Even before the new skipper came aboard the Chippewa in the flour-covered pier in Superior, I knew that this trip was not going to be like other trips.
During all the seasons that I had been a radio operator on the Great Lakes I had been hearing a strange tale about him. Rumors, like Lake Erie squalls, are stirred up in a hurry, and usually die down as quickly, but this one was different. It didn’t die. It drifted about with the wind from one end of the Lakes to the other, and windlike, it came first from one direction, then another.
The first time I heard it was one fine day near the beginning of my first summer on the Lakes. We had been coasting down Lake Huron ahead of a stiff breeze and were about to enter the river at Port Huron.
My eyes were on the tall, straight spruce poles of the Canadian radio station at Sarnia, but, as we came near the lightship which guards the entrance of the river, I noticed a marker and, as we passed it, I thought I could see the masts of a ship a foot or two under water.
I could not be sure—I was young and romantic, and thought maybe I was imagining things—and so the next time I had a chance I asked the chief about it.
In Public Domain
First Published 1929
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