Port Of Goderich
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MacDonald Marine is rich in marine history. 

 

The following text was scanned from the original article that appeared in The London Free Press "Weekend Magazine".

For 50 YEARS the town of Goderich, on the east shore of Lake Huron, has had good reason to be grateful to the MacDonald family - descendants of lake sailor Capt. John MacDonald, who settled at Goderich in the last half ofthe 1 9th Century, became a master ofthe schooner Azov, owner of a fleet of sailing ships and a father offive sons and four daughters, Capt. Johns progeny have rescued at least 73 persons from drowning in the cold waters of Lake Huron. 
The figure of 73 is conservative, since it is impossible to pinpoint exactly how many people the MacDonalds have rescued. No one remembers them all. No one has properly recorded them The story is in the uncertain memories ofold-timers, in yellowing newspaper clippings haphazardly tossed into a box, and in casual notations in a log book - “received ten dollar gold piece for saving girl” or” two men washed off southwest breakwater, both saved.” To the MacDonalds, none of whom has been a professional lifeguard, saving lives is all in a day’s work.

An undocumented, but more realistic total of lives they have saved, according to old hands in Goderich, would be closer to 200. How is it that so many people have been rescued by on family? Part of the reason is that no one can get into trouble in Goderich harbor without at least one of the many MacDonalds being somewhere within hailing distance. Most, like their ancestor John, have made their living, in one way or another, on the water. Those who have not, haunt the harbor in their spare time. All have developed a kind of sixth sense. “Many of us, who have spent so much time around the water,” says Bruce MacDonald, Capt. John’s grandson, “have developed a sense of anticipation. We almost know something is going to happen before it does. You’re watching three kids swim the ship channel and one falls behind his friends. Even though he looks airight, you’re wondering if he’s in trouble before he shows it. When the kid screams, or goes down, in a sense you’re prepared for it and can react almost automatically.” 

A good many of Bruce’s officially-recorded rescues have been of youngsters in trouble with inner tubes or beach toys, which he considers the No. iwater killer. But he has skin-dived beneath the ice to rescue a diver caught in a buoy line, he has taken people off disabled sailboats drifting helplessly out in the lake; he has pulled from the water the passengers of overturned seaplanes and capsized speedboats. Yet Bruce is not one of the MacDonalds who has made a career of the lake, He is an electrical contractor, who spends most of his leisure time on or beneath the water. He was one of a party of skin divers which, in 1958, raised the bulk of what was believed to have been the first sailing ship on the Great Lakes - the Griffon, built in 1678 by Sieur de Ia Salle, and sunk the following year off Tobermory, at the tip of the Bruce Peninsula, possibly during an Indian attack. An incident in 1960 is a good example of how a MacDonald is on hand when danger threatens. It was May, and Bruce was in the harbor, fitting out his schooner, Wanderer II, for the summer’s sailing. It was a foul day, with gusty winds. Suddenly, Bruce spotted a small, dark object pitching and wallowing far out in the lake. It was a small sailboat, and it was being driven toward the International Shoal, a treacherous series of rock bars extending several hundred yards out from the shore. 
“I got out the glasses, but the sea was about seven feet high and kept him from sight most of the time. The last time I caught a glimpse of the boat, the sail appeared to be jammed half-way down. He probably tried to reef her and it got stuck. I jumped into the Wanderer and headed out Once I cleared the breakwater, I caught the occasional glimpse of the boat when she rode the crest of the waves. When she disappeared completely. It was near gale by now. “By the time I got near the sailboat, I was drenched to the skin I could see she was completely out of control and heading toward the reef. There was one man on board, hanging on for dear life. The water was white, seething and boiling, and the boat was only about 200 yards from the shoal. The moment any boat reached that water, she’d be rolled right over and flipped around like a cork. The fellow wouldn’t have a chance, not even swimming clear. Nor would I, if I got caught too far in. “I eased the Wanderer as close as I could. Finally, I was close enough to heave him a line. By this time, he was only about 50 yards from that foaming surf. In another minute, I’d be breaking up, too. “I finally got the line to him and hauled him to safety, then back to the harbor. And, you know, that fellow just joked about it. To this day, he doesn’t know how close he was to death.” “I eased the Wanderer as close as I could. Finally, I was close enough to heave him a line. By this time, he was only about 50 yards from that foaming surf. In another minute, I’d be breaking up, too. “I finally got the line to him and hauled him to safety, then back to the harbor. And, you know, that fellow just joked about it. To this day, he doesn’t know how close he was to death.” 

Therecord holder among the MacDonalds was Bruce’s Uncle Bert, one of Capt. John’s sons, and founder of MacDonald Marine, a combination tug fleet, boat livery and bathing pavilion which is still a fixture in Goderich harbor. Before his death eight years ago, Bert officially credited with 38 rescues, unofficially with at least 60. “There could be another 100 or more cases that nobody ever learned about,” Bruce says. “He was almost too modest and unassuming. The whole town owes him a lot.” “I think you could safely say that Bert taught just about every kid in Goderich, of my generation at least, how to swim and handle himself in the water. He used to spend hours with us. He would sit near the beach with his binoculars, watching for peolpe, especially children, who might get into trouble. It’s largely because of Bert that until 1962 there was never an officail lifeguard on the beach here.” 

“Bert’s record began, officially, in 1916, when he pulled an unidentified girl from the water. This was when he received the $10 gold piece - one of the few times a MacDonald has received any kind of reward for a rescue. It was not untill949 that Bert received any kind of recognition from the town. He was presented with a gold watch and a citation that read, in part, “It has often been brought to the minds of our citizens your complete disregard of personal sacrifice or gain in helping others in trouble on our lake.” On Aug. 4, three years later, he was awarded the Imperial Service Medal from the Queen, “in recognition of the meritorious services which you have rendered.” 

On the last day of 1953, Bert himself was swept into the icy water by a swinging steel cable. Appropriately, he was rescued by his grandson, Donald Bert MacAdam, whose score is 12 lives saved. MacAdam’s specialty has been pulling people out of the 50-yard-wide Goderich ship channel, a natural and dangerous challenge to swimmers. The abrupt shifts in weather and the sudden squalls that make the lake so perilous can turn the channel into a deathtrap, full of dangerous currents.

At least one youngster owes his life twice to Capt. John’s heirs. “Some people never learn,” says Donald Bert. “My cousin Bruce saved this local kid, who owns a sailboat, from being wrecked on a shoal. A couple of weeks later, I spotted the same lad about three miles out in the lake, with a gale blowing. I knew he was asking for trouble, so I started out after him in a tug. When I was about a hundred yards from him, his boat capsized. Grateful? not a bit; he couldn’t care less.” The MacDonald flair seems to extend to those associated with them. Sonny Mallough, who works for Donald Bert as a MacDonald Marine tugman, has been awarded two certificates by the Royal Humane Association for “heroic action and presence of mind.” Sonny’s awards were for saving a boy in 1955 and a girl in 1961. 

One of the most dramatic rescues by a member of the family was the only one ever credited to William “Skip” MacDonald, son of Capt. John and father of Bruce. It was a hot afternoon in June, 1950, with Lake Huron flat as a mirror. A seaplane was coming in to the harbor and Skip, who was out in an outboard, turned toward shore to give it plenty of room. The plane approached the water in a flat glide, and it looked like a perfect landing. Suddenly, about 50 feet from the surface, the motor stopped and the plane lurched crazily into the lake “She bounced almost 50 feet straight up.” says Skip, “then skipped a couple more times and finally nosed into the lake. I was there within 10 seconds. The nose was in deep water, the tail still out but settling. I could hear screams inside of the fuselage near the tail. “I dove in and down, but I couldn’t see any hatch or doorway. I took the boat around the other side and dove again. There was an open hatch half-way down the fuselage, about seven feet under water A woman was floating half out of the hatch and appeared to be stuck. I grabbed her, brought her up and pushed her into the boat. She was hysterical - she wanted to get back in the plane. But now it was under water. It was too late. “I figured the pilot had swum up through the hull to the tail, grabbed the woman from the air pocket there and pushed her through the doorway. He probably thought she would float free, so he went back through the water- filled hull for the boy up front. He never made it.” Skip shudders. “I couldn’t sleep for a month after that, and I can still hear those screams.” “The 37-year-old pilot and his six-year-old son died in that crash. Only the mother survived, thanks to Skip, who was awarded the Royal Humane Association’s bronze medal for the rescue. 

Family pride is strong in the MacDonalds, and with good reason. It goes back to Capt. John, who was the hero of a dramatic story of courage and endurance on the lake. In October, 1911, the Azov (originally called the Azov of Wellington Square and the last two masted schooneron the lakes) was running down Lake Huron under full sail and with a full hold. Her 60- year-old skipper, Capt. John, had picked up a cargo of deadheads, or sunken logs, at Gore Bay, on Manitoulin Island. Somewhere near Pointe Aux Barques, on the Michigan side of the lake, the wind started blowing up from the southwest. Perhaps because of shifting deadheads in the hold, a seam opened up. The deadheads soaked up water like sponges, and the pumps could not keep up with it. When the Azov started to roll, all hands - four crewmen, the mate, cook and master - abandoned ship into the yawlboat. The only things they saved were the compass and a couple of sea bags. The Azov went down as they rowed away. Night was beginning to fall. They tried pulling toward the Michigan mainland, 10 or 12 miles away. But, loaded down with seven people, they could make no headway. The wind had changed to northeast, bringing snow and rain squalls. It was impossible to make the Michigan shore. Capt. John had a gaff-rig mast and sail lashed to the thwarts of the yawlboat, and he brought it out. They set out across the entire 60-mile breadth of Lake Huron in the black of night, in a howling snowstorm. In the bitter cold and stinging spray they would bail for a while, then huddle together for warmth. The Old Man periodically unshipped the steering oar and poked the others with it, or beat them with the end of a rope to keep them awake and alive. He stood there yelling, swearing and singing against the gale, fighting off sleep for all of them.

Finally, in the grey dawn, they could see the shadowy outlines of land on the eastern horizon. “Those are the hills of home, boys” Capt John called. “I told you I’d land you in Goderich “Fourteen hours after the Azov rolled and went down, Capt. John steered his yawlboat into the breakwater gap and up the ship channel to the harbor, But the Azov was not dead yet - not quite. She came to the surface and started to float again, a derelict. She floated right across the lake, as though she wanted to come home, and ended upon a shoal near Shanty Island, north of Goderich. There she gave up, slid to the bottom, and this time stayed there. 

In 1956, Bruce with some of his friends, decided to try to find the wreck of his grandfather’s ship. After several days of skin diving, they did, and Bruce recorded the event in his log book. “At last, there below us, lay a huge anchor with pear-shaped balls on its shank. This was the Azov. I shall never forget the feeling that passed through me when I first saw her lying there on the bottom. I think every story I had ever heard, every adventure, and a picture of every man that sailed her, flashed through my mind. “This was the end of the search; here was this ship that was the foundation of a great pride that I have always felt within me - that I could always tell someone my grandfather owned a sailing ship called the Azov and he was a proud and tough skipper, and my Uncle Johnnie, my Uncle Mac and my Uncle Danny all sailed under him and they were also proud and tough men And nowwe found the Azov again, we are going to raise her anchor and chains and bring them home, once and for all. They will stand as a monument to this proud ship and the proud and tough men that sailed her.” They raised the chains and anchor, and the capstan as well. They lie on the front lawn of the Goderich Museum, for all to see.

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