Beneath the waves off the Alaskan coast lies a story that has long been forgotten by most
of the world.
Like so many stories that end at the bottom of the ocean, it’s a story filled with despair
and tragedy — but there’s an element of psychological terror here that sets it apart
from other tales of the sea.
It’s the story of the Princess Sophia, which ran aground and sank after some 40 hours of
being stranded — taking with her all 350-plus passengers and crew.
To this day, it remains the worst maritime accident in the history of the Pacific Northwest.
The fact that nobody survived is tragic enough, but what’s so chilling about this disaster
is that rescue was so close.
For nearly two days after running aground, passengers watched helplessly as multiple
rescue ships circled the Sophia — only to be told that they couldn’t leave the ship.
The Sophia’s captain felt the weather was too dangerous to attempt an evacuation, fearing
his passengers would be drowned or crushed against the rocks.
No, he decided—leaving the ship was far too risky.
It was best for everyone to remain onboard and wait out the storm in the comfort of their
cabin.
Finally, after some 40 hours of waiting, the Sophia drifted free from the reef — only
to sink and kill everyone on board.
How could this happen?
How could nobody survive after an entire fleet of ships came to their rescue?
It is by far one of the most frustrating maritime disasters I’ve read about.
For hundreds of people to sit and wait for their impending doom while rescue felt so
close — it’s an agonizing thought even more than a century later.
The tragedy, of course, raised questions as to whether the captain acted appropriately
by keeping his passengers on board.
In hindsight, obviously this was the worst choice he could have made.
But in the moment, he had two options: either let his passengers attempt what he thought
to be a high-risk evacuation — or remain on what felt like a very solid ship.
Unlike other disasters that turn worse with PANIC — the story of the Sophia is a case
study of what happens when hundreds of people are lulled into an almost surreal sense of
security.
It’s a terrifying look at the cost of indecision, complacency, and misplaced faith — dragged
out over an excruciating period of time.
The SS Princess Sophia was one of four similar ships built by the Canadian Pacific Railway,
or CPR.
These new ships were part of CPR’s new coastal service fleet and were constructed of steel
after several of the company’s wooden ships were wrecked along the Inside Passage in the
Pacific Northwest.
With a stronger hull, the Sophia was built to withstand severe ocean conditions — but
she still wasn’t permitted to stray too far from the coastline.
With passengers, she had to stay within 58 miles, or 93 kilometers, of the coast.
At 245 feet, or 75 meters, the Sophia was considered a pocket liner, or put simply:
a smaller ocean liner that offered reasonably comfortable accommodations for about 250 passengers.
She set off on her maiden voyage in June of 1912.
Less than a year later, the Sophia put her double bottom hull to the test.
In April of 1913, the Sophia struck a rock at Sentinel Island off the Alaskan coast and
tore a hole into her outer hull.
This was the same island where, just three years earlier, another one of CPR’s ships—the
Princess May—was involved in an infamous grounding that left her jutting completely
out of the water.
Fortunately, thanks to the Sophia’s double bottom hull, she only took on a small amount
of water and was able to complete the journey to Vancouver.
In November of 1914, CPR took the Sophia and several other ships out of civilian service
temporarily to ferry soldiers out of Skagway who were being trained for service in World
War I.
For several more years, she enjoyed a rather uneventful career — that is until October
of 1918, when she would once again fall victim to the rocky coastline so prevalent along
the Lynn Canal.
Only this time, her steel hull would prove to be no match against the forces of nature.
On October 23, 1918, the Sophia arrived in Skagway, Alaska, where passengers and crew
boarded for the return voyage to Vancouver.
This was to be one of the Sophia’s last scheduled voyages for the season, and passengers
were eager to get out of Alaska before winter.
As one might suspect, winter in Alaska is no picnic—and the village of Skagway had
lost its luster among prospectors who had failed to strike it rich during the Klondike
Gold Rush more than a decade before.
Still, a few determined miners would often come to Skagway during the summer months with
their families—hoping that this would be their lucky season.
But—even the prospect of gold was not enough to keep them around in winter.
They were tired..and cold…and it was time to head south before the last boat left for
the season.
Unfortunately, there was to be a delay.
Several crew members had come down with the flu, and so the captain of the Sophia had
to canvass the streets of Skagway to find replacements.
Finally, around 10 o’clock that night, the fully-booked Sophia left port with more than
350 passengers and crew.
In command was 66-year-old Captain Leonard Locke, who had more than 25 years of experience
working the Pacific Northwest.
The Lynn Canal was like a second home for Locke—and with the weather relatively clear,
he was confident that he could try to make up for the 3-hour delay in Skagway.
And so—like many captains working under the stresses of getting to the next port on
time—Locke began navigating his ship through the narrow canal at nearly full speed.
About an hour into the voyage, the Sophia encountered strong winds and heavy snowfall.
With virtually no visibility, the Sophia’s crew turned to using a navigational method
called dead reckoning.
In marine navigation, dead reckoning is a less-than-ideal method of determining position.
In a body of water as narrow as the Lynn Canal, this kind of imperfect navigational technique
was an especially hazardous maneuver — and in this case, fatal, as they were now headed
straight for Vanderbilt Reef.
It is the stealthy, unassuming nature of Vanderbilt Reef that makes it so deadly for ships.
At low tide, the rocky surface of the reef juts out only 12 feet, or 3.6 meters, above
the surface.
At high tide, which is when the Sophia was approaching it, the reef is completely submerged.
To make matters worse, it sits nearly dead center of the canal.
Ships only have about 2.5 miles, or 4 kilometers, of clearance on each side.
A year before, the Canadian Pacific Railway had submitted a request to have a light put
on the reef to help their ships better navigate around it — but the request was denied due
to funds being diverted for the war effort.
Instead, an unlit buoy was the only indicator of the reef.
Around 2 am on October 24th—as the Sophia plowed blindly forward at about 11 knots—she
struck Vanderbilt Reef, throwing passengers out of their beds and sending a shockwave
of panic throughout the ship.
A distress signal was immediately sent to Juneau, and within about 20 minutes, a rescue
fleet was organized to assist the stranded ship.
Meanwhile, on board the Sophia, passengers mulled about in various stages of unrest.
Some were more concerned about their predicament than others.
Passenger Auris McQueen wrote to his mother describing the situation after the collision.
The letter was later found on his body.
“Two women fainted and one of them got herself into a black evening dress and didn’t worry
over who saw her putting it on,” he wrote.
“Some of the men, too, kept life preservers on for an hour or so and seemed to think there
was no chance for us.
But we passed through the first real danger point at high tide at 6 a.m. when it was thought
she might pound her bottom out on the rocks, and everybody settled down to wait for help.”
As time passed, wind and waves pushed the Sophia further up onto the reef, and by the
following afternoon, the ship’s hull sat completely out of the water.
By this time, a hole had been punched into the outer hull of the ship, allowing water
to flow in and out as the tides changed — but being that the vessel was securely on the
rocks, the captain continued to believe that the ship’s double hull would stay intact.
On deck, passengers saw several rescue boats circling the Sophia within a few hundred yards.
Some of the passengers had even brought out their luggage, preparing to disembark the
ship.
“...as soon as this storm quits we will be taken off…”
Auris writes in his letter.
Even as the weather began to clear up, though, Captain Locke wasn’t ready to let his passengers
off the ship.
He feared that if he lowered the lifeboats, passengers would be thrown into the rocks
before having a chance to row to the surrounding ships.
According to the official report, though, this fear of Captain Locke’s was unwarranted.
“...the weather moderated in the vicinity of the reef, and remained so until early in
the afternoon of the same day on the 24th,” read the report.
During which period passengers could have been transhipped to the several craft standing
by, and landed without very much, if any, risk of life.”
Why Captain Locke decided against evacuating at this time is a point of contention for
many.
Furthermore, the Sophia’s eight steel lifeboats would have presumably handled the rocks better
than the standard wooden boats.
One theory for Captain Locke’s hesitation is that he recalled another shipwreck from
a few years before called the Clallam.
In 1904, when the steamboat Clallum grounded off the Canadian coast, the captain ordered
women and children to the boats when he thought the ship was sinking.
During the launch, however, all three boats capsized, drowning all 54 people on board.
Men watched helplessly as their families sank beneath the waves.
As it would later turn out, the ship stayed afloat long enough that everyone on board
could be rescued.
In Captain Locke’s situation on the Sophia, he was considering the competence of his crew.
Remember, most of his crew was a group of men he had hired at the last minute in Skagway—many
of whom likely knew very little about how to safely lower lifeboats.
Rather than risk another Clallum situation, he figured it was best to wait for weather
conditions to improve.
After all, the Sophia was nearly 100 feet, or 30 meters, longer than the Clallum.
Certainly his ship was more solid and capable of weathering the storm.
Over the course of the day, nine boats arrived to provide assistance to the Sophia, but Captain
Locke was insistent that his ship remained safe.
He even used a megaphone to assure other ships that everything was ok and that they should
turn around and seek safety in the harbor.
In other words, Locke’s response to rescue ships throughout the day was essentially,
“Thanks, but no thanks.”
Around 8 o’clock that evening, the USS Cedar arrived after sailing some 75 miles, or 122
kilometers.
As the largest, all-weather ship in the area, the Cedar could have gotten close enough to
the Sophia to rescue its passengers — that is, if it had been notified earlier, when
the storm had partially subsided.
As it was now though, the waves were too rough even for the Cedar to anchor.
Captain Leadbetter aboard the Cedar sent a wireless to Captain Locke asking for permission
to take shelter.
Capt.
Locke,
If Sophia is in no danger of slipping off and passengers are safe until daylight, I’d
like to drop anchor under Sentinel Island and be in touch by wireless.
If you think necessary, I can remain under way all night.
To which Captain Lock basically responded:
Sure, you can go, but do you think she’ll back off the rock at the next high water?
To which Ledbetter seems to evade Locke’s question by saying:
Look, it’s really rough out here and I can’t make anchor — but I think your passengers
are perfectly safe until the wind moderates.
And with that, the Cedar left the Sophia as waves continued to batter the stranded ship.
On board the Sophia, passenger morale sunk to an all-time low.
In a letter to his fiancée, passenger Jack Maskell wrote:
My Own Dear Sweetheart, I am writing this dear girl while the boat
is in grave danger.
We are expecting the lights to go out any minute…
The boat might go to pieces, for the force of the waves are terrible, making awful noises
on the side of the boat, which has quite a list to port…
I made my will this morning, leaving everything to you, my own true love…”
By the morning of October 25, hope continued to fade when the Cedar once again failed to
anchor in the rough seas.
The captain of the Cedar radioed into Captain Locke on the Sophia that they might have better
luck in low tide.
That afternoon, the Cedar coordinated a rescue plan with a fishing schooner called the King
and Winge.
Captain Ledbetter on board the Cedar would try to block the wind with his ship and use
his lifeboats to carry the Sophia’s passengers to the King and Winge.
They decided, though, that the weather conditions still posed too much of a risk.
They would have to wait until morning to attempt such a rescue mission.
They figured that the Sophia had already lasted this long on the rocks — surely she could
last until the next morning.
But that evening, around 5 o’clock, the Sophia sent a wireless message saying “Ship
foundering on reef.
Come at once.”
About 30 minutes later, the wireless operator’s desperation was apparent.
“For God’s sake hurry, the water is coming into my room.”
After arriving on scene, the Cedar attempted to locate the Sophia, but the wind and snow
were so strong that the captain felt his own ship was in danger of running onto the reef.
He was driven back once again and decided he would have to try later.
The next morning, on October 26th, rescue ships returned to Vanderbilt Reef, only to
find their worst fears realized.
Where the ship had been just hours prior was now empty.
But sticking out of the water next to the reef — just barely visible in the choppy
sea — was a small section of the Sophia’s mast.
The Sophia was gone — an underwater tomb for hundreds of people.
For several hours, they combed the water looking for survivors, but to no avail.
Bodies later pulled from the water had watches that were frozen at 5:50 p.m., indicating
that the ship sank quickly after the last wireless message.
While there were no witnesses to the sinking, It’s assumed that the stern of the Sophia
became buoyant again and swung to the side with the bow still on the rocks.
Because of this contortion and the ship’s bottom plates tearing open against the rocks,
the Sophia rapidly flooded as it drifted into deeper water.
Divers would later discover more than 100 bodies trapped inside their cabins—all passengers
who had been seeking refuge from the harsh weather, and apparently oblivious to the grave
danger that the ship was in.
Others who managed to make it to the water were quickly overcome by the oil and fuel
that spilled into the sea after the ship split open.
Those who didn’t suffer the fates of drowning or suffocation quickly froze to death in the
frigid water.
There are some theories that say the boilers exploded, which contributed to the rapid sinking
— but divers to the Sophia say her three boilers remain intact.
In the end, there were no survivors — except for one oil-slicked dog who managed to swim
to shore and was found days later.
After the sinking, the grieving communities of the Pacific Northwest all wondered, “Why
didn’t the captain even attempt to get people off the ship?”
Numerous legal battles ensued after the sinking, with plaintiffs demanding that the Canadian
Pacific Railway take some responsibility for the actions of Captain Locke.
Initially, CPR was deemed liable in the sinking by a federal judge, and the company was ordered
to pay roughly $2.5 million to the crew and passengers' families, as well as $1 million
in legal fees.
But, less than two weeks later, the same judge reversed his decision, ruling that CPR's liability
was limited under the Limited Liabilities Act of 1851.
Under this new ruling, CPR was now only responsible for the cost of baggage and passenger fares.
After a series of investigations and legal battles, it was determined that CPR and Captain
Locke had done all they could to save those on board.
In what was a small victory for the victims of the Sophia, a light was finally mounted
on Vanderbilt Reef, along with other navigational aids on Lynn Canal.
The loss of the Sophia — as devastating as it was for the tight-knit communities of
the Pacific Northwest — did not stir up a national media frenzy.
The sinking occurred just two weeks before the Armistice of November 11, 1918, which
ended fighting between Allies and Germany.
With this news came a global sigh of relief as headlines celebrated the end of the First
World War.
It waved in a new era of hope and progress after years of international unrest—and
the killing of millions of people.
The world was celebrating — so much so that the bodies of Sophia victims were temporarily
delayed at port due to the end-of-war festivities.
It’s safe to say that the Sophia was barely a blip within the context of the international
stage—but it sent a shockwave of loss throughout the coastal communities of Alaska, British
Columbia, and the Yukon.
These people were already mourning the loss of their soldiers at war.
The Sophia disaster was yet another tear in the already-delicate social fabric of these
communities.
The phrase “window of opportunity” comes to mind when I think about the Princess Sophia
disaster.
We know that, for nearly the whole time the ship was stranded, a storm raged on so furiously
that rescue seemed impossible.
But for a moment, there was a brief respite in the weather according to witnesses — a
window of opportunity so to speak that Captain Locke should have seized immediately to save
his passengers.
Would they have all been saved, or would they have been thrown into the sea and drowned
as the captain predicted?
So many “Whys” and “What ifs” surround the Princess Sophia disaster—so many theories
as to what was going through the captain’s head as he considered his options.
And what about the passengers?
One has to wonder what they were thinking as surrounding ships taunted them with the
hope of rescue that would never come.