The legend lives on from the chippewa on down of the big lake they called Gitchigumi, 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 good ship and crew 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 be feeling?

The wind in the wires made a tattle-tale sound and a wave tumbled over the railing, And every man knew, as the captain did too, T'was the witch of November come stealing.

The dawn came late and the breakfast had to wait when the gales of November came slashing, When afternoon came it was freezing rain, In the face of a hurricane west wind.

When suppertime came, the old cook came on deck saying "Fellas, its's too rough to feed ya." At seven PM the main hatchway caved in, he said "Fellas, it's been good to know ya."

The captain wired in, he had water coming in, and the good ship and crew was in peril. And later that night when his lights went out of 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 her.

They might have split up or they might have capsized; They may have broke deep and took water. All that remains are the faces and the names of the wives, and the sons, and the daughters.

Lake Huron rolls, Superior sings, in the rooms of her icewater mansion, Old Michigan steams like a young man's dreams; The isles and bays are for sportsmen.

And farther below, Lake Ontaro, 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 till it rang twenty-nine times, One For each man on the Edmund Fitzgerald.

The legend lives on from the Chippewa on down, of the big lake they call Gitchigumi.. Superior, they say, never gives up her dead when the gales of November come early.

Twenty-four years ago tonight, the Edmund Fitzgerald slipped away from her morrings in Superior Wisconson, she slowly navigated through the Duluth harbor, under the aerial lift bridge and set a North-Easterly course into history. The following night, after a rough day on the lake, the ship and crew sailed into the hearts and souls of tens of thousands of people. To my kids, it is aincent history, to me, it is as vivid and clear as if it happened yesterday. I can remember the exact spot where I was standing, I can remember what I was wearing, and I can remember the radio call with bone chilling clarity. I can remember it hit me like a two-by-four. I was in the Coast Guard, stationed in Duluth and was talking to the radioman, I was getting ready to go out for the night, I was planning on hitting the bars in Superior. All that changed. The next few minutes were a blur of activity, the radio-man was busy listening, adjusting radios and following proceedures. I notified the OD and then went to the boathouse and broke out the wetsuits (pretty much knowing that we would never be asked to take small boats out but being ready just in case). Then I went back inside and helped recall the crew of the Woodrush. I remember calling bars in Duluth and Superior and someone called the police to tell them that they shouldn't stop cars with little Coast Guard stickers on them. We called the lift-bridge and told them the ship would be going out soon and stuff like that too. Then there was another problem. The media started arriving and they were making it hard for the arriving crew. We went outside and told them to stay out of the way and then pretty much had to push them out of the way. The crew musterd on deck and threw the ship back together (it was in Bravo-6 repair status which meant there was major repairs being done, they were "allowed" 6 hours to get underway). In less than an hour, the ship slipped it's morrings and was underway, only one crewmember missed the ship! You really have to commend the crew for that, it is pretty close to a miriacle. When the ship left, I slipped over to the payphone and called my parents and told them about the ship. The rest of the night, I hung out and did the things that needed doing, helping wherever I could. As you can immagine, all sorts of people appeard, news crews, officers, even police. Everyone needed something. The wardroom beacame a chart-room, the messdeck was an informal information center and everyone had something to do. We all knew at the moment that it happened that this was a historic event but I don't think that it ever crossed our minds that it would live on like it has. Of course, we were more interested in the here and now, the questions were more like "do they have any chance at all?" The next day, I remember hearing that someone called in with a disturbing dream that they had, that men were trapped in an air bubble in the hull alive. That call galvinized and disturbed everyone. It happened at a time durring the rescue were everyone had sort of given up. The site had been located but there were no hints of survivors and that hurt everyone. Because of that strange call, the rescue effort never went into just a search effort, it stayed a rescue effort a lot longer than it otherwise would have. I want the families to know that everyone involved in the rescue attempt gave much more than I would have thought possible.