The Ash Wednesday Storm at Sea

What the map will not tell you is the strength and fury of that ocean, its moods, its violence, its gentle balm, its treachery; what men can do with it and what it can do with men. (From THE CRUEL SEA by Nicholas Monsarrat, Alfred A. Knopf, New York; 1951)



The Ash Wednesday Storm of 1962 is rated by some experts as the ninth biggest storm of the Twentieth Century to hit the continental United States. This storm stayed put for three days along the Eastern coastline instead of going out to sea. Ashore the three days of continuous rain and high wind caused rising water levels, abetted by a perigean tide. Winds were recorded at 76 miles per hour. The rising waters and the winds caused over $200 million dollars in damage and eroded shorelines 100 meters in places.

At sea it was much worse.

I was a young lieutenant in USS TWEEDY, a destroyer escort that had been activated for the Berlin Crisis, an event that is not even a blip in the history books. TWEEDY, along with forty other similar ships, had become a part of the active fleet of the U. S. Navy, and was home ported in Norfolk, Virginia.

On that Monday morning we went to sea, joining with four other escorts and an aircraft carrier to patrol our designated area near Cape Hatteras in a fleet exercise. It was “destroyer weather”; choppy and rough with heavy gusts of winds as we made our way through Thimble Shoals channel and past the new Chesapeake Bay Bridge-Tunnel complex. Without the modern satellite weather forecasts of today, we did not know what lay ahead.

The next day Lieutenant Jack Jolly was watch officer on the bridge of the ship. He was standing the “four to eight”, and as daylight approached he noted that the barometric pressure was falling. He immediately called the captain and then ordered the engineering watch standers to light off the other boiler so that we could have full power. In minutes the Captain was on the bridge. The seas were worsening. The winds kicked up and the waves grew.

By evening we were in the midst of the Ash Wednesday Storm. Decks were made secure, and hatches were closed, to be opened only when absolutely necessary. Crashing waves broke over the 305 foot long ship. Winds were gaining in intensity. Soon the ship was rolling from side to side. Later we were to find out that a cyclonic storm from the south had run head on into a northeaster out of the Arctic regions. By the time the Navy had given the order to “maneuver independently and follow the dictates of good seamanship”, TWEEDY’S radar and navigation equipment had been rendered inoperable, with antennas smashed by the intensity of the wind and water.

At the height of the storm the wind speed indicator showed storm forces at over 100 knots (about 110 land miles per hour). At this reading the indicator broke. We were powering into the waves, now occasionally cresting at thirty to thirty five feet in height from trough to top. The bridge, or pilot house, of the ship was normally twenty seven feet above water level. The narrow ship would ride over a crest and then plunge into the trough, shake itself and rise again to meet the next wave. In the midst of the weather those of us in the bridge area watched as a monster wave of over sixty feet bore down on the stout ship. Depth charges, set on safe and chained down, were swept out to sea. Forged launchers were bent backwards. Only in port did we fully assess the damages, but TWEEDY did not leak a drop into the hull.

Along with the pitch caused by the waves and the force of the wind, the ship was rolling side to side. There is some debate as to how far a ship such as TWEEDY could roll from the perpendicular and recover. Generally accepted is 58 degrees. We observed roll after roll exceeding 52 degrees. She would hang on the maximum roll for a moment that seemed like an hour, and then would slowly roll back, only to go again into that near limit.

Those of us that had access to the visual activity from the bridge were in awe of this demonstrated force of nature. Men below decks were frightened as they were banged about by the violent rolls, pitches and yaws. But the engines kept up their steady beat, and always when a need arose a sailor was there to handle it. Jim Burton, the lieutenant who relieved Jack Jolly at the beginning of the storm, fell and gashed his forehead. He was unconscious as we carried him down to the officers’ wardroom, but he awakened when Nichols, the leading hospital corpsman, began sewing him up. We held Jim down, and held Nichols up close so he could use both hands.

There was some humor. On board for two weeks training duty was a young officer, Jim Hardy, from Philadelphia who became deathly seasick as soon as we gained open water. At the height of the storm he was convinced that he should stand a bridge watch. He dragged himself to the pilot house, observed the conditions and turned to Ned Mayo, saluted and gave him the time-honored words: “Sir, I am ready to relieve you”. Ned, always a wag, returned the salute and said “Good, you are just in time to abandon ship.” Hardy fainted dead away, and we had another officer to carry below. After reaching port we never saw Hardy again.

I am sometimes asked where I had my most memorable meal and what it was. Most folks expect me to name a New Orleans or New York restaurant, but I often reply that my meal was two pieces of stale bread with a slice of bologna between them, and it was eaten while I was holding on to a vertical pipe on a small ship in the midst of the worst storm that I could ever imagine.

After some time the storm moved out and we were able to maneuver, to recover our communications with other ships and to assess our damage. The five ships, less the carrier, that had sallied forth early that week fell into formation. The commodore, who had overall command, suggested a race into port, with the winning ship being feted at a party by the other four. Off we went. Captain Moore called down to the firerooms and asked Willie, a boiler man, to come up. He told Willie that a little more speed would be appreciated. Willie turned, muttering “don’t nobody come down”. Soon we were felt an increase in speed. Captain Moore ordered a series of turns and we completely encircled one of our sister ships and then regained the lead. The party was great!

The Ash Wednesday Storm was the talk of the Eastern seaboard. Thirty folks were killed; many more injured. We were accorded a small mention on the editorial page of the Norfolk newspaper. It was titled “Five Old Ships Defeat the Sea”.

We did not defeat the sea. She picked us up and toyed with us as a spaniel would his favorite toy, and then released us. We had a good captain, good officers and a good crew. When we get together we toast each other and then we lift a glass to the good ship TWEEDY, and the men and women that built her so long ago.

But the men are the stars of this story. The only heroines are the ships, and the only villain is the cruel sea itself. (From THE CRUEL SEA, by Nicolas Montserrat)