Cargo Less in Demand : Great Lakes Shipping on Rough Seas

It’s 12:30 a.m. on an overcast December night and a frozen stillness enfolds Duluth’s ice-packed and almost empty harbor.

Duluth, perched above the harbor on steep, snow-covered cliffs at the northwestern tip of the Great Lakes, stares quietly down. The Minnesota city’s lights glare from empty streets, reflecting off the broken harbor ice that extends from Duluth’s wide piers to the steel aerial lift bridge that separates the port from the slate gray waters of Lake Superior beyond.

The only sign of life on this night here at the northern edge of the United States is aboard the Benson Ford. Members of the 767-foot freighter’s crew are padding about its flood-lit deck, making ready for one last run down the lakes before the winds, waves and ice of winter close the Great Lakes to shipping from Christmas until spring.

Tries to Beat Winter

The Benson Ford, a hulking ore freighter that has been chugging up and down the Great Lakes for 34 seasons, is now ready to try to beat winter--and the ruthless laws of economics that are destroying American flag shipping on the largest freshwater lakes in the world--one last time before the end of the 1986 season.

Bundled in weather-worn overalls, work coats and hard hats, the crewmen watch as huge dockside loading machines fill the boat’s cargo hold with nearly 25,000 tons of iron ore pellets from Minnesota’s Iron Range, bound for a steel mill outside Detroit.

After the pellets are poured and evenly distributed in the hold so the boat will remain stable in rough seas, the deckhands move quickly to close the hatches and make ready to sail.

At last, Capt. Patrick Owens eases the boat out of its moorings. Owens barks orders at Robert McLain, a silver-maned wheelsman with a syrupy Alabama accent, as they work to turn the Benson around and pull out into the harbor delicately, avoiding the thickest and most dangerous sections of ice.

‘Like Parallel Parking’

“This is like parallel parking an 800-foot station wagon in an ice flow,” Owens jokes.

Finally, the Benson, crunching loose ice as it goes, begins to slip out of the harbor and into the Lake Superior darkness. As it passes under the raised harbor bridge, the Benson’s foghorn blasts away, echoing off the city’s cliffs.

“This is the Benson Ford, leaving Duluth harbor,” Owens radios to the bridge operator.

“We’ll see you next year.”

That was perhaps the most optimistic statement Owens would make the entire voyage. For Owens, a rotund, third-generation Great Lakes sailor in his first year as captain of the Benson Ford, knows that he and the rest of the crew are part of an endangered industry, and survival from one shipping season to the next is far from certain.

In fact, Great Lakes sailing, which has long held a strong romantic allure for boys and men all over the northern Midwest, is a rapidly disappearing bit of Americana.

Indeed, faced with worsening economic conditions that have gutted demand for their cargoes, the men aboard the Benson now wonder whether they are the last of a breed of freshwater sailors who for generations have braved the ruthless weather on the Great Lakes to haul the mundane but crucial raw materials needed to keep America’s industrial heartland humming.

“This is a dying profession,” said Jim Nuzzo, the Benson’s first mate, with a sigh. “It used to be every college kid in the Great Lakes area could sail on the lakes for the summer. Today, with all the ships laid up, all the young sailors are gone. You have to have 20 years of seniority to get a job.

Never the Brothers

“Now, when I travel around the Lakes and I tell people what I do, they say: ‘Oh yeah, my uncle sailed, or my grandfather sailed.’ But it’s never my brother is a sailor now.”

All signs point to even less employment on the lakes in the future. Every year, fewer and fewer freighters flying the American flag ply the waters of the Great Lakes, and they carry fewer and fewer American sailors. In 1986, the American fleet operating on the lakes shrank to its second-lowest level since the Great Depression of the 1930s. Near the end of the 1986 shipping season, there were just 45 American flag bulk freighters and tankers on the lakes. By contrast, 120 were operating a decade ago, and there were more than 500 vessels in the American Great Lakes fleet just after World War II.

The 16 American shipping lines still operating on the lakes are caught in a tightening vise of international economics that has drastically reduced the demand for two of their prime bulk cargoes: iron ore and Midwestern grain. The rising tide of imported steel has decimated the American steel industry and, with it, the domestic demand for iron ore, a basic ingredient in steel-making. At the same time, the worldwide glut of grain has sent the volume of grain shipped through the Great Lakes into a tailspin.

Unfortunately, the American-flag fleet is completely dependent on carrying such bulk cargoes.

Wide Hulls Carry More

To take advantage of federal laws that prohibit foreign-flag ships from carrying cargoes from one U.S. port to another, American shippers have designed their lake freighters with long, wide hulls to carry huge amounts of ore and grain from one Great Lakes city to another. But that makes American lake freighters too big to get through the locks on the St. Lawrence Seaway on the way to the Atlantic Ocean.

So most American shippers do not even try to compete for international cargoes off the Great Lakes; Canadian and other foreign-flag ships carry virtually all of the exported grain and imported steel and manufactured goods that flow between the lakes and the Atlantic.

Thus, with its fortunes so intertwined with the collapsing steel and agribusiness industries, the American Great Lakes fleet was about to hit bottom as the 1986 season was coming to a close.

“I think 1986 will turn out to have been a very bad year,” conceded George Ryan, president of the Lake Carriers Assn., the trade group for the American fleet on the Great Lakes. With no recovery in sight, he added, the next few years should see “fewer, but bigger and more efficient ships in the fleet, and far fewer American sailors employed on the lakes.”

As a result, more and more ships are being parked for good in ports from Buffalo to Duluth, and lake sailors who came out on the water to get away from the world are now forced to worry about the arcane economics of international trade.

‘Killing the Steel Industry’

“Look at that,” said Tony Gatliff, a watchman on the Benson, as the ship, late in its voyage, passed a Detroit-area dock filled with scrap metal and bands of newly rolled steel. “They’re taking that scrap iron overseas to melt back into steel, and then they’ll ship the steel back here cheaper than we can make it in America. That’s what is killing the steel industry--and us.”

Gatliff knows that the fate of the Benson, named for a grandson of Henry Ford and operated by Ford Motor Co. to supply iron ore to its big steel mill in Dearborn, Mich., is tied to the fortunes of Ford’s money-losing steel operations. (Most Great Lakes freighters are named for corporate executives and operated by companies that have either steel operations or mining interests.) If Ford gets out of the slumping steel business--as it has repeatedly threatened to do in recent years--the demise of its freshwater ships might not be far behind.

So, to the crew of the Benson, the sight of those mountains of imported steel piled up on docks all around the Great Lakes spells not only economic disaster for their industry but the possible death of their unique way of life.

The crew knows that one more refuge from the modern world, one more haven for the escapist, the willfully independent--terms that fit many aboard the Benson--may be slipping away.

‘Cop-out From Life’

“Having a job out here is like a cop-out from life,” admitted Second Mate Barry Van, a sportswriter’s son who went to work on freighters only after it became clear that he could not make much of a living racing sailboats in the Bahamas.

For Van and the rest of the crew, the thought that they may be forced back “to the beach” to look for regular jobs in the real world is more disheartening than the threat of a hard winter storm on Lake Superior.

“I could never make it on a production line,” said Herb Okkonen, a grizzled, 55-year-old engine oiler with fading tattoos running up both arms. He has spent a lifetime sailing on tankers, barges and freighters on the Great Lakes, the Mississippi River and the Atlantic. But now he worries that he may finally be forced ashore after the Benson’s engine room is automated this winter in an economy move and his position is eliminated.

The Benson is filled with men like Okkonen and Van, free-spirited or rebellious types ill-suited to time clocks and car pools. Crew members like John Prchlik, a Benson watchman and Boston College graduate who refused to follow his brothers and sisters when they went off to become white-collar professionals. Or Fred Stengel, a 52-year-old cook who left Brooklyn and a broken marriage for sailing on the lakes, and who now builds doll houses in his cramped cabin aboard the Benson.

Sailing Jobs Were Plentiful

Most were attracted to the lakes in the 1950s or 1960s, when sailing jobs were plentiful. “When I started in 1964, there were so many jobs that I could close my bar for a month and go out on a ship whenever I wanted,” remembered Pat Fields, a heavily bearded wheelsman with the lilting accent of Michigan’s Upper Peninsula.

But with crew jobs scarce now, many aboard are actually having to think about the future for a change, and they don’t like it. After all, most of the sailors left on the Benson and the other ships in the fleet are those who have been sailing for 15 to 20 years, are earning at least $10.50 per hour as deckhands and have enough union seniority to survive the layoffs that have slashed employment on the lakes. That means they are mostly middle-aged men who have been out here so long that they know no other way to live--and they really do not want to try to learn any other way, either.

“I don’t like punching a clock, facing all the hustle and bustle on the freeway,” said Glen Cassidy, an engine oiler who joined the Ford fleet this year after being laid off when USX Corp., formerly U.S. Steel, took its iron ore freighters out of service because of a nationwide strike against its steel operations.

Married and divorced three times, Cassidy, like others aboard, has sailed all over the world, spending his life hopping from port to port and freighter to freighter, always craving freedom.

‘Can Do What I Want’

“Here I’ve got plenty of time off and I can do what I want,” Cassidy said during a break from his nightly cribbage game in the ship’s galley. “I’ve always sailed for a living. I just like it out here.”

To keep their jobs--and stay off the beach--Owens and his crew do not mind gambling on the December weather in order to squeeze one more load of iron ore out of the northern end of the Great Lakes, increasing the Benson’s profitability and the likelihood that it will keep sailing.

Still, it’s a gamble that plenty of ships have lost over the years; the seabeds of the Great Lakes are littered with the wrecks of ships that didn’t quite make it.

But all aboard this last, three-day voyage back to Detroit and home know the risks of sailing on these huge and unpredictable lakes at this time of year.

Many were out on the awful November night in 1975 when the doomed Edmund Fitzgerald, an ore freighter built much like the Benson, disappeared under the brunt of some of the worst weather modern-day sailors have ever seen on the lakes--80-m.p.h. winds and 30-foot waves off Lake Superior’s Whitefish Point. All 29 hands were lost in the sinking, the last major wreck on the Great Lakes and the inspiration for Gordon Lightfoot’s hit song, “The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald.”

No Chance for Survivors

“We couldn’t turn in those waves, there was no way we could have saved anybody out there,” remembered Fields, who was on board the William Clay Ford, the Benson’s sister ship in the Ford fleet, when it led the search for the Fitzgerald.

Some lake sailors even like to argue that they frequently put up with weather every bit as bad as, if not worse than, the conditions oceangoing mariners face. Although higher waves may build on the vast open waters of the oceans, big lake waves often come in greater numbers during storms, bunched closer together by the compact size of the lakes.

Still, the weather comes with the job, so the most experienced crew members ignore it as much as possible. “It’s scarier driving a car in Detroit than being out here on this boat,” said Van, the second mate. “I never get nervous. If you do, you shouldn’t be out here.”

Yet all hands aboard the Benson were still thankful that Lake Superior, the biggest and often the most dangerous of the Great Lakes, was calm as the boat pulled out of Duluth bound for Detroit on its last trip down the lakes for the year.

After all, even for those aboard who refuse to become concerned by the sight of mountainous waves, bad weather can be inconvenient. Although the crew can stay warm indoors for an entire voyage, using below-deck tunnels to walk between the forward pilot-house and the aft galley and crew quarters, frigid temperatures and high waves often combine to coat the deck with ice, causing long delays in port while the ship is being loaded and unloaded.

This last trip’s unseasonably mild weather has taken the crew by total surprise. Placid waters on the big lake, where freighters can sail a full day without sighting land, are almost unheard of so late in the shipping year. In fact, just on the way upbound to Duluth on this trip the Benson had been forced to hug the southern shoreline of Lake Superior to avoid 15-foot waves and gale-force winds.

“I can’t believe old Gitche Gumee (the Indian name for Lake Superior) isn’t going to give us one more ride this year,” said McLain as the Benson steamed quietly past Michigan’s Keweenaw Peninsula. “This is the best weather we’ve had in two months.”

But mild weather and calm seas hold during the entire, 700-mile voyage along the only shipping lane leading out of the northern Great Lakes to the East. First they go across Lake Superior, above the northern coasts of Wisconsin and Michigan’s Upper Peninsula, then down through the “Soo Locks” at Sault Ste. Marie, Mich., locks that bring ships down 18 feet from the water level of Lake Superior to that of the lower Great Lakes, then down the ice-packed St. Mary’s River, which splits the rural wilderness of Michigan’s Upper Peninsula from Canada, past the eastern shore of Michigan’s Lower Peninsula through Lake Huron, the St. Clair River and Lake St. Clair. Finally, they go into Detroit at the Detroit River, which connects Lake St. Clair and Lake Erie.

With hardly a ripple disturbing the waters on the rivers and lakes, a deep quiet pervades the Benson’s deck, broken only by the sound of ice bouncing off the side of the boat.

Relax, Play Poker

The calm and easy voyage allows the crew to relax, play poker in the crew’s recreation room, watch “Monday Night Football” when the boat comes close enough to shore to pick up television and catch up on maintenance work they cannot perform in rough seas. On a schedule that calls for most crew members to work two shifts of four hours every day, they have plenty of free time.

All but two of the lowest-rated deckhands have private quarters, and the galley kitchen is open 24 hours a day. As a result, some among the aging crew find it hard to avoid spending all their off hours eating and sleeping.

And with Owens setting an informal tone, there seems to be little or no tension between officers and crew. As the boat nears port, where a 3 1/2-month winter layup is waiting, all aboard begin to share an extra sense of camaraderie.

“You’ve got guys from all different backgrounds in here, guys who wouldn’t come in contact with each other on shore and wouldn’t have anything to do with each other,” Nuzzo, the first mate, said. “But put them on this boat and they become kind of like a family, especially at the end of the season.”

Finally, as the Benson maneuvers through the Detroit River down to its mooring in a narrow inlet in the midst of a desolate industrial landscape, Owens faces his first problem of the trip--heavy fog. Other captains less familiar with the area have anchored in the middle of the Detroit River to wait for better visibility.

Meets Up With Mail Boat

But Owens has been on these waters since he was in high school in 1945, and so he barrels through safely. He picks out familiar landmarks on shore that tell him when to maneuver, using the Benson’s bow thruster, a turbine which moves the front of the boat from side to side, to make the sharpest turns. In the midst of the shrouded Detroit River he even meets up with a mail boat that brings letters and clean laundry to ships passing downtown Detroit.

As the Benson pulls alongside its dock next to Ford’s steel mill, deckhands quickly swing its long boom over the side and iron ore pellets brought up from the cargo hold by conveyor belt pour off the boom and onto an existing ore pile on shore. As the ship comes to a halt, Owens rings the pilot house bell and bellows the exact docking time over the loudspeaker so the chief cook can determine who won the crew’s betting pool.

Except for those who must help with ore unloading, the crew starts to scatter quickly. There are no long goodbys as the shipping season ends. Within minutes, Owens, Gatliff and others aboard have scampered down the ladder and are gone, home to face the real world they fear is coming too close.