The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald

A tribute to the 29 men who died November 10, 1975, aboard the Edmund Fitzgerald in Lake Superior. ---- Announcer (0:04): An air and sea search is continuing for possible survivors of the Edmund Fitzgerald, a 729 foot ore carrier, which apparently broke apart and sunk last night on Lake Superior. The ship and its 29-man crew vanished in a storm with 80 mile-an-hour winds and wave heights up to 25 feet. All that has been found is an oil slick and some debris. -- song begins at 0:17 -- Radio Transmission (3:11): “We last had contact with ’em, the mate had talked to him ... at about 10 minutes after 7, 19:10, and he said he was going along fine and no problem.“ -- Radio Transmission (3:21): “But it looks from the information that we have that it’s, uh, fairly certain that the, uh, Fitzgerald went down.“ -- Radio Transmission (4:04): “Uh, no, I didn’t have him, uh, visually, I had him on radar; he was, uh, exactly 10 miles ahead of us. I asked him how he was making out with his problems and he said he was holding his own, but I, uh, lost contact after that.“ ---- Lyrics: The legend lives on from the Chippewa on down of the big lake they called “Gitche Gumee“ The lake, it is said, never gives up her dead when the skies of November turn gloomy With a load of iron ore twenty-six thousand tons more than the Edmund Fitzgerald weighed empty, that big ship and true was a bone to be chewed when the Gales of November came early The ship was the pride of the American side coming back from some mill in Wisconsin As the big freighters go, it was bigger than most with a crew and good captain well seasoned, concluding some terms with a couple of steel firms when they left fully loaded for Cleveland And later that night when the ship’s bell rang, could it be the north wind they’d been feelin’? The wind in the wires made a tattle-tale sound and a wave broke over the railing And ev’ry man knew, as the captain did too ’twas the witch of November come stealin’ The dawn came late and the breakfast had to wait when the Gales of November came slashin’ When afternoon came it was freezin’ rain in the face of a hurricane west wind When suppertime came the old cook came on deck sayin’ “Fellas, it’s too rough t’feed ya“ At seven P.M. a main hatchway caved in; he said, “Fellas, it’s bin good t’know ya!“ The captain wired in he had water comin’ in and the good ship and crew was in peril And later that night when ’is lights went outta sight came the wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald Does any one know where the love of God goes when the waves turn the minutes to hours? The searchers all say they’d have made Whitefish Bay if they’d put fifteen more miles behind ’er They might have split up or they might have capsized; they may have broke deep and took water And all that remains is the faces and the names of the wives and the sons and the daughters Lake Huron rolls, Superior sings in the rooms of her ice-water mansion Old Michigan steams like a young man’s dreams; the islands and bays are for sportsmen And farther below Lake Ontario takes in what Lake Erie can send her, And the iron boats go as the mariners all know with the Gales of November remembered In a musty old hall in Detroit they prayed, in the Maritime Sailors’ Cathedral The church bell chimed ’til it rang twenty-nine times for each man on the Edmund Fitzgerald The legend lives on from the Chippewa on down of the big lake they call “Gitche Gumee“ “Superior,“ they said, “never gives up her dead when the gales of November come early“