The month of November is notorious for bringing savage weather to North America’s Great
Lakes.
Gale-force winds are common during the fall season, with November specifically being the
month in which sailors look at the skies with unease.
And for good reason.
The Edmund Fitzgerald, the Carl D. Bradley, the Daniel J. Morrell, and countless other
ships have been lost in what has come to be known as The Witch of November—the nickname
given to the infamous storm system that rolls across the lakes every year.
And while history has proven time and again that November is indeed one of the deadliest
months to sail the Great Lakes…nobody was anticipating the storm system that would blow
in that November of 1913.
Over the course of just 72 hours, dozens of ships were either sunk or stranded in the
Great Lakes as a result of one of the most violent weather events to hit the region.
Winds topping 100 miles per hour swept across the lakes.
35-foot waves tossed freighters with relentless force, all while blinding snow squalls left
captains with zero visibility.
Cities including Cleveland, Milwaukee, Chicago, and Duluth were buried under snow and ice.
The storm was a lethal combination of two powerful weather systems: a hurricane and
a blizzard.
The White Hurricane, as it came to be aptly called, left a trail of death and destruction
in its path, claiming the lives of some 250 sailors.
To this day, it remains the deadliest natural disaster to ever occur on the Great Lakes.
It was a brutal reminder of how much there was to understand about the inner workings
of storm systems—not to mention it put a spotlight on the dreadful lack of communication
equipment aboard freighters.
While wireless technology was still quite new, it did exist and was available to install—but
it was deemed an unnecessary luxury by most ship owners.
That’s not to say having a wireless radio would have saved the day.
Freighter captains in 1913 were dubious of anything the Weather Bureau had to report.
Storm systems would change so quickly that anything the Weather Bureau reported would
often be outdated and useless within hours.
Captains who were under intense scrutiny to stay on schedule couldn’t afford to take
every weather report seriously.
Plus, they had year-end bonuses to consider.
They trusted their experience and instincts far more than they trusted any government
agency hundreds of miles away.
Fortunately, with the advent of modern forecasting and radar, we will hopefully never see another
loss of life as catastrophic as what occurred that November more than a century ago.
But The White Hurricane will always serve as a stark reminder of what can happen when
man is faced with The Witch of November.
Initial reports of an impending storm that November were hardly enough to cause alarm.
The Detroit News predicted “moderate to brisk winds” on the Great Lakes, with occasional
rain over the next couple of days.
The winds were indeed brisk, to say the least.
Shortly after the Detroit News report, wind gusts toppled horse carriages in the streets—a
warning of what was to come.
On November 7, Coast Guard stations and weather bureau offices along Lake Superior hoisted
flags to warn of an approaching northwest storm.
Later that afternoon, signal lanterns indicated a new warning: this time a hurricane.
Captains and their crew members looked at the skies wondering what Mother Nature was
brewing for them.
Meanwhile, shipping on the Great Lakes was set to break a new record in ore tonnage that
year.
A New York Times article from October 1913 says that “Despite strikes, bad weather,
and two double holidays, tonnage of ore shipped from the head of the Great Lakes this year
will exceed the record-breaking mark set in 1912.”
In the Canadian province of Alberta, a storm system known as an Alberta Clipper was taking
form.
Named after the fast clipper ships of the 19th century, this low-pressure storm system
moves quickly toward the Northeastern seaboard every year.
As it happened to be that November in 1913, a second storm system was coming up from the
south, and rather than taking its usual path toward the Atlantic Ocean, it began moving
inland—straight for the Great Lakes.
By November 8, the Alberta Clipper was upgraded to severe and centered over Lake Superior,
with wind gusts of 60 miles per hour.
But later in the day, the storm seemed to dissipate, and shipping traffic resumed.
At Port Huron, assistant engineer Milton Smith aboard the Charles S. Price had a bad feeling
when he looked at the weather forecast in Cleveland, which was being buried under snow
and ice.
Smith couldn’t shake this feeling he was having.
He decided to resign from his position.
Before leaving the ship, he ran into his good friend Arz McIntosh, the 22-year-old wheelsman
aboard the Charles S. Price.
McIntosh told Smith how badly he wanted to leave the ship too but he needed the money
for a corrective procedure for his vision.
“I guess I better stick it out for another trip,” said McIntosh.
“So long, sailor.
See you in Port Huron.”
Arze’s body would later wash ashore in Ontario, where he would be identified by his brother
and uncle.
On Sunday, November 9th, the second storm system coming from the south intensified—and
it was moving far too fast for the weather reports to keep up.
And even if they could, many freighters at the time were not equipped with wireless equipment.
Ships that had already left port that morning were about to be blindsided by the convergence
of these two massive systems.
Temperatures suddenly dropped into the single digits as colossal waves slammed into the
ships.
Freighters caught on Lake Huron took the brunt of nature’s fury that night.
Captain Archie McArthur onboard the Isaac M. Scott found himself caught at the epicenter
of the great storm.
Captain McArthur was rarely dissuaded by bad weather.
Four years earlier, during the Isaac’s maiden voyage, he plowed through foggy weather conditions,
determined to stay on schedule for his first run on the new ship.
As it happens, he also plowed into another ship, which sank in 3 minutes, killing 14
of the 24 crewmen.
That his actions resulted in the deaths of 14 crewmen and caused $30,000 dollars in repairs
to his new ship didn’t seem to deter the owners.
He remained in command of the Isaac until that fateful November day as he watched the
monster waves overpower his ship.
Despite measuring 524 feet and being loaded with thousands of tons of coal, the ship eventually
capsized and sank, taking all 28 crew with her.
McArther’s body would wash ashore a month later in Ontario, still wearing his life preserver.
His ship would not be discovered for more than 60 years.
Twenty-eight more men were lost when the Charles S. Price—also sailing on Lake Huron—was
capsized.
Photographs show part of the ship jutting out of the water but its name was concealed..
A diver from Detroit eventually went down to confirm that it was indeed the Price.
After a week of clinging to the surface, the last of the trapped air leaked out of the
Charles S. Price, and she slipped from view to make her final descent.
Other ships lost that day include the Argus with 28 crew, the Hydrus with 27, the Henry
B. Smith with 25, the Wexford with a reported 24, the Regina with 20, the Leafield with
18, the John A. McGean with 28, the Plymouth with 7, and a U.S. lightship called the Buffalo
with 6 crewmen.
Debris and bodies would continue to wash ashore for weeks.
Bodies of men were found wrapped in each other’s arms, frozen in clusters as they abandoned
ship together.
Herbert Jones, a steward on board the Charles S. Price, must have been preparing a meal
when disaster struck.
He was found wearing his apron.
A stewardess named Mrs. Walker aboard the Argus was found wearing the captain’s life
preserver and wrapped in the engineer’s heavy coat, indicating that the men—even
when faced with impending death—demonstrated a collective chivalry with the desperate hope
that they could save the one woman on board.
On November 16, five unidentified sailors were laid to rest in Ontario, where more than
1,400 people lined the streets to pay their respects.
In one case of mistaken identity, a man named John Thompson read his name in the newspaper
as among those lost on the James Carruthers.
He returned home just in time to find his family holding his wake.
His parents were of course thrilled he was still alive, though his dad was reportedly
angry about losing the money he spent on the funeral.
The body of the man they thought was their son was among the five unidentified sailors
buried in Ontario.
All told, only about a quarter of the 250 victims were ever found.
In the days following the storm, officials were trying to understand who was responsible
for such a tremendous loss of life.
Captains blamed the Weather Bureau for not providing adequate warnings.
The Weather Bureau blamed captains for ignoring their warnings altogether for the sake of
profit.
In truth, it was a combination of both.
Weather technology was no match for predicting the White Hurricane’s next move.
And freighter captains—while most of them cared deeply about their crew and the sanctity
of human life—they were stubborn and tended to trust their instincts more than a weather
report that could change again at any minute anyway.
In the end, the Lake Carriers Association gave nearly $18,000 across 153 family members
of the victims.
Captains’ family received around $500, while family members of deckhands, stewards, and
porters would only get $75.
The Great Lakes Storm of 1913 was indeed one for the record books.
And it was a wakeup call for the need to install wireless technology on freighters so that
they could receive weather reports.
An article dated December 14, 1913 announced that 50 freighters were being fitted with
wireless technology, noting that the ships that had it during the storm stayed safely
in the harbor.
Still, there was strong opposition to require wireless radio on all commercial vessels,
with the argument that it would be used for shipping companies to spy on one another.
It was, after all, business as usual in the weeks following the storm.
Government officiasl and shipowners alike were looking forward to another profitable
year ahead.
On January 23, 1914, a headline in the New York Times reads “Sees Big Future for the
Lakes.”
In it, Senator Charles Townsend of Michigan predicts that “the annual volume of commerce
on the great lakes would be ten times as great as the most optimistic estimate of annual
commerce through the Panama Canal.”
The report acknowledges that 1913 also broke records, both in volume of business and disaster—but
rest-assured, that despite the inconvenience of losing 250 sailors, the business was handled
profitably.
Well, that’s a relief.
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