The diary is a small, pocket-sized, leather-bound volume, with handwritten entries recounting daily events, feelings about the weather, and thoughts about family. It is written in a MILES COMBINATION DIARY, MEMORANDUM & COMPENDIUM OF USEFUL INFORMATION — a commercial, blank journal used for such purposes. McConkey filled in the personal information section at the beginning of the diary, stating his employment by the Interlake Line of Toronto,4 his weight at 186 pounds, his height at 5 feet 8½ inches, shoe size 7½, and hat size of 7⅛. He lists detailed expenses, both of a personal nature and for the ship. He writes observations about ships seen travelling “up and down,” and includes comments to confirm the behaviour and disposition of the crew. For example, May 31, 1913: “Boyer and Reid drunk again.” He also records the dates of letters received and sent to his wife, Amanda, as well as the occasions on which he was able to telegraph messages to her. The weather sometimes bothered him. On November 3, a few days before the storm, he enters, “hard pull. anxious. Not to [sic] much fuel.” His final entry was written Friday, November 7, at Sombra, where he noted, “loading hay. Cloudy S.” The entry for November 8 was blank.
In one incident, he describes the progress of a nephew, Bert, taken onboard the last time Captain Ed left home, to mentor him through a “drinking habit.” According to daughter Amy, “Pappa had to sack the cook and his helper for having whiskey onboard — Bert took over the work and did very well. Bert’s progress toward ‘becoming a man’ ended in the wintry gales of 1913 — somewhere on Lake Huron, along with his advocate and mentor Captain McConkey.”5
It was clear that McConkey pined for the presence of his wife. In his diary entries for September 1913, he “wired Amanda at Kingston” just before leaving the dock, arranging for her to join him onboard the next day at Toronto. “Amanda aboard,” he writes. “Wish she were going for a round trip, but weather disagreeable. I am going to have her go as far as Hamilton anyway.” He leaves Hamilton with Amanda still onboard, leaving her at Port Dalhousie. In spite of his extra time with her, he writes, “Amanda going to leave me here…. Oh how blue I feel.”6 In the words of his daughter, as she wrote in June 1978, “After seventy years the pages are frail and the writing becomes more faint each year. The gilded 1913, boldly inscribed, is no longer bright and shiny. But these memories can now live forever.”7
After the storm, a diary written by “youthful fair-haired” Walter McInnes, a wheelsman on the Regina, was also found. As reported in the news:
McInnes was a good boy. That is indicated by the diary which he kept. It is evident that the mother was the boy’s idol, for carefully written in the pages of the little book are his complete accounts, the money expended for tobacco and underwear, the little incidentals, and other items denoting thrift on the part of the dead youth.
But, better still is the record kept by this youthful sailor of the money sent home to his mother. The reporter, together with the Coroner Clark, separated a pile of money order receipts which were found in the dead youth’s pocket. His memorandum book showed that he sent his mother during the season over $400…. His record was one that any mother could be proud of. Last night he lay silent and still between the forms of two of his shipmates, and there was a smile of contentment on his face.8
Although there is no such record for Bruce Cameron, the youthful, newly married, and freshly appointed master must surely have reflected on the important things in his life, as well as the issues of the moment, as he undertook this first, and fateful, voyage. An enthusiastic newcomer would most likely carry a diary to record these exciting events in his new position of leadership onboard. Let us conjecture what he might have written, based on considerable sailing experience and knowledge of Lake Huron:
On this uncompleted voyage, only 11 entries:
Entry 1: November 7, afternoon.
The passage from Thunder Bay has been quiet. The pleasant autumn weather persists, in spite of the lateness in time. This trip may not be our last run, after all. Although Blanche will not be happy about that — and I’m sure the gang on the shipyards’ team will want me pulling my weight on the ice in the scrimmages to come. That ankle that got badly cut up three years back is still bothering me when the glass goes down. It’s the cold in the air, I guess. Maybe Bassett will want another run up the lake and back — to make up for the damage costs.
Entry 2: November 7, evening.
We’re fairly tight to the line [plimsoll] with 96,000 bushels in the hold. But the bilges are dry. The new plates after Playter’s big mishap on Lime Island must have been fastened tightly and well — no sign of anything in our bilges. The guys at the yards know how to flatten those rivets. Have to wonder how he’d let her wander that far off course, especially in the fog. Steering chains seem tight, so it can’t be that kind of problem. But then, it wasn’t the first time he’d put her up — and then, hitting the docks earlier on was a strange move, too. This old girl doesn’t deserve that kind of treatment. She’s sure had her moments — but comes through every time.
Entry 3: November 8, morning.
The barometer dropped a real heller, in a very short time. Amazing. And the southwest wind with almost single-digit temperatures is really unusual. Must be an Arctic front twisting in around the lakes. It doesn’t seem to matter which direction, the winds on Superior pile up the swells in no time. Our heading to the Soo can be maintained, although the roll coming in on the starboard bow may shift a bit of our cargo. Shouldn’t hurt. The breakers are sparkling white against the sky — kind of a treat to watch.
Entry 4: November 8, afternoon.
Plan on pulling into Hay Lake. Let’s wait to find out what’s really going on. Weather doesn’t seem quite right. Getting quiet again. Maybe should send a letter to Blanche when we stop at De Tour for coal.
Entry 5: November 8, evening.
If it gets any colder, I’ll have to warn the crew to watch for ice on the deck — too easy to get hurt. Although that’s not likely. It’s too early for it to build up. And it’s been too warm. A great Fall … early November — and the first real cold snap. Wonder what it’s like at home?
Entry 6: November 9, 3:00 a.m.
Wind’s still freshening; up and down. Gusting heavily, but only at times. The big guys are on their way. Guess we’ll go.
Entry 7: November 9, dawn.
I’ll bet Wilmott and his mate are happy they bought passage home to England before they started this trip. Even if we do one more run, they’ll make their departure date — December 6 — with no trouble at all. Wonder when Jimmy Glen has his booked? Wants to pick up his wife and bring her back to Goderich before the new season begins.
These cold blasts will be old hat to Solliere, our Swede who just joined in September — a good deck hand; works hard.
Entry 8: November 9, 10:00 a.m.
Settled again; almost calm. Strange.
Entry 9: November 9, 11:00 a.m.
Acknowledged the Kaministiquia a few miles north of Point Clark. The McKee should be around here somewhere too.
Decks Awash — these two photographs were taken from the W.H. Truesdale in 1936 by the late Captain James McCannel. “Catching fish in the smokestack” was the saying used to describe massive waves rolling over the decks and superstructures