The Californian has gone down in history as the mysterious ship that failed to rescue
Titanic’s passengers that night on April 14, 1912—despite being the closest ship.
Her captain, Stanley Lord, would spend the rest of his life trying to clear
his name of the disaster—and he continues to be vilified more than a century later.
Theories abound as to what exactly happened that
night—or what could have happened had the Californian taken action.
But let us consider the context of that night in 1912.
Maritime law in early 1912 did not require wireless
operators on smaller vessels like the Californian
to remain at their station overnight—hence why it never received Titanic’s distress signal.
And those rockets shot from the Titanic’s decks?
Those did not technically indicate distress, as they were not shot in
the appropriate intervals—that is, according to the 1912 International Rules of the Road.
In other words, the Californian failing to race to Titanic’s rescue
was not because the captain intentionally ignored a sinking ship.
Rather, the Californian’s inaction was due to a lack of regulation on wireless radio—and
a group of inexperienced crewmen following the rulebook instead of their own logic.
As with any tragedy, many things happened that night that make us wonder “Why?” or
“What if?” — but rather than find blame or perpetuate the endless theories that
surround this controversy, let’s instead explore the life of the Californian herself
and the role she played in changing maritime law.
When she was constructed in 1901, the 447-foot-long Californian was
of a notable size—particularly for the modest city of Dundee, Scotland.
Indeed, she was the largest ship to be constructed in the Dundee Docks,
and that was because she was specifically built to the dock’s maximum dimensions.
Her size of course drew attention from locals—and constructing a
large modern ship in a city with a dated infrastructure had its own set of issues.
In particular, when her two 80-ton boilers were being carried to the shipyard on a cart,
the weight of them damaged the roads and broke several underground water pipes.
Finally, in what was presumably a momentous occasion for the shipbuilders in Dundee,
the Califorrnian was launched in 1901 and set off on her maiden voyage to New Orleans in early 1902.
While the ship was built primarily to transport cotton, she could carry over 100
passengers and crew, and had a top speed of about 12 knots.
In early 1912—just weeks before the Titanic disaster—the
Californian’s first Marconi wireless machine was installed in a refitted a cabin.
Joining the crew as wireless operator was 20-year-old Cyril Evans. On the night of April 14,
Evans had been employed by the Marconi company for just six months
and was only on his third voyage on the Californian.
When the young and inexperienced Evans tried to warn the Titanic of icebergs in the area,
he forgot to prefix the message with MSG—or Master Service Gram—which would
have instructed Titanic’s operator, Jack Phillips, to send the message to the bridge.
Phillips—who had been trying to catch up on sending passenger telegrams—was
annoyed with the interference and told Evans to shut up, quite literally.
Evans, who was presumably exhausted from being on duty all day—and was now being told
to shut up by the Titanic—did what most of us would do: he stopped working and went to bed.
Just 20 minutes later, the Titanic would meet its fate.
With the radio off, Titanic’s distress signals never reached the Californian.
Meanwhile, on the Carpathia, it was by sheer dumb luck that she received Titanic’s distress signal.
As it just so happened, the Carpathia’s wireless operator—21-year-old Harold Cottam—was
listening to the radio for a final few minutes while preparing for bed.
In stark contrast to the Californian’s wireless operator, Cottam had three years
of experience and was the youngest graduate of the British College of Telegraphy in London.
It is no surprise then that the ambitious operator would listen to the radio while off duty.
Had Cottam gone to bed 5 minutes earlier—or listened to the officer
on duty who told him not to bother the captain—the
Carpathia would most likely be long-forgotten in the annals of maritime history.
But what about those rockets?
Regardless of the radio, the Californian’s lookouts did see what appeared to be rockets.
And one would have to assume that rockets at night in the
middle of the North Atlantic means danger—right?
Well, not according to International Regulations at the time.
Regulations stated that—in order for it to be considered a distress signal—the
rockets had to be fired in one-minute intervals. The Titanic fired a rocket every
7 to 8 minutes—which hardly created a sense of urgency for the crew of the Californian.
During the inquest, 20-year-old lookout James Gibson finally admitted he was
uneasy about what he was seeing. He noted that whatever ship they saw looked “very
queer out of the water and seemed to have a heavy list to starboard.”
Unfortunately, it wasn’t until after the lights disappeared—and
presumably when the Titanic had gone under—that they reported what they’d seen to Captain Lord.
The question remains as to why the two lookouts didn’t insist upon Captain Lord
that something wasn’t right. Were they afraid of upsetting him while he was trying to sleep?
At just 34 years old, Captain Lord had already achieved a great deal of seniority in his career.
Perhaps there was something about his demeanor that intimidated his subordinates.
As a result, they did not voice their concerns during what turned out to be a critical moment—and
one that would haunt Captain Lord for the rest of his life.
Despite Lord claiming he was 20 miles from the Titanic at the time of the sinking,
American and British inquiries concluded that the Californian was the mysterious ship
spotted just four miles from the bow of the Titanic.
By the time Captain Lord learned of Titanic’s fate,
he arrived at the scene just as the Carpathia was picking up the remaining survivors.
Due to his inaction, Lord was fired from his position four months after the sinking,
and his reputation would never recover. He would spend the rest of his life
trying to clear his name, but to no avail.
When the wreck of the Titanic was found in 1985, it was discovered that she
was actually 13 nautical miles from the position noted in the official inquest.
Dr. Robert Ballard, who directed the search for the Titanic,
said the Californian could not have been more than 10 miles from the stricken liner—adding
that they could have easily gone to the Titanic’s aid.
A follow-up report in 1992 from the Marine Accident Investigation Branch stated that
the Californian was between 17 and 20 miles from Titanic at the time of the collision—and
that even if the Californian had gone to Titanic’s aid,
it would not have been fast enough to arrive before the ship sank anyway.
It’s these numerous conflicting reports that have fueled this debate for more than a century.
For the United States Congress, the Titanic disaster was a harsh
reminder of what happens when wireless technology develops faster than regulation.
Because let’s remember, the Californian had a wireless radio on board—but
only one operator. There was no regulation stating that the radio had to be on overnight—presumably
at a time when there’s more likely to be an emergency.
As a result of the sinking and the failure in communication between the Titanic and the
Californian, Congress passed the Radio Act of 1912. This new law required all ships to
maintain 24-hour radio service and to keep in contact with nearby vessels.
Additionally, the first incarnation of the Convention for the Safety of Life at Sea,
or SOLAS, was adopted in 1914 in direct response to the Titanic’s sinking.
It mandated that a ship’s radio be manned at all times—and in 1948, it was updated
to include that all distress rockets must be red in color and fired at short and equal intervals.
This was to ensure that there was no room to doubt whether the rockets indicated distress.
While no formal charges were ever brought against Captain Lord,
he spent the next 50 years of his life coping with the loss of his reputation.
To this day, Lord has ardent groups of supporters and accusers known as Lordites and antiLordites.
As for the Californian, she met a similar fate as Titanic’s rescue ship, the Carpathia:
both were torpedoed and sunk during World War I.
The Californian met her fate on November 9, 1915, when she was damaged by German U-boat 34.
Then, while being towed, she was struck again about 60 miles south of Greece and sunk by U-boat
35. Her wreck lies at some 13,000 feet and has never been discovered to this day. Coincidentally,
her last recorded position was just 200 miles from the wreck of Titanic’s sister ship, the Britannic.
Whether you believe in or deny Captain Lord’s innocence that night, one thing is for certain:
the breakdown in communication between the Titanic and the Californian
resulted in stricter regulation and improved wireless technology.
And because of this, a communication mishap of this magnitude has not happened at sea
since—which is why this mystery has fascinated us for more than a century.