The SS Edmund Fitzgerald was a freighter that sank in Lake Superior on November 10, 1975. All 29 crew members died when the “Mighty Fitz,” fully loaded with iron ore, went down during a massive winter storm.
The subsequent Newsweek article about the incident began with this sentence: “According to a legend of the Chippewa tribe, the lake they once called Gitche Gumee ‘never gives up her dead.'”
That lead sentence and the account of the tragedy in Newsweek inspired Canadian folksinger Gordon Lightfoot to write one of the greatest story songs ever: “Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald.”
The song was hugely popular in the US and Canada and is still Lightfoot’s best-know tune. He considers it his finest work — with good reason.
Wreck Of The Edmund Fitzgerald
By Gordon Lightfoot, 1976
Written by Gordon Lightfoot
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 26,000 tons more
than the Edmund Fitzgerald weighed empty,
that good 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 every 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 to feed ya.”
At 7 PM, a main hatchway caved in; he said,
“Fellas, it’s been good to 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 his lights went out of sight,
came the wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald.
Does anyone 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 15 more miles behind her.
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 29 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.
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