Pounded by waves and scourged by winds, the C.C. Martin was tossed about like a helpless toy. The men aboard were powerless. They could do nothing but hold on and pray that the cruel waters of Georgian Bay would spare their lives. The choppy waves drove the tug onwards, smashing her up against a rocky shoal and ripping her hull open. Grim-faced sailors looked at one another, a mixture of sadness and reluctant acceptance in their eyes. The C.C. Martin was going down, and short of a miracle, it would drag the trapped men with her.
The harrowing story of this little tug and her crew’s desperate struggle against the violent fury of Lake Huron has become a part of lake lore in the century since it unfolded.
During the early 20th centuries, both Penetanguishene and Midland were vibrant sawmill towns. Their bays would be clogged with a Sargasso of sawdust and thousands of logs, the scent of freshly cut wood lingered in the air, and rare was the day when the whine of saws could not be heard. But the timber, which fed the insatiable hunger of these mills wasn’t local, because by this date most of the forests in Huronia had been denuded of harvestable trees. Instead, the wood that kept the mills running came from further afield, more specifically from along the wild shores of northern Georgian Bay.
Delivering the logs was the responsibility of a fleet of hard-working tugs, which laboured throughout the sailing season to tow booms or heavily laden barges across this often tumultuous stretch of water.
Sudden-forming storms and gale-like winds would often cut adrift the boom or tug, resulting in the loss of thousands of logs. On occasion, the tugs themselves fell prey to the fury of Mother Nature.
The C.C. Martin was one such casualty.
Sunday, September 20, 1912 was an unremarkable day, calm and pleasant. Captain George Vent was optimistic that he could deliver his tug, the C.C. Martin, and the barge it towed, the Albatross, to French River without incident. It might be the last such trip to pick up logs before autumn’s wrath closed Lake Huron to all but the largest ships and the most indomitable skippers.
The first leg of the voyage went without a note. The tug made good time and the crew lolled on deck in contented relaxation. Shortly after passing Parry Sound, however, the weather took an unexpected turn for the worse. Temperatures had plummeted, rain began to fall, and the water began to roil in anger. Captain Vent prudently sought shelter in Pointe au Baril for a time, hoping to wait out the worst of the weather.
After a few hours, however, Captain Vent became impatient and decided to press onward, despite the misgivings of the Albatross’ skipper, Captain Dean. Dean, an old salt with vast experience on the lake, saw danger looming in the angry sky and wind-tossed waters. He had good reason to err on the side of caution, for he had his wife and four passengers aboard the barge, and wasn’t eager to gamble with their lives. Vent was insistent, though, and nothing Dean could say would dissuade him from his reckless decision. The C.C. Martin left the safety of the sheltered inlet and ploughed back out onto the turbulent open waters of Georgian Bay.
By nightfall, Vent must have regretted not heeding Dean’s warning. Sheets of rain pounded the tug’s deck, washing across the planks and pouring over the sides. The hull seemed to groan in protest as the tug was tossed about the meter-high waves. Lightning flashed and thunder roared overhead. Soon, the unwieldy Albatross began taking on water, and as its holds filled, it started to settle dangerously low in the water. Captain Dean blew the vessel’s whistles in distress before ordered everyone into the 16-foot skiff to escape the floundering craft.
The crew aboard the C.C. Martin apparently didn’t hear the Albatross’ distress calls. They couldn’t have done anything to help at any rate, as they were locked in their own life and death battle for survival.
Man versus nature.
Man lost.
Two weeks later, three bodies were found washed up on shore, and nearby was a ramshackle raft constructed of cabin and engine room doors. From this evidence, we are able to piece together the final moments of the C.C. Martin.
The tug must have become disabled or grounded, and was taking on water at an alarming rate that outstripped the pump’s capacity to cope. Worse, the lifeboat must have somehow broken free and been lost, forcing the crew to then build the impromptu life raft upon which they gambled their lives. It wouldn’t have been long before the force of the waves ripped the raft apart and dragged her hapless passengers down into the lightless depths of the bay.
Ironically, the loss of the C.C. Martin’s lifeboat, a misfortune that ultimately cost the lives of all aboard the little tug, actually ended up saving the passengers and crew of the Albatross. Hours after the tug slid beneath the waves, Captain Dean spotted the lifeboat floating aimlessly upon the white-capped waves and managed to pull alongside. And not a moment too soon, for his overloaded skiff was close to being swamped. Now able to distribute their weight between two boats, the passengers and crew managed to safely row into Byng Inlet later that evening after 20 hours in open boats upon a storm-tossed Georgian Bay. Divine providence saved them. They were the lucky ones.
Many others have been far less fortunate. During the hundreds of years that man has been navigating her waters, Lake Huron has swallowed ships and souls by the hundreds, condemning these victims to watery graves. The C.C. Martin and her crew were just the latest victims of her cruelty, a few more tallies to be added to a lengthy reaper’s bill.
The Wreck of the C.C. Martin
The C.C. Martin was engaged in the logging industry.
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