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BC FERRIES GROUNDING!
(copyright © 1999 all rights reserved)
This ia true story written by a Crewman aboard at the time!
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From deep within her bowels came a foreboding, muffled, BrrruuUMMPUMPP!
Like a wounded beast with its belly ripped open, the pride of B.C. Ferries ‘Queen of Prince Rupert’s’ fate was sealed. Thirty-five hundred tons momentum rammed her onto Haddington Reef, fifty miles from the Northern tip of Vancouver Island.
Moments earlier, throbbing engine vibration masked the quick rise and fall of our ship’s deck underfoot. Always in tune with his ship, Captain Callan sensed the aberration even in his sleep. Sitting bolt‑upright in his elevated Captain’s chair, he pushed off the armrests and reached the central bridge console in two strides. Grasping large twin aluminum control handles, he arcing them back ninety-degrees against stiff hydraulic pressure, neutralizing forward thrust. Another ninety degree arc forced nine meter (30′) stainless steel props into full reverse pitch!
Five decks below, engine machinery thrashed wildly. Our ninety-nine-metre (325′) ship shuddered and bucked like a startled mare!
It was ‘too little, too late’. As quickly as it had begun, all ships’ movements abruptly ceased. Suddenly it was eerily quiet!
For early rising passengers strolling the passenger deck, the braking force felt much like a sudden stop in heavy city traffic. Only minor injuries were reported.
It was just after 0600 hours (six a.m.) Saturday, August 12th 1967.
Most passengers and crew were aroused from sleep by the abrupt silence of diesel engines and cessation of motion. Many were in small, overnight cabin berths.
Back on the bridge, the Captain bowed his head momentarily, as if experiencing actual physical pain. He suddenly looked much smaller than his tall, lanky, middle-aged Anglo Saxon frame.
“That’s it. . .” He stated flatly through clenched teeth, to no one in particular;
“We’re on it.”
Struggling to comprehend the meaning of his words, my mind raced back recalling recent events.
We had departed Prince Rupert, B.C. in mid-afternoon on our regular Southbound summer schedule, with nearly a full load of passengers and vehicles.
To maintain the twenty hour one-way schedule, we sliced through a thick summer fog at normal cruising speed of almost eighteen knots (about 20 m.p.h.).
In such fog conditions, navigation fully depends on ships’ radar and well-defined charts, much like an airliner flying solely on instruments.
Only a few minutes had passed since a three-man bridge crew began their six-hour ‘morning watch.’ I was one of two relieving Quartermasters, a.k.a. Helmsmen.
Captain Callan was present on the bridge also. His concern for safety in heavy fog conditions had kept him up most of the night, backing up the watch keepers. (Ironically, some speculate that Captains presence on the bridge ‘contributed’ to the accident owing to an unconscious reliance on his support.)
My own responsibility for that first hour on watch was to assume a fog ‘lookout’ position on the port side of the wheelhouse (bridge), and to alternate on the helm with the other quartermaster hourly. On the wheel, we steered a course ordered by the Watch Officer.
Pre-dawn morning coffee was just beginning to kick in, while the Captain was now understandably dozing in his traditional oak chair on the Starboard side of the bridge. As we headed for our home port of Kelsey Bay on Vancouver Island, first light was just beginning to filter through the surrounding cotton-like fog and gloom. It was like floating in a big wet cloud.
Fog ‘lookout’ is an oxymoron since the only thing actually visible was our bow wave some eighty feet below the bridge lookout position. With the port wheelhouse window open, I listened intently for horns or whistles. The idea being to try to detect any small boats that may have escaped radar detection. It was difficult to hear anything over waves of throbbing vibration from our twin diesel engines.
Wiping freezing condensation from my eyebrows, I zipped up a heavy seaman’s jacket. For his part, the Officer of the Watch had seemed to confirm our ships’ precise location by checking both short and long range radar screens. He peered down into their cone shaped hoods for several moments as soon as he had assumed the ‘con’ as officer of the watch.
The ship’s position, course, and speed, became his exclusive responsibility when bridge control was turned over to him. This was true even with Captain present, (unless the Skipper assumed that role by clearly stating he was “taking the con”).
Steering between B.C.’s many coastal islands and the mainland requires skillful multi-course adjustments on the ‘Inside Passage’ route. Fjord-like passages such as the fifty-mile long Grenville Channel near Prince Rupert are narrow for a ship the size of ours. Observing ‘rules of the road’ with a mixture of other marine traffic, large or small, is always vital.
Clearly it was the deck officer who bore the burden for any navigational errors. Regardless, as soon as we struck the reef, I too felt a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach!

Just before we struck rocks, I observed kelp vegetation on the surface of the water, passing down the port side. However, since this was only my second two-week tour of duty on the Prince Rupert run, I quietly asked my senior (Quartermaster) partner if that should be reported. Fatefully, he shook his head, dismissing it as trivial information. Apparently kelp can in fact grow and/or appear anywhere in coastal waters, however in hindsight, it was my concern that it may have been an indication we were already off course.
At that precise moment all else seemed perfectly normal because we were blinded by the fog. The Watch Officer, after checking radar, had stepped into the radio shack, aft of the bridge, in order to review weather forecasts.
He was chatting with the Radio Officer when we first grazed the rocks.
Shock, mixed with guilt, at first numbed this young husband and father. Thank God, facts would soon reveal that a last minute change of course could have led to an even more tragic consequence, perhaps even a ‘Titanic-like’ disaster, rather than prevention!
Boring through that soggy, porridge‑like coastal fog at full normal cruise speed was normal routine in mid-August.
Regardless, in one brief moment, two hundred and ninety-nine passengers and several dozen crew members were forced to accept a new reality; we were now dead-center in a serious maritime accident. In fact we were all just catching up to what the Captain had instantly realized; our ship’s hull was seriously damaged and held by a submerged rocky reef or shoal.*
When fog later cleared, the ship was within sight of First Nations fishing community Alert Bay, on Cormorant Island, just a few miles away.
In the eerie silence following the grounding, Captain Callan only sagged for a moment. Then with British ‘stiff upper lip’ grit he quickly regained his composure, taking charge of himself and his crew.
Immediately he sounded the ships horn 6 or more time, the international distress signal. He then ordered the evacuation of all passengers and most crew members. There was no way of knowing if we would remain on the reef, or even capsize as the tide went out!
As chance would have it, my emergency station assignment was designated ‘bridge messenger.’ This allowed me to witness unfolding events on the bridge, right alongside the Skipper. If other means of communication failed, my job was to relay messages throughout the ship, including the engine room crew if necessary.
It soon became clear that all crew members’ drew needed strength and courage from the Captains calm display of authority.
Below the car deck level, matters quickly became critical. Engineers and Oiler assistants were shocked to see their beloved twin-diesel engines literally bounce up and down half a meter (19″) when we first hit the rocky sea bottom. Then machinery had nearly flown apart as the Captain hurriedly reversed prop pitch.
That was enough to put the fear of God in them, but now sea water began flooding into fuel tanks and engine room spaces. They only needed to be told once to shut down whatever they could and evacuate up steel ladders to the car deck.
Meanwhile, on the upper decks, catering staff, making up the majority of total crew members aboard, took care of frightened, rudely awaked passengers by directing them to lifeboats, and life-rafts. The crew also went to their assigned emergency evacuation stations.
Seaman (deckhands) took charge of loading and launching our four, fifty-two-person, fiberglass lifeboats, and many life rafts. Carefully they lowered passengers down to water level and cleared the ship.
Crew members did their jobs quite well in this hour of test. In only ninety minutes all passengers had evacuated the ship and safely arrived in Alert Bay or were en route there. Some passengers were transported by Alert Bay fish boats. These had quickly responded to our emergency radio calls, or the ship’s whistle, cautiously maneuvering through fog banks to locate and assist us.
Fish boats also towed some of the lifeboats and life-rafts to shore, tied together chain-like so they wouldn’t get lost in the fog. Less fortunate boats were rowed with oars manned by ship’s crew members or slightly bemused passengers.

Despite the fog, or perhaps because of it, there were few signs of panic. Of course there was little sense of abandoning a ‘sinking ship,’ since the flagship of B.C. Ferries fleet was solidly grounded, showing no signs of leaving her perch anytime soon.
Few passengers realized how close we had come to a real tragedy. Gratefully, I now understood that a last minute attempt to alter course would not have avoided our grounding. In fact, an emergency turn ‘hard to starboard’ might very well have created another major B.C.coastal shipwreck. Rather than coming to rest crosswise on top of Haddington reef, we could easily have gone to the bottom, in minutes, with the loss of many lives!
As it happened, the only injuries were a few bumps and bruises when we came to a sudden stop.
As fog burned off in early afternoon sunshine, passengers and crew joined local onlookers in amazement at the strange sight. The receding four and one-half metre (15′) northern tide now created the optical illusion the Queen of Prince Rupert was rising out of the water.

(thick bunker ‘C’ oil is visible below high tide line, also on recovered life boats on upper deck)
Firmly held by the reef, while surrounding tidal water dropped, gave the impression a giant undersea creature was raising her on its back.
Reporters soon arrived in float planes, circling the unique sight. Camera’s clicked as fog banks lifted. At maximum low tide the ship’s water line was more than two metres below normal.
Very fortunately the ship remained nearly level with no apparent threat of capsizing despite her ungainly appearance. Sludge-like ‘bunker c’ fuel oil leaking from her punctured hull was clinging to the sides, completing the sad picture – a picture soon to be published around the globe.
Over the next twelve hours, tidal action carried oil and sea water in and out of lower decks, crews’ quarters, engine room machinery spaces, and mixing with surrounding kelp beds. It was a minor ecological disaster and not a pretty sight.
With passengers safely ashore, a salvage plan was soon put into action. Professional scuba divers arrived on the scene to survey the hull damage.
They quickly located a number of gashes and punctures. For temporary repairs, fiberglass insulation bats were packed into two of the largest holes, eleven meters (36′) and three and one-half meters (11′) each, by fifteen centimeters (6″) wide, located near the keel.
With incoming sea water slowed, powerful high capacity pumps brought alongside on a barge began extracting tons of sea water, reducing it to a manageable volume inside.
To further lighten her load, forty cars were cautiously driven off across timber planks onto a barge. It was a dangerous job accomplished by volunteers, mostly from crew members.
Famous, ocean going Island Tug and Barge Company towboat ‘Sudbury II’ arrived on the scene the next day.
Just before high tide at 1900 hours (seven p.m.), with other boats acting as stabilizers, the tug tried, but failed to refloat the stricken ferry. Finally, after several attempts, the white, blue, and oil streaked Queen of Prince Rupert quietly and gracefully slid off the rocks, her dignity only slightly restored.
Everyone now held their collective breath to see if she would remain afloat! Straining pumps maintained the status quo against the incoming sea water.

With another forty-seven cars, trucks, and recreation vehicles still chained to the car deck, the ship was towed across Broughton Straight to Vancouver Island, dead slow, to preserve those temporary patches.
While anchored in the safety of shallow waters off Port Hardy for 24 hours, an emotionally drained skeleton crew ‘diligently’ monitored water volume throughout the night, and divers reinforced the temporary patches. In the morning with everything appearing stable, it was decided to attempt a risky, thirty-six-hour slow-tow to Burrard Dry dock in North Vancouver.
While en route, we anchored for a few hours in Nanoose Bay on Southern Vancouver Island after water pumps quit owing to contaminated fuel. A decision was made to off-load the remaining passenger vehicles, and reunite them with anxious owners waiting on shore. Again using wooden planks for ramps, vehicles were ‘tipsily’ transferred to a barge and taken ashore.

With generators off-line, the normally air conditioned ship became like a floating sauna in August heat. Those of us acting as a skeleton crew had to sweat it out all the way to the destination port.
Numerous curious boaters circled our lifeless vessel as we travelled down Georgia Straight between Vancouver Island and the mainland. Finally we passed under scenic Lions Gate bridge and entered Vancouver Harbor. Many local residents turned out to watch our passage as radio stations broadcast regular progress reports.
Once secured in Burrard dry dock, intense bidding on repairs began. No other ship in B.C. Ferries fleet was well suited for the demanding Inside Passage route and salt water had caused extensive damage to engines, electrical equipment and wiring. Getting her back in service became a priority.
Surprisingly, the entire incident became a ‘media event’ throughout the world. That publicity nearly offset the 1.5 million dollar repair costs. Subsequent seasons were fully booked, especially by American tourists who became aware of British Columbia’s beautiful ‘Inside Passage’ route through the publicity surrounding the accident! It seems that ‘any publicity is good publicity.’
In addition, many passengers involved in the accident actually spoke highly of their experience. Not only had serious hardship been almost miraculously averted by the solid grounding, but residents of Alert Bay proved to be gracious hosts during their brief stay there.
While they had waited for transportation to Vancouver Island, passengers were temporarily ‘bivouacked’ on cots in the Alert Bay (Indian) school, were entertained by traditional native dance, and served a ‘potlatch’ salmon dinner.
For tourist passengers, this turned out to be a ‘highlight’ of their vacation. A few even returned to travel again on the refurbished Queen of Prince Rupert ferry in subsequent seasons, (perhaps hoping for de ja vu!)?
All aboard B.C. Ferries, eighth largest maritime fleet in the world (in 1967).

* Haddington Reef is described as “a bank of glacial material embedded with boulders” by Oceanographer Dr. W.H. Mathews.


NOTE: another grounding of a coastal ferry took place during my time with B.C. Ferries is recorded here: This is Alaska State Ferry ‘Taku’ which went aground on an Island near Prince Rupert, B.C. in the 1970’s.