Shipwreck Stories "Whale of a Wreck Diving Tale" series

 GREAT ISAAC 

Whale of a Tail Series

 By Gene Peterson

As diving history progresses, legend begets fact. Some stories are too good to dissolve in the brine of the sea and continue to endure. This is one such tail. 

Adventures on the Great Isaac 

Initially the Great Isaac was constructed to tow fuel barges for the WWII allied efforts. The Great Isaac was a massive V-4 tug, 194-foot in overall length and considered to be one of the largest operating tugs in the world. It took a crew of over 30 to operate this titanic workhorse. As a part of this fleet, the Great Isaac gained prominence when employed during the Normandy Beach invasion to tow concrete Gooseberry structures to create a harbor for landing supplies essential to the invasion. V-4 tugs towing bulky Gooseberry system Historically the Great Isaac was recognized for those efforts when Captain C.I. Parkin received a Bronze Star for metritis duty under fire during the D Day landing. After the war, these powerful 2800 horse powered behemoths were employed throughout the world by private towing companies for bulk towing tasks.

On the night of April 16, 1947, the Great Isaac operated by Moran towing, plowed north to New York trailing behind was the liberty ship Thomas M. Cooley. The towed Cooley was destined to be refitted in New York. At the time of the sinking, dense fog cloaked the night making for hazardous conditions. Caution required the regimented use of fog horns and addition watches. Even with such prudence demanded under the capable hands of Captain Ernest McCreary, a fateful collision was eminent. The Isaac was punctured by the reinforced bow of the Norwegian freighter Bandeirante. Captain Lief Bjornstad of the Bandeirante, likewise had cautiously maneuvered in the fog, sounding his horn yet to no avail. After his ship pierced the port engine compartment of the Great Isaac, Bjornstad backed away from the doomed tug. He quickly surmised his own mutilation. The robust hull of the Bandeirante had sustained limited damage. Meanwhile on the Great Isaac, the crew hurriedly abandoned the doomed tug. Steam and acrid smoke rose from the swirling sea as it plunged to the depth of 15 fathoms. Fortunately, there were only minor injuries, as all escaped the condemned vessel. Noting a less than remarkable anecdote, one sailor hastily jumped up from his bunk absently leaving his false teeth behind in his urgency. 

The Thomas M. Cooley anchored by the tow cables of the sunken wretch would sit there with a skeleton crew overnight. Towed the next day north by the Great Isaac’s sister ship, Trinidad Head, the liberty ship Cooley would sail again, but the hulk of the Isaac would lay dormant at the bottom of the sea for more than two decades. In the late sixties with the establishment of the LORAN navigation system along coastal waters, offshore shipwrecks could now be rediscovered. Dead reckoning by compass fell short when relying on land structures in hazy or limited visibility. Loran extended the accuracy to within fifty feet with a range greater than 200 miles. The topography of the Great Isaac made an easy target lying on its port side rising nearly 30 feet off bottom. 

Since its discovery, less than a dozen miles off Barnegat inlet, this intact site remains a popular destination. The wreck has continued to dramatically deteriorate due to the caustic effect of the sea. The once impenetrable hull has become a skeleton. Compartments that were boxed tight, dark inaccessible confines have recently opened becoming sunny exposed spaces. There is still great risk for explorers. Divers should remain wary of the crumbling overhead and swinging I-beams. There is an increasing danger of an avalanche from the massive engines, that are tentatively held by rusting mounts. With that said, the tug remains a captivating structure. The profusion of fish and marine life camouflage the hull. Recent discoveries have stimulated greater interest for seekers meandering through the edifice.

Onboard the White Star recovering one on the 1/4-ton helms.

A crane raises the helm as Chuck Wine guides the lift.

When first explored, divers took advantage of the loose and more accessible openings of the tug. Soon the bell was recovered, as well as the helm wheel. Short order was made of the humungous bronze propeller by commercial divers. Before long, recreational dive charters began taking throngs of wrecks divers to scour the popular site. Most divers explored the outer structure, occasionally dipping their head into the wheelhouse. Some would stretch a leg length into the forward hatch gazing up into the foreboding darkness. After summing up the muddle overhangs, sensible explorers would soon exit to the more comfortable open exterior. There were those few that went beyond the ambient light. They pushed on from room to room or descending the stack into the more menacing engine-room. 

Joe Lesneski, alpha flag over Great Isaac 

         

As a progression of wreck divers passed over and throughout the hull of the Great Isaac, many compartments continued to remain inaccessible. The forward loading hatch and the top door to the wheelhouse were the only access points for dozens of years. Barely, a handful of divers had gained any access beyond the engine-room. The tight corridors and silty confines of the deteriorating compartments unnerved the most intrepid of penetrators. In the late seventies and early eighties, a small core of divers from South Jersey shared their investigations, and experience on the Great Isaac. Their mutual respect and passion carried little rivalry. Strategies were made to gain greater entrance to more remote interior cubicles despite the restricted access. Pouring over deck plans they started pushing further through the tight corridors into the navigation room, gyro room, galley, medical room and officers’ quarters. The Great Isaac was becoming ripe. Exciting finds including sextants, chronometers, wine decanters, silverware and china were being unearthed. As the warm weather waned, the time was right to continue exploring before winter storms covered over the next cornucopia of discoveries.

Tony Mazziotti with signal light

In the late months of 1982, some die-hards decided to push on through the fall and bear the cruelty of winter wreck diving. That type of diving meant treacherous conditions above and below the surface. Sudden violent storms, icy boat decks, frozen regulators, and bitter cold decompression stops in frigid waters are just a few of the trials suffered by those possessed aquanauts. Most rational folks would bail, but we chaffed at the bit for the opportunity. Finding a boat to continue in the conflicting condition of winter was no easy task. Only a few capable masters would venture offshore in such extreme conditions. Joe Lesneski, captain of the Down Under was willing. Captain Joe was a tough salvager who fearlessly ran his forty-foot wooden boat out of Barnegat Light, one of the most perilous inlets on the New Jersey coast. His recognized voyages included rough-water excursions beyond New York waters down to the dreaded shoals of North Carolina. On a frosty day in February, the Down Under was prepared to cruise off to the Great Isaac. The chronic circumstances of winter diving prevailed. The smell of the kerosene heater saturated the air. Slick icy decks made loading hefty double tanks and equipment hazardous. As usual the frozen head remained inoperable to the chagrin of the coffee engorged regulars. The deck was garland with a conglomeration of lines, weights, lights baskets, and assorted dive essentials. As the parade of loaders settled, a shot of ethanol was whiffed and the two smoky 671 Detroits thundered. Then steadily the diesel droned breaking the early morning silence. We broke free and soon cruised pass Old Barny, the familiar red and white lighthouse. The cabin warmed as the deafening roar of the engines prevailed. Soon the ice choked head flowed to the relief of all. Smiles resumed among us. Life was good. The lighthouse faded behind us as we neared the target. Various projects were discussed by all. 

Harley Sager and I decided we would open the “Auxiliary Stores Locker” directly behind the towing bit. We were prepared with a large sledgehammer, drive pins, and large breaker bars. We would drive out two large hinge pins and use leverage to lay the cover down in the sand. Like opening an Egyptian tomb, our minds reeled of the wonders to be found. Soon anchored over the Great Isaac, the decks began to clear. Enthusiasm remained high even as we broke through the icy water. The first few feet of sea surface bear a resemblance to a lime slushy. The shock of the biting cold water saturating our hoods and exposed facial areas temporarily diminishing intellect. As Harley and I descended the anchor line, our trigeminal headaches from the icy water dissipated. We were again clearheaded. Swimming to the hatch, we quickly unloaded our configuration of necessary tools. I place a giant drift pin over the hinges, and Harley swung a 5-pound sledge. With a dozen or so swings the pins dropped to the seabed with little resistance. A slight gap allowed us to slide a large crowbar in between the opening and the hatch. We pried a gap about a foot wide, then Harley began to jump up and down on the bending door until it finally crashed to the sand. As it fell, a bundle of 3-inch diameter tow lines unraveled itself from a massive spool and formed a tangle inside the entrance. A belch of black silt and a jumble of pulley blocks fell blocking the tight opening. Being unable to see through the muck and entanglements, we surmised our situation and decided to push no further. Black inky water quickly engulphed us as we clawed our way up the hull and hovered over the hatch. Our time was dwindling, and the conditions worsened. Without any misinterpretation of the emerging danger, we began our ascent and bore the long numbing minutes of decompression. 

On the surface, the other divers had squared off on their projects spread throughout the wreck. Harley and I were still damp and shivering from first stroll in the park. We discussed our next strategy. There was an eminent danger entering the locker. Not knowing what other loose entanglements or entrapments remain dangling overhead could be a lethal risk. Harley was too bulky to fit through the tight and gnarled opening. He sensibly declined to enter the hold. I had slithered through similar constrictions before and felt comfortable pushing through this gap. There was one condition for the menace I was going to embark on. We would split the finds evenly, but if there was a single unique element, it was agreed it was my claim. We shook and prepped for the next plunge.

The visibility cleared after our surface intermission allowing us to better decipher the obstructed hatchway. Harley agreed to station himself at the entrance while I carefully removed the hindrances. After some gently nudging, I managed to clear enough space for me to slide through. Waiting at the tight escape hole Harley shown his light to guide me back. Inside the cavernous hold I saw wonderous things. Cage lights, turtle lights, massive spools of towing line, bits, block and tackles, and brass telephone boxes were strewn throughout. In the far corner my eyes locked on a huge towing lantern mounted on a six-foot steel pipe. Overhead, I looked for dangling cables or loose debris that could snag or slide down and trap me. I glided over piles of disconcerted clutter. Reaching the piece, I found it to be loose but mixed in some confusion. I swooped up the awkward assembly and hovered back to Harleys guiding light. Harley pulled the lantern through the hatchway; I passed out an assortment of additional finds and then followed. In the sand, as we gathered up our discoveries, I made a gesture to Harley that there was only one lantern. He made a gesture back to me indicating his dismay. We ascended. 

Back on board, Harley was content with the split. The others exchanged stories and elaborated on their finds. Captain Joe pulled the hook, warning us it was going to be a rough ride in. We battened down our gear as Down Under plied through the building seas. The wind had picked up to a stiff 20 knots. White caps of frozen ocean broke behind us. The sky darkened in contrast to the foaming white waves that surrounded us. When Joe warned us that we were going to be in rough waters, we took heed. On the last trip the Down Under nearly earned its name when a wave broke over the stern rolling the boat on its side. All on the back deck were washed off their feet. We clutched onto the rail of the upside of the boat with our feet dangling. The cause of our near demise; Some stored life jackets had broken free pulling down the secondary throttle shutting off one engine just as we surfed down a mountainous wave. The quick action of Captain Joe saved us from sinking by turning the boat around and heading back out the inlet. 

Reminded of this previous incident, I redonned my dry suit with my street clothes. I inserted my wallet, truck keys, donned my fins and sat in the back of the boat clutching the lantern. Tom Packer jeered this action. I let him know that when the boat went down, I was going to swim to shore and drive home with my prize. After a few more jolting waves, the entire boat was suited. Barnegat was still one of the most feared inlets on the east coast before the south jetty was extended in the 1990s. It was a wise act for all to prepare. As we approached the dreaded channel, the seas had built to a catastrophic height. Waves broke across the shallow sand bar ahead. The Down Under pressed on through the crest of a breaking wave, when the boat stalled struggling against the surge. A second wave broke flooding the stern knocking Dave Poponi off his feet. It left him helplessly floating in the detritus. Captain Joe powered up the boat to full throttle as we sped ahead of the next breaker. Dave jumped back up, shaking off his awkwardness. We all laughed with relief, knowing how fortunate we were. 

Great Isaac Light in the Bahamas

Since then, many of dive boats have safely passed through Barnegat inlet voyaging to the Great Isaac. Today, Captain Gary Smith of Dina Dee regularly visits the tug. Old Barny greets all that pass. Many great Great Isaac adventures await. Perhaps someday a lucky diver will stumble upon a set of false teeth…

At the NJ Maritine Museum.

Drawing of the current condition of the Great Isaac by Greg Modelle

Shipwreck Stories

Shipwreck Stories


Captain George Hoffman- Sea Lion, A dive on the Stolt Dagali 1974

By Captain Gene Peterson
The sun is breaking and a frosty coating glazes my van windows. I unzip my sleeping bag, stretch and quickly bundle up in wooly bear underwear, flannel shirt, jeans and work boots. I hear others outside knocking around on the dock. I slide open the side door and step out onto the cold pavement and look down toward the end of the street at the boat. Nestled amongst the Bertrams, Posts and other prestigious fishing yachts, like Popeye’s tug floats the Sea Lion. A couple divers are loading their doubles and a preponderance of dive gear over the wood rail of the boat.

Sea Lion with Bill Hoodiman on ladder

  I have yet to see any vessel quite like the Sea Lion. Bright red and white paint outline the trim on her black hull and gray decks. A walk around bow is covered over with a gray fiberglass roof where a smoking stove pipe protrudes through the center deck. On the bow three anchor roads are fastened to the railing along with some chains, grapnels and a sand anchor. These weathered fixtures are clearly organized in a specific dutiful manner. The smooth cover abruptly ends where a curved wheelhouse forms. Four large windows provide a 180-degree view forward. On the starboard a set of steps lead to sleeping quarters below deck. Here spacious bunks run to the bow. In the center stands an oil stove providing radiant heat below. Semi-attached on the port, the facility provides a relief station with adequate room and ventilation.

Astern a separate enclosure houses the engine room and a small open deck area where there is much activity. Here more divers have begun storing their tanks. They are a motley crew with a disheveled look wearing sunglasses, Greek fisherman hats, black leather or jean jackets. A barber could do well here cutting long hair and trimming the beards and mustaches. Most are dressed more like bikers than sailors. Noticeably they sport sheathed Buck knives and knee high brown boots. Inside the engine room, crew members huddle. They are checking the oil and fluid levels as they clutch cups of coffee. Intimidating eyes glance back through the dark doorway as they quickly dismiss their conversation. Packed in the center with the tanks, a worn plywood box occupies most of the back deck space. I hand over my set of double seventy-twos as another diver slides them back into the pile. They seem hopelessly wedged behind a block of other assorted cylinders.

A peg board lined canopy partially covers the aft-deck and the stern walk around. Various tools, hooks, gaffs, crow bars, pipes, chains, mallets, lines and pulleys lay stowed in the overhead pockets and interior engine wall spaces. An orange life raft and a surf board are strapped to the top of the engine house. I peer through the open gray framed wheelhouse window. On the table, behind the wooden helm, lay loose note papers, binoculars and yellowed charts marked with pencil and ink notations. A clock and barometer are mounted on the wall space between the window. A number of photographs surround the operator’s ticket on the back wall. A side scan sonar is mounted through the hull attached to the rear of the steering station. To the right of the chart table assorted electronics surround the forward overhead. A radio mic dangles from the ceiling and a handle for a spot light is fixed in the center. Inside the smell of drying paint and linseed oil is prevalent. Closer to the helm the air is seasoned with the remnants nicotine and spilt coffee. In the middle of this tight quarter a worn metal stool sits like a throne waiting for its honorable occupant.

You call that a bell.  Now this is a bell.

 In the cabin below a few divers have begun stretching out in their sleeping bags. The heavy black oil stove is burning with a pot of coffee on top. Some others have gathered warming their hands by the heat. Hanging on the paneled wall behind them is a hand-carved wooden fish. On it reads Captain Nice. Murna, the captain’s wife is in a bunk with her elbows propped up, reading a paperback. She glances up from her book, smiles and says. "Someone go tell George his coffee is ready." One of the crew answers distantly. "He’ll be right there. He just finished checking the engine." The air is a little foul down below and I decide to go topside. I stumble up the steps and bump into a heavy set, middle-aged fellow. He is wearing a tan ski jacket a sock hat, brown knee high boots and has a cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth. It is Captain Nice in person, George Hoffman. He grins and complains. "That doorway is a little tricky this early in the morning." My embarrassment is relieved by his quick humor.

Thankful to get his coffee, he barks out a few commands from the wheelhouse and in a matter of minutes his loyal band of mates frees us from the slip. The Sea Lion cruises toward the inlet. The little gray and black boat steams out along the rock jetty and plows through the swells. Most of the divers stay zipped in their sleeping bags anticipating a long ride to the wreck. Today’s destination is the Stolt Dagali. The Stolt was a 580-foot Norwegian tanker, rammed by the Israeli luxury liner S.S. Shalom on November 26, 1964. Only half the ship went to the bottom. The rest was salvaged and attached to another stern. The stern section remains in 126 feet of water eighteen miles east of Point Pleasant, New Jersey. This remaining wreckage rises to seventy feet, where the gigantic features of the Stolt make it a spectacular dive.
The diving history is being related to the crew and divers by Captain George as we venture out. "We were the first ones to find the wreck." He reminisces. He continues. "Back then, it took all day just to find something to dive. We were lucky. An oil slick was marking the wreck. On the bottom, I had a dozen lanterns tied to a full lifting bag. I had to cut them off one by one, until I could get it to float. What a great day to be diving!"

A caption on an Oatmeal wrapper.

I sit on the bow, next to the open window of the pilothouse catching brief excerpts of the captain’s story. The crew is jammed in the smokey little wheelhouse like mackerel waiting to be canned. George makes light of the rough weather. "This is just rough enough to keep the tourists on the beach." He grins. I am thinking, we must be crazy to be out here in this bone chilling cold on a lumpy sea. Listening to George we are inspired by the adventure and the challenge.
Soon we are over the wreck. A master boat handler, Captain George promptly marks the wreck and calls for a buoy to drop on the site. His concentration is unbroken by the crash of falling dive equipment, as we circle in our wake. Like a well rehearsed marching band, the mates move lines as Captain George orchestrates setting a snare. The grapnel plummets and within minutes the lines are secured and the engine is shut down. Finally, he signals to his mates. Without hesitation they dash over the side and descend to tie in the hook. There is a slight pause as we wait. Now, securely tied in, few hesitate to follow in the quest for lobster. Anxiously, divers have been sitting back to back on the plywood box, while others hang over the rails and the rest have been set to leap off the bow. When the word is given the boat steadily empties.
　

Searching for gold

The Stolt is a massive wreck. I could easily swim through the corridors and rooms uninhibited. I'm amazed at the humongous rocker arm of the engine and the wide stairwell that drops to the muffler room. I swim tenaciously though the top corridor dropping past the baths and wind out through the skylight to the debris field on the sandy bottom. I grab a couple lobsters and a few scallops and ascend.
After three quarters of an hour divers are ascending with mesh bags bulging with lobster and scallops. George suits up after his mate Bill Hoodiman boards the boat. Bill has a couple ten pound plus lobsters. As Hoodiman empties his bag, George quietly proclaims. "He’s one of the best and always will be. Hoodiman has caught more lobsters by accident then most people will ever catch in their lifetime on purpose."

As he suits up George announces. "I can dive anywhere in the world with just a bug bag full of gear." I am amazed at the simplicity of his equipment. It is functional, low tech and well used. Although, I wonder why he needs the giant wooden box on the back deck to store it in and noticeably all the cubby holes filled through out the boat with tools and lift bags marked G.H. He feverishly dons his tanks and disappears over the railing.
After Captain George splashes, we brag a little and joke. This continues as each diver surfaces, until all are back onboard. When George finally climbs the ladder, his bag is full of big lobsters. We stand silent with jaws hung open. He too boasts that we must have overlooked the easy ones. "Someday I will take you to the land of the big lobster and show you all how to catch them." He laughs. George knows how to put us in our place.

Bow of Sea Lion with Carl Fenton and John Moyer


 Today I still run trips to the Stolt Dagali. George sold his second boat to Captain Al Pyatak.  Captain Al carries on the Sea Lion legacy with pride.  A lot of good times are still had getting there and back. That first trip has a special memory for me. Nothing too exciting happened, but Captain George made you feel like there was no better place to be. In January 1997, Captain George Hoffman passed away. His family and close friends spread his ashes over the S.S. Mohawk, one of his favorite wrecks. Whenever I dive it today, I often think back of the fun times George shared with us. There were many adventures and many laughs. George was a good time. His contributions to wreck diving were many including the decompression reel and redundant air (pony bottle system). His wreck discoveries range from Montauk, New York to Hatteras, North Carolina, including the submarine Bass to the German sub U- 85. He dotted the charts discovering and diving hundreds of other wrecks. George’s passion for wreck diving was contagious. George would often say. "Diving is just a good time shared on the water with friends." Perhaps that was his greatest gift, Making hundreds of wreck divers feel like they were his best friends.




George with his lifetime achievement award. 1992