Always Another Shipwreck
by Ellsworth Boyd (View More)
He drops eight small pieces of silver into my hand, smiles and says, “Two bits, four bits, six bits, a dollar.” Then he shows me a one ounce eight reale (royal) coin, better known as a peso or piece of eight, minted in New Spain in the 1700s. “Sometimes they were cut into eight pieces, like a pie, in order to make change,” he says.
When Bonnie Buckler and John Santulli settled into a waterfront table for lunch at the Ocean Grill Restaurant, Vero Beach, Florida, they spotted a strange object offshore. It was only about a quarter of a mile away and at first appeared to be some sort of a marine creature. But it wasn’t moving and barely broke the surface, its shadowy outline looming in the clear blue water.
The disappearance of two English exploratory ships in the polar regions of northern Canada in 1848 was always a puzzle. Some called it a mystery while others simply dubbed it a “horrible tragedy.” Under the command of Sir John Franklin, the HMS Erebus and HMS Terror—converted from warships to polar research vessels—were assigned to try and complete a northwest passage to Asia, record magnetic fields, and collect plant and animal life.
When vessels go down without a trace—no how, what, when or where recorded—they become “mystery ships.” Such was the case of the SS Yongala, a stately passenger and cargo steamship that disappeared March 24, 1911, off the coast of Queensland, Australia.
Murphy’s Law: “Anything that can go wrong will go wrong” is an old adage aptly applied to the sinking of the passenger liner SS Vestris, November 12, 1928. There was a late SOS; bungled lifeboat launchings; a negligent crew; an over-loaded cargo hold and nearby vessels without radios. In addition, poor judgment and neglect became major culprits in Murphy’s mandate.
Hattie Wells image provided by SeaView Systems