Captain George A. Sawyer stood silently within the pilot house of the Superior City, one weathered hand resting upon the polished brass binnacle as his eyes searched beyond the forward windows. Fifty-three years old and hardened by more than thirty years upon the Great Lakes, Sawyer possessed the calm reserve common to the finest masters of his profession. Tall and spare of frame, with graying hair beneath his captain's cap and a neatly trimmed mustache that concealed little of his stern expression, he was a man whose confidence had been earned not through bravado but through long acquaintance with wind, water, and danger.
There were few things upon Lake Superior that Captain Sawyer had not seen. He knew, however, that the great inland sea was never more dangerous than when she appeared her calmest.
Heavy fog had settled upon Whitefish Bay like a damp woolen blanket. Before nightfall, vessels throughout the bay had begun sounding their whistles at regular intervals, announcing their presence to ships they could neither see nor judge the distance of. It clung to the steel hull of the great ore carrier and swirled endlessly about her masts and funnel, reducing visibility to less than a quarter mile. The lake and sky had become one—a world without horizon, where distance and direction could no longer be trusted.
Only the setting sun remained visible.
Far to the west, its golden light burned through the mist..... |
