Spooky Sailing Stories: Escape from the Island of Doom

There just might be something to the old legends

By Marlin Bree

7:30 a.m. Fog wisped around the tiny island harbor; the nearby hills of St. Ignace Island were wreathed in the gray stuff. The air was calm: on my transom, atop my boat’s short wooden flagpole, my American flag drooped limply. Water idly lapped at my hull.  I waited patiently. An hour later, fog patches rolled in and out, like swatches of gray cotton candy, and hid the other islands. An hour later, I could make out the nearby islands.           

The fog was burning off.

Under power, I swung my 20-foot sailboat, Persistence, north around Agate Island and headed southeast toward Talbot Island. I'd be on an inside channel – for a while. Then I’d be on the open waters of Lake Superior.

It was good to be free. I had been fog-bound for days in beautiful CPR Harbor on St. Ignace Island, one of the thousands of small islands dotting Lake Superior’s Canadian north shore.

Today, when I snapped on my VHF radio to the Environment Canada forecast, it issued a security alert: a small craft warning.

I was mindful of what a Canadian boater told me. “Up here, you have to move, or you never go anywhere. If you listen to them, they’ll scare the hell out of you.”

That seemed to make sense, and besides, I was restless. I wanted to get going on my exploration of Superior’s most rugged shore. Someday, I knew it would be a huge freshwater conservation area of tens of thousands of acres.

True, I’d have to pass by a famous—and ghostly—piece of rock with a bad reputation, but then I’d head out onto Superior’s notorious open waters for a while before swinging up a rocky channel and heading for the small village of Rossport, Ontario.

---

As I sailed past Talbot Island, I gave it a wide berth. It seemed to be just another rocky island out here in the middle of nowhere. But I knew its dark history.

To the east were wicked reefs that stretched underwater well offshore—dangerous enough that the Canadian government built Superior's first lighthouse here.

This was the legendary Island of Doom.

From my bouncing cockpit, I trained my binoculars on the wind-swept chunk of rock.  I couldn’t make out a sign of a lighthouse or even the rocky base where one might have stood. But the island was low; storms could quickly have overrun the island and dashed away all signs of man.

Built in 1867, the first lighthouse was a white wooden tower illuminated by three kerosene lamps and kept by a man named Perry. In his isolated post on the lonely island, the first lighthouse keeper on Superior was on his own – including finding his way back to civilization.

At the end of the first season, around mid-December, Perry closed the station and began a voyage in a small sailboat to a trading post at the Nipigon River's mouth. He never made it.

His body was discovered the following spring on a beach beside his overturned boat.  He was victim number one.

The following year, the lighthouse was enlarged so the keeper could stay on the island all winter. Captain Thomas Lamphier, a veteran skipper of a Hudson's Bay schooner for nearly 20 years, was hired as keeper and left on the island with his wife.

After Superior froze over late in the fall, he died, leaving his grieving wife alone and isolated on the island with no way of getting help. Since Talbot is primarily rock, she had no way of burying him, either, so she did the only thing she could: she wrapped Capt. Lamphier in canvas and placed her beloved husband a short distance behind the lighthouse in a rock crevasse. All winter long, she lived on the isolated island with her husband's unburied corpse nearby.

It wasn't until the following spring that a group of Ojibway paddlers saw Mrs. Lamphier's urgent signals. They took the body by canoe to nearby Bowman Island, where they buried it. Atop his grave, they placed a small cross.

When the lighthouse service ship finally arrived on Talbot Island, the crew almost did not recognize Mrs. Lamphier. Her black hair had turned ghastly white.

Tragedy also struck the third keeper, Andrew Hynes. At the season’s end in 1872, Hynes boarded up the lighthouse and set sail in a small boat for Fort William at Thunder Bay. The weather was clear at the beginning of the voyage, but a storm suddenly erupted. Winds swept Superior, waves grew, and the temperature plummeted.

For 18 days, Hynes fought the inland seas in his open craft. He got as far as Silver Islet, about 60 miles to the west. At the small mining community, the half-frozen keeper lifted himself partway from his boat and told his name and a little of his horrifying voyage. Then he died.

There was no fourth keeper for the Island of Doom. The government abandoned the lighthouse in 1873 – its macabre record unrivaled by any other Superior lighthouse.

The tower remained standing for years, but legends grew. It was said that when the fog rolled in, someone or something would beat against its wooden sides to warn those still out on the lake. Some saw a ghostly figure of a woman with long white hair wandering disconsolately about the island. There was a curse on the island, it was said, and anyone who came to close would inherit its bad luck.

I did not see or hear anything as I sailed past the Island of Doom, but I still felt its presence. This was a place with a bad history and a curse on it. Was there something out there—behind the legend?

I gave the island a wide berth.

---

Ahead lay 16 miles of open water. I sat back in my inside steering seat, slumping a bit. I had my remote control in my hand, with my automatic helm doing all the steering work, and checked my course on my GPS.

Let the boat do the work, I thought to myself. That's how I designed her.

Something dark rushed toward us in the water.

Adrenalin pumping, I threw the boat to one side and narrowly avoided it.

The next one hit the hull with a resounding thump. It traveled along the beam and seemed like an eternity before clearing the spinning prop. Had it hit, I might have lost the motor.

I stood up and squinted. Many little black things were stretching into the horizon ahead of the bow—bits of tree stumps, branches, and even logs.

This was the first time I'd encountered debris in Superior’s famously clear water. Where had all the logs and breakage had come?

I immediately thought of the Island’s curse. Bad luck had now come to my boat, and I had better be careful.

I slowed the engine to work our way through the log pack. My hand was firmly on the tiller, and I zigzagged and zagged.

"Position ... what is your position?" the radio crackled. I did not know who was calling me or if it was for me, but I couldn't get to the radio. All my attention was on my game of dodgem.

Another log. Quick. A change of course. Slow the boat.

Bump. I hadn’t expected that one. A scraping noise along the side of the hull.

I watched as the log bobbed off in our wake. I glanced ahead: more logs coming up. Two and threes.

I began to feel like the helmsman on the Titanic. It didn’t take a lot of iceberg to sink that large, steel ship and here I was with a wooden boat.

By the time I got past Moffitt strait, the water seemed to clear up. We had passed through the debris field. And we had escaped the curse, I thought.

I quickly checked below. Lifting the floorboards, I could not see any water coming in. My cedar hull had held up, but I did not know how impact-resistant the three-eighths-inch cedar would be.

And I’d rather not find out.

---

Now the wind started to blow from the southeast and the boat slowed and swayed with the gusts, creaking, groaning, and clanging. The waves were hitting us off our starboard bow, giving us nasty little shoves and splashing some of their white caps aboard.

I glanced below just in time to see a little slop of water shooting up through the open centerboard trunk.

A chill settled in my stomach. I had barely entered the open waters and already I was having problems.

I double-checked my chart, bringing out my dividers. I was on a course of 102 degrees, heading mostly easterly, doing 5.9 m.p.h. I had just changed from a heading of 92 degrees off Grebe Point, trying to avoid a big pile of reefs off Beetle Point.

There was hope. An hour of this and I'd be heading into Simpson Strait, on my way to Lake Nipigon. I'd be in the protection of the islands – and off the open waters of the lake.

I was just putting down my chart and congratulating myself when a white bank rolled in with the wind. All my landmarks disappeared.

Total fog. I could barely see beyond my bow.

My adrenalin surged again. A small voice inside my head warned:

Danger! You should get the heck out of here.

I shook my head, trying to center myself. Sailing Superior is as much a mind game as physical. You have to keep a psychological advantage – and not give in to fear.    

I knew I had to concentrate.

Now … where was that bloody channel?

Not far ahead were the reefs off Simpson Island.  It was one thing to look for them when you could see and another to continue in their general direction blindly.

But if I went too far, I'd run across more reefs off Battle Island.

In the inside driving position, I again spread out my chart and worked my dividers. The bouncing ride was not helping. The sweat was dripping down from my face. Having my eyeglasses fog up was not helping either. I calculated positions and punched in additional landmarks; one to a point directly south of the channel, and some more directly up the channel’s mid-point. I hoped I got the numbers right.

In a shaky hand, I wrote the positions on the side of my chart. I nearly stabbed myself with the dividers.

OK, now I had it. The exact point I should steer to was landmark Morn 1, opposite Morn Point. Once this landmark came up, I would make my turn, avoiding the reefs off Morn and also off Battle Island, and head northwesterly up the channel.

Nervously, I settled back, peering ahead. But all I could see was the bow of my boat, plunging along, occasionally slinging up spray. The rest was fog and gray water.

I braced myself as the boat rolled about in the waves, one side, then the other. The Canadian chart, which I had folded in quarters, swung back and forth from its holder like a pendulum.      

The GPS was to the right of my nose; I could not miss it. The clock, with its oversize analog hands, was to my left, and I could keep track of time running for dead reckoning. Ahead of me were two compasses, which did not totally agree.

I knew that if I miscalculated, I'd probably be on the rocks before I could see them. I might not have time to turn.

It was past noon, but I had no appetite for food. My stomach was knotted up.

I didn't imagine there would be anyone else dumb enough to be running out here in the fog with me. Still, it was wise to check.  

“Security ... security,” I broadcast on my VHF radio, identifying myself to the Canadian Coast Guard. "I am nearing the south entrance to the Simpson channel, encountering heavy fog and want to contact any boats in the vicinity."

Only static greeted me. I broadcast my security message several more times.

A voice came through the speaker: "We are sending out your warning and your heading." It was the Thunder Bay Coast Guard. They also told me there were a few fishing boats in several coves but staying put.

Good. I had the channel to myself, so I plugged on, flying low and slow.

My little GPS was giving me speed, heading, and coordinates. It told me how soon I’d get to the next landmark. There were a number of screens I had been using one with an arrow on it telling me if I was on my heading or not.

But where was I exactly? That bothered me. Too close to the edge of the island, and I’d be in some serious rocks.  Too far west – more rocks.

Dummy! I almost could have kicked myself, for I realized that I had not used one screen on my GPS – the one that told me exactly what my position was, good within about 50 feet. I glanced upward in the fog at what must be the heavens and uttered a small thanks.

I clicked on the screen, and there I was. My position. Exactly.

It seemed to me I might be getting a little close to the rocks, so I headed off the lake a little more. With my dividers, I double-checked the landmark I had selected, and then triple checked it. A tense moment. When all the numbers aligned and the stars in the heavens agreed, I punched in my turn. The faithful Autohelm buzzed; the boat turned.

I crossed my fingers for I was navigating on faith. I still couldn't see anything, but I had to be right or I'd run right into the reefs.

I watched the GPS numbers line up. I was, theoretically, west of Battle Island, entering the channel between Simpson Island and Salter Island.

The motion of the boat changed. I could feel the difference. The wind and the waves were now coming off my starboard aft quarter.

The day was less gray. A white orb appeared above me in the gray sky. Below me, the waters turned blue.

The sun was burning the fog away. I was, miracle of miracles, right in the middle of the channel. I could have kissed my little GPS unit. It had guided me safely off the lake.

By 2 p.m., as I neared the north end of Salter Island, a yellow sun beamed overhead; below me, the waters were calm and sparkling.

I was in Nipigon Bay. What a difference! Summer had returned; I began to perspire.

From my chart, I knew Barwis Reef lay dead ahead. I pulled out my binoculars to look for the reef marker, but I couldn't see anything. I stood in the cockpit, holding onto the swaying boom, searching the water. According to my chart, there was supposed to be a flashing red light that marked the reefs. No marker.

Out came the chart, the dividers, and the GPS, and I placed them on a towel in the cockpit. I calculated new landmarks to bypass the reef. It was now 3 p.m., and the wind out of the east had slowed my eastward passage to 4.9 m.p.h.

Ahead lay the distinctive round, tree-topped islands of Rossport Harbor. My route was toward Quarry Island, a high, towering island. The sun was beating down on my back, and in all my clothing plus PFD and safety harness, I was perspiring heavily. I felt sleepy.

And I caught myself staring directly at a channel marker. Just staring. Suddenly I realized I was guiding my boat directly toward a red, striped marker.

Reefs!

I yanked the tiller over, correcting my course. I shook my head, realizing that I was not thinking clearly. How stupid could you get? I had nearly put us on the rocks.

We easily rounded the bend; ahead lay beautiful Rossport Harbor.   

As I came closer to the municipal dock, I blinked twice in the sunlight at a large, white boat tied alongside. A crewperson was aboard.

"Where's the best place to tie up?" I yelled.

The woman made a motion of her blonde head, as if to say "this way," and walked over to one side. I tossed her my line—and we were inside the L-shaped dock, safe and secure.

“Welcome to Rossport,” she said brightly. "Did you have a good trip?"

“A little fog,” I allowed.

“You get some of that around here,” she said. •SCA•

Marlin Bree’s Escape from the Island of Doom is excerpted from his book, Bold Sea Stories: 21 Inspirational Adventures, published by Marlor Press, Inc. Copyright 2024.