50 Years After the Edmund Fitzgerald

New book shares stories of the 29 crew members lost, including a 23-year-old Michiana native

BY KIRBY SPROULS // POSTED JANUARY 21, 2026

The legend lives on from the Chippewa on down
Of the big lake, they called Gitche Gumee
The lake, it is said, never gives up her dead
When the skies of November turn gloomy
"The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald"
Gordon Lightfoot

Some of us have been listening to Gordon Lightfoot's ballad about the sinking of the Edmund Fitzgerald for so long that it's implanted in our brains, so much so that it's natural to surmise the tragedy occurred centuries ago.

In fact, it was just 50 years ago when the freighter that was the pride of Great Lakes shipping vanished in stormy Lake Superior, claiming the lives of all 29 crew members — including a 23-year-old Michiana native — and spawning a lasting legacy.

The largest ship to ever sink in the Great Lakes, the Fitzgerald sailed into a massive storm of 100-mph wind gusts and estimated 50-foot waves. Although its captain radioed to another ship that it had encountered problems, the Fitzgerald never issued a distress signal before disappearing on the night of November 10, 1975.

There were no witnesses and no survivors as the 729-foot-long freighter, hauling more than 26,000 tons of iron ore, plunged 530 feet to the bottom of the lake. It has never been determined exactly what failed on the “Mighty Fitz” in the face of that fierce storm.

However, John U. Bacon's impressive new book, The Gales of November: The Untold Story of the Edmund Fitzgerald, lays out the most likely causes, in addition to covering considerably more ground — and water.

Gales of November elaborates on the importance of Great Lakes shipping to the U.S. economy, the long history of shipwrecks on these treacherous waters and the aftermath of the disaster, including Lightfoot's unlikely hit song about the ship.

Moreover, Bacon tells the stories of the 29 men who are forever entombed in the Edmund Fitzgerald at the bottom of Lake Superior. One of those victims was Tom Bentsen, of St. Joseph, Michigan, barely five years out of high school and an oiler in the ship's engine room. His story comes alive through the voice of his friend and fellow sailor, John Hayes, a major source for the book.

Hayes, who was not a Fitzgerald crew member, befriended Bentsen while both were students at the Great Lakes Maritime Academy in Traverse City. That's where Bentsen headed after graduating in 1970 from St. Joseph High School, where he played bass fiddle in the school band and was on the football team.

Hayes was immediately taken by Bentsen, who, he tells the author, “had an air about him that earned him respect above his weight class. He walked into a room and the girls would swoon. The more he ignored women in the bar when they said hi, the more they came around … He wasn't like the Fonz, he was the Fonz,” referring to the charming character on a popular TV sitcom of that era, “Happy Days.”

Hayes, who had asked Bentsen to serve as his best man in his upcoming wedding, saw Bentsen for the final time in August 1975, when they met for breakfast. Bentsen had served on various ships before joining the Fitzgerald crew in the spring of 1975 and was happy with his new assignment.

Bentsen, who would have turned 74 this month, grew up next to Lake Michigan, although no one seems to know for sure why he chose a career as a sailor. Bacon, though, writes that upon Bentsen's high school graduation, he “wanted to get as far as possible from his father.”

Bruce Bentsen, Tom's younger brother by eight years, doesn't dispute that notion, pointing to their parents' divorce.

“Tom took our mom's side when they divorced,” Bruce said in a telephone interview from his home in Florida. “He was 16 when that happened and it was rough on Tom. We lived with our mom after that.”

The father was Harold Bentsen, a B-17 pilot in World War II and an executive at Whirlpool in Benton Harbor. Their mother was Florence Bentsen, who went to work in a local hardware store after the divorce. Both have died.

Because of their age difference, Bruce's memories of his brother are vague. But he recalls his brother's love of music, practicing his stand-up bass in the basement of their home on Thayer Avenue in St. Joseph.

And Bruce clearly remembers when news broke about the ship's sinking. He was 15 and a sophomore when his father came to the school to tell him something happened to his brother. His father then went to the area of the accident to help with the search for debris.

Bruce, who said he looks forward to reading Bacon's book, attended the public ceremony for the 50th anniversary of the ship's sinking, held in November at the Great Lakes Shipwreck Museum in Whitefish Point.

The last time Bruce saw his brother was on Bruce's birthday in September 1975. Bruce and his mother drove to East Chicago, Indiana, where they had lunch with Tom while the Fitzgerald was docked at Indiana Harbor on Lake Michigan.

That lunch was less than two months before the Edmund Fitzgerald left Superior, Wisconsin, on Sunday, November 9, 1975 loaded with taconite, a form of iron ore. It would be the final trip for Captain Ernest McSorley before concluding a distinguished career on the Great Lakes.

The Fitzgerald's route would be 350 miles east across Lake Superior to Whitefish Bay. Then it would sail through The Soo Locks and another 350 miles down Lake Huron to Zug Island, near Detroit. There, it would unload its taconite pellets before continuing to its winter home, Toledo, Ohio.

The book's account of the ship's final three days is page-turning stuff. It includes radio traffic between McSorley on the Fitzgerald and Captain Jesse Cooper on the Arthur A. Anderson, another freighter sailing practically parallel to the Fitzgerald in a violent storm resulting from the collision of two fronts — a system from the southwest and an Alberta Clipper.

At the start of their voyage, the Fitzgerald and Anderson were in something of an unofficial race to see who could reach their destination first. But weather forecasting was not nearly as sophisticated or available as it is today, thus the captains apparently were unaware of the storm's severity.

Once they realized the storm's strength, the captains slowed their ships and changed course a bit, taking a more northerly route while hoping to avoid the worst. At one point, either intentionally or unintentionally, McSorley is believed to have directed the Fitzgerald into a shallow part of the lake. In so doing, the ship could have scrapped the lake's bottom, damaging the ship and allowing water to rush in.

In one radio transmission with the Anderson, McSorley reported that he had lost his radar and his ship was listing and “taking heavy seas over the deck.” Later, in his final radio traffic, McSorely, when asked how he was doing, replied: “We are holding our own.”

Those were the last words from the Fitzgerald. Not long after, those aboard the Anderson could neither reach the Fitzgerald by radio or see it on radar. A few days later it was found in two parts about 17 miles from Whitefish Bay, where it could have found safety.

The night of the sinking, the singer-songwriter Gordon Lightfoot, a Canadian who was born near Lake Huron, was working on a song in the attic of his Toronto home, aware of the “howling wind.” He had a melody in mind but no lyrics.

That would change the next day when he read about the disaster. He worked on “The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald” for several months before releasing it later in 1976.

The late musician was initially hesitant to include it on an album or perform it in public, partly because of his concern that he'd be perceived as an opportunist, profiting on someone else's tragedy.

However, the victims' families, for the most part, embraced the song. Some of the families even became acquainted with Lightfoot and were invited backstage at his concerts. The singer joined those families at the 40th anniversary event in 2015.

The song was a surprise radio hit, according to no less than Lightfoot's drummer, Barry Keane. For one thing, in an era of two- or three-minute pop songs, this one was six minutes long. And, Keane says in the book, “It didn't have a chorus. It didn't have a hook, no 'Yummy yummy yummy I got love in my tummy.' It didn't check any of the boxes you need for a hit.”

Nonetheless, the song, still heard frequently on the radio, is more than partially responsible for immortalization of the Edmund Fitzgerald.