A tanker, in the minds of most people, suggests a carrier of a sticky, smelly substance that defaces and pollutes shores. Actually, not all tankers belong to this notorious class of ships that carry nauseously redolent cargoes. There are tankers on ocean trade routes that carry chemical liquids, cargoes which in themselves are not always pleasant, but at least they do not share the notoriety of mineral oils. In Mediterranean ports, one could also encounter a class of smaller tankers that carried, exclusively, heady cargoes of wine from the producing localities to the consumers.

The tanker of which I was the master, the 12,000 ton capacity motor-ship "Gem", was of yet another kind — we carried molasses, in large quantities. This commodity is a liquid by-product, drained from raw sugar in the manufacturing process. Being a liquid, it can be pumped from one container into another, although in colder climates it may tend to be too viscous for pumping, unless heat is applied. It is about 50 percent pure sugar, its weight being about one and a half times that of fresh water. This fragrant substance is used for medicinal purposes, human consumption, alcohol production and as livestock fodder in many parts of the industrial world. Its place of origin is, understandably, in semi-tropical countries, wherever sugar cane is grown.

One memorable voyage started at Rio Haina, in the Dominican Republic, where I was loading a cargo of molasses. This pleasant Caribbean country on the eastern half of the island of Hispaniola — the western half belonging to the Republic of Haiti — was rocky in the northern part and predominantly flat near the southern shores. Reddish sandy soil prevailed on the eastern flatland of the island, but it was apparently adequately fertile to produce a good crop of sugar cane, which appeared to be the main agricultural commodity. Growth of tropical plants in the western end of the plateau, surrounding the capital city of Santo Domingo, was astonishingly more luxuriant, with a large variety of exotic flora.

The sugar mill of Rio Haina, with its tall smokestack, was situated about 40 miles east of Santo Domingo. Adjacent to the mill was a deep basin where ocean-going vessels lay when loading raw sugar or molasses. At the time, the "Gem" was the only ship in port.

The sugar mill dominated the small community, as well as its surroundings. The workers at the mill occupied shabby little houses around the factory. On the other side of the highway, which ran parallel to the coast, were the cane fields. Along the irrigation canals were little groups of houses for the field workers who were employed by the company. Few tall trees were in the vicinity of Rio Haina. There were only the high orange-coloured mountains in the north, which reflected heat from their peaks. It was the month of March and the dry season prevailed.

While the vessel was being loaded under the vigilant eyes of the Chief Officer, I decided to go to Santo Domingo. The vessel's local representative had put a small car, with its English speaking driver, at my disposal. Besides attending to business with the representative, I intended to take a good look at the historical city of Santo Domingo. I had read that Christopher Columbus had visited this place during his fourth voyage and that his remains had been exhumed, in Spain, over 400 years ago and again interred in a tomb of the local cathedral. A recently erected monument to him was too far from the centre of the city to invite my perusal.

Having completed my business, I enjoyed a genuine Spanish meal in a restaurant. In the middle of the old town, I admired a well cared for square, which was profusely filled with statues. A remarkable filigree wrought-iron fence surrounded the square, and next to it was the Cathedral. I entered the edifice, hoping to see some memorabilia consecrated to the discoverer of the continent. While walking in the cool air under the lofty columns, I saw a priest approaching me from one of the numerous aisles. I stopped walking as the smiling functionary of the cathedral was obviously intent on engaging me in conversation. He was a talkative man, but our discourse was entirely one-sided — I did not understand one word of Spanish. Before we finally parted, I wished to make a small donation to the church. Taking out my wallet, I discovered that I did not have a suitably small bank-note for my intended donation. The clergyman had already understood my intentions and was patiently standing by my side. In embarrassment, I pulled out a banknote of moderately high denomination and gave it to him. He took it and, since it was much more than he expected, he immediately launched into an exuberant flow of blessings. When he had finished his Benediction, we shook hands and I left the cathedral. I had no regrets about my involuntary generosity, but hoped in self-interest, that his blessings would at least bring good weather for my upcoming voyage and a speedy return.

We sailed from Rio Haina in good weather, as is usual in the Carribean Sea during this season. Winds were variable and the sun was shining brightly. Hurricanes, in the month of March, are usually still dormant. Also, the winter's low pressure areas, the normal seats of storms in the Atlantic, had already moved to higher latitudes. I had set the course of the vessel close to the U.S.A. coast in order to take advantage of the strong northbound current in the Florida Straits. As our destination was Baltimore, it would hasten our arrival. The good weather continued, and for this I was inclined to give credit to the blessings of the good emissary of the Cathedral of Santo Domingo. However, we were still a good distance south of Cape Hatteras and the voyage could not truly be called a successful one until we had entered Chesapeake Bay. And, as it turned out, I was a little too impetuous in placing my hopes on the sacred articulations of the priest.

The Bahamas were already behind us when the winds, at first hesitatingly indecisive, then determinedly growing stronger, shifted to the north, exactly in the face of our course. Yet the sky was still clear and showed no precursory signs of a storm. On the surface of the ocean, however, small wavelets had become waves and ripples had turned into choppy white-topped ridges. Even the bluish hue of the water had gradually turned greenish, as the sea became unpleasantly rough. The waves pounded heavily on the bow of our loaded ship. Soon the force of the wind reached that of a moderate gale, what sailors would call 'a young storm'.

I did not like the manner in which the vessel was ploughing through the precipitous seas. Breakers crashed heavily against the forward end of the vessel and continued frothily under the hull, their sharp crests reaching, at times, to the deck level. To lessen the impact of the heavy mass of water smashing against the ship, I asked the engineers to reduce the speed of the main engines. This action slightly mollified the sharp headlong dives into the waves, but still the long length of the ship seesawed between the deep troughs and successive crests of the ocean's rollers. The height of the waves had, by that time, reached over 20 feet, with occasional freak ones at almost 30 feet. I intuitively felt that there were dangerous bending stresses on the long body of the vessel — a latent forewarning that can be felt only by the sixth sense of a seasoned seaman. An accepted countermeasure against such perils is the altering of the course of the ship to an oblique angle with respect to the direction of the running seas. This was done. Our position, at that time, was about 250 miles south-east of Cape Hatteras.

The evening descended upon us, pitch-dark and rainy. The gale showed no signs of abating. The radio weather forecast reported gale force winds in the vicinity of Cape Hatteras, but described the extent of the gale as only a local disturbance. When the next weather report was due, I went down to my cabin, which was situated just below the navigation bridge. While turning the knobs on the radio dial, I heard, between the howling gusts of wind, an unusual grinding an rattling noise. Simultaneously, the forward part of the vessel rose up, as if climbing up a steep incline. My chair tilted back and I fell onto the floor. Then, the lights went out. With a foreboding feeling shooting through my mind, I climbed back to the bridge. In the darkness, the wheel-house felt weird, tilting at a crazy angle. The helmsman at the wheel and the Chief Officer on watch were holding onto whatever their hands had grabbed in order to balance themselves against the erratic movements that the vessel had suddenly acquired. Peering into the darkness, sternward, the Chief Officer calmly said: "I think that the ship has broken in two". I could also see that the fully lighted after-part of the vessel did not seem to move synchronously with the part where I was standing. As I moved to the wing of the bridge to better assess the situation, the foremast, a heavy steel column, came hurtling down with all its rigging, and crashed onto the bridge, exactly onto the spot where I had been standing only seconds before.

It was clear to all of us that the ship had broken in two just abaft the navigating bridge which, on the "Gem", was situated slightly forward of the midpoint of the ship. The bridge-house was an independent structure containing the wheelhouse and chartroom, and accommodations for the master, three navigating officers, the radio officer and the Chief Steward. The stern structure, at the after-end of the ship, housed the engine-room and accommodations for the rest of the crew. At the time of the accident, there were also, in the bridgehouse, the helmsman and two of his shipmates as watchkeepers.

After our eyes had adjusted to the darkness, we could see that the after-part was slowly separating itself from us, with its broken end rising upward. The crack in the hull seemed to be almost vertical, showing eerie sights of large black voids, the gaping interiors of cargo tanks. Jagged edges of steel plating could be seen where these had been opened up and from whose cavities the molasses had run out. The raging seas were now washing out the remaining mixture of syrup and seawater.

The situation in the after-part of the broken ship was equally astonishing and desperate. Those in that part of the vessel had also heard the strange sounds and felt the weird movements when the hull of the ship had burst open. The sudden declivity of the ship had alerted the watch-keeping engineer and he had sent an engine-room assistant to the bridge to make enquiries. The man had proceeded carefully along the catwalk, an elevated passageway connecting the bridgehouse with the stern section in tankers. He had covered about half of the 200-foot distance between the bridge and the stern, when he had noticed that there was no bridge structure ahead of him. Instead, he saw only foaming seas and heard only the hissing sounds of waves — the whole forward part of the vessel was missing! In panic, he had jumped back, still staring at the unexpected phenomenon in front of his eyes and run, as if chased by the roaring ocean itself, back to the after-deckhouse and reported his sinister discovery, in disjointed words, to the Chief Engineer. Both of them, upon going on deck, were still able to detect in the darkness, the rolling shape of the forward part of the vessel, which was already a few hundred feet away.

The Chief Engineer, now being the only senior officer on that part of the wreckage, had had the presence of mind to have the emergency steering-gear coupled to the rudder which had been swinging aimlessly from side to side since the hydraulic system, operated from the bridge, had been rent apart. He also had realized that, as long as the two parts of the ship were floating uncontrollably so close to each other, there existed a danger of a collision which, under these circumstances, would have resulted in the helpless sinking of both sections of the stricken vessel. As they could still see the dim shape of the forward section, they had kept slowly steaming away from it. Although the damaged tanks of the hull were open to the sea, there remained some empty cargo tanks in both sections, and as they were watertight, they provided the extra buoyancy needed for keeping the sections afloat. There existed, however, a potential danger in the form of a deepening storm, which could eventually broach the weak internal hulkheads or partitioning walls between the tanks. In that case, some or all of the bouyancy would be lost and the heavy steel construction would be sent to the bottom of the sea.

Each section was provided with two lifeboats. On our portion of the fractured ship, we swung both of these out on the lowering gear, ready for instant launching if needed. Next, we rigged an emergency antenna for our radio transmitter, as the main aerial had snapped when the two sections of the vessel had separated. We sent our SOS signals, to which several ships responded, though none were in the immediate vicinity.

During the night, the ferocity of the gale abated slightly and the next day dawned with almost clear weather. All eyes searched about for the aftersection of the ship, but nothing was seen. We detected a passing merchant ship on the horizon, but she continued on her voyage without seeing us. It was strange that their lookout had missed us: I expected that by now, all ships would be looking out for the two drifting hulks. Perhaps, though, our shape was not sufficiently conspicuous among the towering waves. Before noon, another merchantship showed up. She approached us to a distance of about a mile and advised us by radio that they would take the crew off the wreck, if we used our own lifeboats. The sea was still too dangerously rough for them to come any closer to us. It was also rough for launching either of our own lifeboats, but the risk of the waves pounding the wreck and producing leaks forced a unanimous decision to lower the lee-side lifeboat and abandon the dangerous hulk.

As the lifeboat was lowered to the waterlevel, the Norwegian Second Officer went into the boat to assist in safely launching it into the choppy sea. This had to be done carefully as the drifting hulk was rolling and heaving heavily. As the lifeboat touched the crest of a wave, it partly filled with water. The following wave rolled the wreck to the other side, and the lifeboat was lifted out of the water as the lowering tackle had not yet been disconnected. These jerky movements caused the Second Officer to lose his grip on the boat-rope and he fell into the water between the lifeboat and the hull of the wreck. On the next roll, the partly filled boat swung heavily against the side of the wreck and crushed the Second Officer, who was struggling in the water. When the boat swung back, he remained in the water, seemingly unconscious. One of the sailors quickly lowered himself into the lifeboat and tied a rope around the injured man, and we started to pull him up onto the deck. About halfway up, he suddenly slipped out of the harness and fell back into the sea. His body was tossed a few times against the wreck before the waves carried him away. By then, he was obviously dead and already outside the reach of our lifeboat, which itself was badly damaged and beginning to disintegrate. We made no attempt to lower the other lifeboat and our benefactor, who had been standing by all the time, started steaming away. Those on her also realized that the weather was still too stormy to undertake a reasonably safe rescue operation.

A few hours later, another ship came into sight. This was the cruise-ship "Victoria" on her voyage to New York. She was well equipped to manoeuver close to the wreck and to lower one of her lifeboats. But the boat could not come alongside the wreck, so they advised us to jump into the sea, from where they would pull us into their lifeboat. We followed this advice and were soon on board the hospitable ship, objects of admiration for her passengers. Two days later, we landed in New York.

Our shipmates on the after-section of the wreck had anxiously been awaiting daylight in order to ascertain the condition in which the forward part had survived the stormy night. Not finding us anywhere on the still-raging sea, they had sorrowfully concluded that we had perished. Furthermore, as there was no navigator amongst them, they did not know where they were. By the time they were found and rescued by a U.S. naval vessel, they had drifted about one hundred miles from the position where the vessel had broken her back.

Both ends of the motor-tanker "Gem" were eventually rounded up and towed to Jacksonville, Florida, but she never sailed again. The seamen of the unlucky tanker were reunited in New York, with the exception of the unfortunate Second Officer. Luckily, none of the survivors had suffered any injuries, other than exposure and anxiety, and a doleful feeling for the loss of their ship.

Stephanie Bergman

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