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.
With a load of iron ore, twenty-six thousand tons more
Than the Edmund Fitzgerald weighed empty,
That good ship and true was a bone to be chewed
When the gales of November came early.

The ship was the pride of the American side,
Coming back from some mill in Wisconsin.
As the big freighters go, it was bigger than most,
With a crew and good captain well-seasoned,
Concluding some terms with a couple of steel firms
When they left, fully loaded, for Cleveland;
And later that night, when the ship's bell rang,
Could it be the north wind they'd been feelin'?

The wind in the wires made a tattletale sound,
And a wave broke over the railing.
And every man knew, as the captain did too,
'Twas the witch of November come stealin'.
The dawn came late, and the breakfast had to wait
When the gales of November came slashin'.
When afternoon came, it was freezin' rain
In the face of a hurricane west wind.

When suppertime came, the old cook came on deck,
Sayin', "Fellas, it's too rough to feed ya."
At seven p.m., a main hatchway caved in;
He said, "Fellas, it's been good t'know ya."
The captain wired in; he had water comin' in,
And the good ship and crew was in peril.
And later that night, when his lights went outa sight,
Came the wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald.

Does any one know where the love of God goes
When the waves turn the minutes to hours?
The searches all say they'd have made Whitefish Bay
If they'd put fifteen more miles behind her.
They might have split up or they might have capsized;
They may have broke deep and took water.
And all that remains is the faces and the names
Of the wives and the sons and the daughters.

Lake Huron rolls. Superior sings
In the rooms of her ice-water mansion.
Old Michigan steams like a young man's dreams.
The islands and bays are for sportsmen.
And farther below, Lake Ontario
Takes in what Lake Erie can send her.
And the iron boats go, as the mariners all know,
With the gales of November remembered.

In a musty old hall in Detroit, they prayed
In the Maritime Sailors' Cathedral.
The church bell chimed 'til it rang twenty-nine times
For each man on the Edmund Fitzgerald.
The legend lives on, from the Chippewa on down,
Of the big lake they call "Gitche Gumee":
Superior, they said, never gives up her dead
When the gales of November come early!

--Gordon Lightfoot, "The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald"

In memory of the 29 brave mariners who lost their lives that evening on
Lake Superior, in Canadian waters, 17 miles from the entrance to
Whitefish Bay--

Captain Ernest M. McSorley
Michael E. Armagost
Fred J. Beetcher
Thomas D. Bentsen
Edward F. Bindon
Thomas D. Borgeson
Oliver J. Champeau
Nolan S. Church
Ransom E. Cundy
Thomas E. Edwards
Russell G. Haskell
George J. Holl
Bruce L. Hudson
Allen G. Kalmon
Gorden Maclellan
Joseph Mazes
John H. McCarthy
Eugene O'Brien
Karl A. Peckol
John J. Poviach
James A. Pratt
Robert C. Rafferty
Paul M. Rippa
John D. Simmons
William J. Spengler
Mark A. Thomas
Ralph G. Walton
David E. Weiss
Blaine H. Wilhelm