvride at the wheel; seamen Roger Mathurin and Robert Krom on the radarscope, and fireman Tom Desrosiers monitoring the engine.(14) 

 Just as the 44 left the Gloucester breakwater, heading for Salem Sound, they felt the full effect of the hurricane-force winds as it ripped away the canvas canopy leaving them exposed to the fierce wind and seas now crashing into the pilothouse.  Now waist-deep in the frigid water, they fought to maintain equilibrium and maintain control of the now battered rescue boat.  Just holding the helm became almost impossible; the men became bruised and were nearly thrown overboard from their tiny ark in the midst of the icy flood encircling them.(15)

  During this time, radio transmissions from the 44 were nearly impossible.  In addition, we were to find out later that the indomitable 44-footer and its crew were almost crushed by a huge channel buoy that was lifted out of the water by 25-foot waves.  They were saved by another wave that picked up the 44 like a little toy and threw it sideways out of the path of the multi-ton buoy.(16)  Apparently, Providence was on their side!  One battle won; another yet to be won – getting to the Global Hope in their attempt to get pumps to control the seas coming into its engine room.

CHAPTER SEVEN

This first encounter between the 44 and the madness of the swirling seas and zero visibility of the thickening snow caused the navigational instruments on the boat to malfunction, leaving them to grope in the whiteness – not darkness -- of the hurricane-blizzard.  Less than a third of the way to the Global Hope, their task was now becoming almost impossible.  The 44 now became the main object of concern for the Gloucester rescue station as well as the Group Boston Command Center; the rescuers were now in need of rescue!

Frank Quirk, the skipper of the Can Do, continued to monitor the situation from his mooring in Gloucester’s inner harbor…

A radio transmission from the Can Do to the Coast Guard station in Gloucester: “What’s the status of the 44, over?”(17)

Gloucester Coast Guard: “He’s about one-third of the way down there.  We had to turn the 41 back, over.”(18)

Quirk: “Let’s wait a few more minutes.  In about another 15 minutes I may give it a shot.  We’ll give it a try to get over there, over.”(19)

Transmissions shot back and forth from Gloucester Station to the 44-footer.   The 44 had lost its fathometer.   Their compass was becoming less effective.   The radar was fading.  

Without these instruments, the 44 and its crew were in great danger from the ever-increasing force of the wind and the crashing waves and blinding snow. 

 Chief Wylie told the 44 to forget about the tanker and attempt to proceed to Beverly and safety.

This command was easier said than done; the crew of the 44 was not sure of their location.  It was at this point in the quickly unfolding events that Frank Quirk and the now augmented crew of the Can Do made the decision to go to the aid of the stricken 44 and the Global Hope.  

Gloucester Coast Guard: “If I can get that boat (44317) back to safe water, that’s what I’m going to do.  Do you figure on going up there, over?”(20)

Quirk: “Well, we’ll take a shot at it.  I don’t know.  It looks as if it’s going to be one hell of a mess from here, over.”(21)

Gloucester Coast Guard: “Roger.  At this time, we don’t know for sure whether anybody is in fact in jeopardy (on the tanker).  We know there is a probability the ship is dragging its anchor.  We have other Coast Guard facilities coming on the scene, a 210 (foot cutter) and a 95 (foot cutter)…”(23)

Quirk: “Roger on that.  Well, with your okay, I’d like to take a look outside the harbor and see about heading up that way or whether I stay here, over.”(24)

Gloucester Coast Guard: “Roger.  Proceed outside Frank and give it a look.  I appreciate it, over.”(25)

Quirk: “Okay, we’ll give it a look.  The way it looks, we might be right back, out.”(26)

Warren Andrews and other civilian volunteers from Beverly and Salem who had learned that the 44317 was in dire straits, now had started efforts to try to save the 44 and its valiant crew from almost certain demise in the raging seas.

Salem Control (Warren Andrews) asked Group Boston Communications Center for permission to contact the 44 directly.  I granted his request.

He told the crew of the 44 that there were surf patrols and harbormasters taking up positions at strategic positions along Hospital Point, Salem Willows, and Dane Street Beach with the intention of spotting and guiding them (the 44) back to Beverly Harbor.(27)

McIlvride, the coxswain, responded in the affirmative.

Meanwhile, the Can Do got under way and told Andrews that he was passing Gloucester Coast Guard station en route to take a look “outside.”  

It was now approaching 8:30 p.m.; at this time the engines on the 44-footer stalled out after it hit an unknown underwater object.(28)

Those onshore anxiously listened to the radio transmissions hoping that the 44 could restart their engines.

 

The Fireman crawled into the engine room and attempted to get the engines restarted; he was successful!  The Coxswain of the boat turned the 44 into the wind and waves in order to have at least some control over the thrashing they were experiencing.  With compass and radar out, the 44 however was, for all practical purposes, lost.(29)

One of the surf units, 172, had identified the 44 and its location, off Hospital Point, though barely able to see in the near whiteout conditions.   He was trying to keep the 44 from running aground on the beach.

Radio transmissions shot back and forth from Gloucester Station, and Surf Unit 172 and the 44.   Finally, much to everyone’s relief, the radar started to work once again on the battered Coast Guard rescue boat, the 44317.   The stricken crew now turned its attention to getting into the safer waters of the inner harbor.(30)

Suddenly, the Can Do was in trouble!

Captain Frank Quirk of the Can Do, via radio, told Gloucester Station that his radar went out and the FM antenna was ripped away and washed overboard by the overpowering waves that smashed into the “little submarine.” 

 Quirk told Gloucester Station that he would attempt to turn around and head back to the relative safety of the inner harbor.  Chief Wylie requested that they check in with him every 15 minutes, if possible.  

With the 44 being guided back to safety ever so slowly, the Can Do was now the object of mounting concern.  This sudden turn of events was the beginning of the unraveling of the Can Do and its crew of five facing the full force of the hurricane-blizzard now punishing the New England coast.    Without radar, and their main FM radio gone, located somewhere between Bakers Island and Gloucester Harbor, their situation placed them in dire jeopardy.  Now, their lifeline to the communicators onshore was a much less powerful, tiny, hand-held FM walkie-talkie.(31)

Warren of Salem Control asked Frank on the Can Do how things were going.  Frank responded: “…I’ll tell you it’s some wild night out here.  So we’re just poking along.  I’ve got plenty of water under me.  I’m just trying to pick up something to go by, over.”(32)

Then!

“Mayday!  Mayday!  This is the Can Do…

I grabbed the boom-mike and pulled it down to my lips: “This is Group Boston; go ahead, over”…

Can Do: “We’re not sure what’s happened at this time ... we may have hit the breakwater [huge rocks outside the harbor].”(33)

I respond: “…do you know your location, over?”

Can Do: “We are in shoal water.  Our windshield is out.  Lost our radar and position unknown.  Action extremely violent.”(34)  

A tremendous wave had taken out the reinforced windshield of the Can Do.   Part of that windshield and its glass hit Quirk in the head.   He was now bleeding badly and, for the time being, was knocked unconscious.  Water pouring in from the raging sea was threatening the electric power for the engine and generator.

 Chief Wylie asked the Group Boston duty officer if he could send the 41-footer to attempt to contact the Can Do.  With permission granted, the battered 41 and its crew were now near the mouth of the harbor, but it became painfully apparent that they would have to turn back or once more be in jeopardy from the pounding 20-foot-plus waves.

 As previously noted, the 95-foot Cape George had gotten under way to head up to Salem Sound in an attempt to assist the Global Hope and then the 44317.  After reaching Cape Ann, the Commander of the Cape George, Lieutenant Snyder, along with his crew was desperately trying to maintain control of the cutter in the punishing waves and whiteout conditions.  The small crew had already suffered injuries in the performance of their duties, most notably was the Helmsman, Bob Donovan, whose forearms were now totally black and blue because of the action of the wheel he was attempting to control.(35)

Cape George: “Group Boston this is the Cape George, we’re taking one hell of a beating out here; we have lost our loran (long range navigational aid) and our radar is quickly fading; I just want to get into the harbor (Gloucester inner harbor) and out of this mess…Get me a quick phone patch with District (HQ), over.”

I respond: “Roger, Cape George; give me a couple of seconds…”

There were many hazards now facing the Cape George, not the least of which were the gigantic rocks of the Eastern Point breakwater and the very real possibility of smashing into them; if that happened, there would certainly be another disaster in the making.  Plus, the howling winds – now beyond hurricane force – were forcing seawater through the tiniest of cracks in the sealed, steel doors that protected the crew from the ravages of the attacking waves; charts and maps inside the wheelhouse had become wet and almost unusable from the misting spray now surrounding the battered crew.  Perhaps one of the most dangerous of all situations quickly developed: the 95-footer was becoming ice-laden, in other words, top-heavy, with the very real possibility of the boat being swamped then capsizing in the titanic seas.(36)

  

In less than 30 seconds, I initiated the phone patch with HQ and the Cape George.  

Cape George: “This is Lieutenant Snyder…we’re in a bad way; we don’t know for sure where we are; I think we’re close to the breakwater; if we hit it, we’re done for; the seas out here are unbelievable; we’re having a hard time controlling the boat; my men have been injured, some pretty badly; I’ll report later, over.”(37)

District HQ: “Roger, Cape George, get into that harbor as soon as possible; we don’t want you men out there any longer than necessary; you have done all you could do, over.”(38)   The Cape George acknowledges.

I terminated the phone patch and continued to monitor the situation.   Jonesy had been in the communications center with me for some time now and had a full grasp of what was going on.  There was a helpless feeling that was beginning to develop between us; what if the Cape George needed immediate assistance; what if the Cutter Decisive couldn’t get up to the Boston/Gloucester area in time to help either the Cape George or the Can Do; what if…There were many “what ifs” at this point.  My emotions were torn between the U.S. Coast Guard Cutter Cape George and the pilot boat Can Do and its crew; we wanted to help, but we could not do anything to affect that help.

The Hand of Providence again reached out to men in trouble on the high seas: the Cutter Cape George and the crewmembers aboard her, were lifted high out of the water by a monstrous wave and thrown sideways at least 100 feet (as Lt. Snyder later estimated) right into Gloucester inner harbor – and safety!  Moving slowly up the North Channel, she tied up.  For the crew of the Cape George, their brush with death and destruction was over, but it was just beginning for the now seemingly doomed crew of the Can Do.(39)

 During this time, I had continued my attempts to reach the Can Do on the radio, with no success.  After about 45 minutes, a weak radio call came in to Group Boston from the Can Do.  It was the beleaguered and bloodied Captain of the pilot boat, Frank Quirk.

Can Do: “Group Boston, this is the Can Do; they have patched me up and we are holding our own for now, over.”(40)

  

I responded: “Roger, Frank, how are you doing now, over…?”

Most of the men on the Can Do had suffered some type of injuries.  Soaked in frigid sea water, plus Frank Quirk’s gash on the head from being tossed around like a child’s toy at play, the men onboard the now helpless boat were wondering if they would be able to make it back to shore on their own or be rescued.  The former scenario was looking less and less likely; the latter was their only real hope.  However, that hope too was quickly fading.

Quirk was thinking that they might be in deep water not far from the harbor; but in reality, they were forced in the direction of Gooseberry Shoals, south of Bakers Island, and in shallow water.(41)

With a thrust of a huge wave, the Can Do hit bottom.(42)

Can Do: “Boston (the voice was not Quirk’s) we’ve lost it!  It’s all gone!  We’ve had it!”

I responded: “Pilot boat Can Do, this is Group Boston, over.”  No response.  Several seconds later…

“Pilot boat Can Do, this is Group Boston, over.”  No response.   Several seconds later…

“Pilot boat Can Do, this is Group Boston, over.”  No response.

The Can Do at this time was using the hand-held walkie-talkie but now, there was little power left in the quickly draining battery.

Throughout the ordeal of the endangered Coast Guard rescue boats and their crews as well as the now unfolding demise of the Can Do, there had been many “ears” listening in to the radio transmissions between Gloucester station, the 44 and the 41, Group Boston, District HQ, and now the Cutter Cape George.  Up and down the Coast, from Maine to Connecticut, this dramatic story became almost a Hollywood movie in the making; the rescuers becoming the rescued; desperate men clinging perilously to life amid a howling hurricane-blizzard; an oil tanker in danger of breaking up causing an environmental disaster; this “perfect storm” may soon take precious lives. 

 Closer to the actual events, some of those “ears” were local harbormasters and other concerned civilians making almost heroic attempts in order to save the Coast Guard crews and the Can Do.

 One of those quiet heroes was my friend and reserve radioman, Robert, from the Isle of Gibraltar.  With a heavy British accent, Bob always was eager to assist me in the radio room during the busiest of days in Boston’s inner harbor.  So good was he in search and rescue procedures, that without hesitation, I would let him handle some of the most critical of situations.

 During this awful night, with lives held in the balance, Bob again showed his courage and selflessness in attempting to aid the stricken sailors in their quest to return to safety and terra firma.  Living near the entrance to Salem Harbor, Bob phoned in to Group Boston’s duty officer that he would attempt to drive his car along the breakwater and flash his high beams in the direction of where he thought the Can Do was last reported to be.  This was no small task, for visibility was mostly zero in whiteout conditions.  Bob was placing himself in jeopardy simply by getting into his car.  

My friend’s efforts, though heroic, were fruitless.  Bob was able, after some time, to return to his home and report in to Group Boston via phone that he had no success.  He continued to monitor the radio transmissions on his multi-frequency scanner. 

Another quiet hero was Melrose Cole of Pride’s Crossing.  Cole, an amateur radio operator, also had been monitoring the radio transmissions during the course of the night.(43)

Cole’s radio shack was the envy of every police and fire command center in northeast Massachusetts.(44)

Cole, thinking that he might be able to contact the stricken Can Do, contacted me via radio and asked for permission to attempt contact Quirk aboard the Can Do.  I granted permission immediately.

During this time, I had continued my efforts to contact the Can Do; if he had been responding, I could not tell at this point due to the weakness of the signal from the walkie-talkie.  Cole had better luck… At 10:47 p.m., he was able to hear the Can Do: “We have been aground, but we’re off now.   Still under our own power, over.”  Then, shortly thereafter: “Hard aground, No power.  Taking on water.”(45)  

The Can Do’s situation was going from bad to worse; she had already been taking on water, but now there was more water coming in from damage suffered from being “hard aground.”  This put the Can Do in further jeopardy; five men still clinging to life – cold wet and injured, they held on.

Cole, and now Robert Wood of Topsfield, attempted to get a cross-bearing on the Can Do and give the Coast Guard some information to pass on to the slowly approaching Cutter Decisive, making its way through the now 30-plus-foot seas battering the coastal waterways and communities of northeast Massachusetts.(46)

At midnight, the Can Do made contact with Cole and told him:   “We’ve got an anchor set and are holding our own.  Taking a beating but no further injuries.  Trying to build up some power and get things started again.   Our position unknown.”(47) 

 Because the transmissions from the Can Do were coming from a hand-held walkie-talkie, Cole and Wood were unable to get a bearing on the floundering pilot boat.  

There was another transmission from the Can Do (from Quirk): “No luck on the power.  32-volt batteries all shorted out.  Can’t get the engine started.  I have a mattress stuffed in the window to keep the seas out.  Water not building up in the boat at this time, over.”(48)  Cole acknowledges…

Can Do: “These batteries won’t hold for much longer.  I’ll contact you in 30 minutes.”(49)

Cole (It’s now 2:15 a.m.): “Roger, Frank, will be here when you want us.”(50)

During this time, I was hearing some of the transmissions from the Can Do; with conditions such as they were radio signals could fade in and out, especially from a small and relatively weak walkie-talkie.  

At 2:25 a.m., Cole told the Can Do that there was another vehicle with a powerful searchlight headed for Magnolia Beach with the hope that the crew of the Can Do could see the light.(51)

There were several more transmissions between Cole and the Can Do; I heard Frank Quirk tell Cole that he was getting pretty cold and weak from the loss of blood.  More water was coming in swamping the pilot boat; the crew was now wedged in beside the table below.

  At around 3:30 a.m., the Can Do was able to transmit the following:  “We’re getting pretty wet up here.  Hatch is loose.  We are going to try to move aft.”(52)

Cole acknowledged and attempted to bolster the hopes of the crew of the Can Do by telling them that it would be dawn in about two hours as well as the forecast for somewhat calming seas.  This was not to be the case, for the hurricane-blizzard was to continue unabated through most of Tuesday forbidding any Coast Guard or civilian attempt at rescue.(53) 

    Can Do: “Okay, Mel.  Will hold on.  Sure wish we could raise some power.  It’s really hopping out here but we’re making it.”(54)  I heard Cole acknowledge, telling him to get some rest.

At 4 a.m., Cole and I renewed radio calls to the Can Do; there was no response.  I attempted to make contact every two or three minutes with no success.  Cole tried again at 4:30 a.m., but to no avail.

I continued to call the Can Do; my voice was now getting hoarse from the constant attempt to make contact.

I looked at Jonesy, grim-faced, and uttered, in a low and despairing voice: “They’re gone; we’ve lost them.”  Jonesy looked at me, and quietly nodded in sad agreement.  I felt many feelings at this time: loss, anger and frustration that we could not get to those men who were dying a cold, terrifying and lonely death.

 During this time, the Cutter Decisive was escorting a disabled fishing boat to safety in Gloucester Harbor.  The cutter then proceeded to Salem Sound to assist the tanker, Global Hope, and to search for the Can Do.(55)

My shift was to end at about 6:30 a.m., but because of the impossibility of outside relief coming to Base Boston, I and another radioman would have to handle the communication duties for a full three days.  The National Guard then began to clear the interstate and rail lines of the huge snowdrifts allowing some semblance of normalcy to return to the City of Boston.

Finally, on Wednesday, the Coast Guard Cutter Decisive’s small boats removed the 28-man crew of the disabled and now leaking Global Hope; at the direction of the Captain of the Port of Boston, resources put into place to combat the oil spilling into Salem Sound were meeting with success.(56)

Sadly, during the day on Wednesday, four of the bodies of the crew of the Can Do were found along beaches in Nahant and Marblehead, included Captain Frank Quirk – with the gash in his head still visible, Donald Wilkinson, Dave Curley, and Kenneth Fuller, Jr.  Another week was to go by before a private plane sighted the Can Do in 20 feet of water; rescuers found the body of Charles Bucko in the engine room.(57)

Note: (Captain Quirk unhesitatingly responded to the Coast Guardsmen that nearly lost their lives while attempting to assist the tanker, Global Hope, during the February blizzard.  He and his crewmen were to posthumously receive the Carnegie Hero Fund award.)(58)

     

Note:  Some radio transmission quotes as well as other information have been gleaned from “The Last Hours of the Can Do” by Evan McLeod Wylie (see notes 1 through 58); my own recollections and news stories of the day.

© 2007, E. De Lalla.