Lore - Episode 104: Anchored

Episode Date: December 21, 2018

The ocean is very good at taking things from us, but we are equally skilled at not forgetting. Still, no matter how many stories we tell about lost ships and vanished loved ones, it will never bring them back. At least, that’s what most people believe. * * * The Lore book series: www.theworldoflore.com/books The Lore TV show: www.Amazon.com/Lore Latest Lore news: www.theworldoflore.com/now Learn more about your ad-choices at https://www.iheartpodcastnetwork.com Access premium content!: https://www.lorepodcast.com/support See omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.

Gifting the Glen Levitt says, I know I wasn't always the easiest child. It says after everything you've done for me, you deserve better than novelty socks. It says, the best parent in Canada deserves the best single malt scotch in Canada. Parents give their best. Why not return the favor

and give the gift of the Glen Levitt this Father's Day. Discover the single malt collection at the Glen Levitt dot com. Please enjoy responsibly. Hey there. Before we start today, I've got some cool news to share with you. I recently narrated my first fiction audio book project.

It's an original production of the classic Frankenstein by Mary Shelley, who basically invented the horror category. And it's available for free on Apple Books. This was a new kind of project for me and I'm very proud of the work I've done over in this new genre, so check it out. Again, this audio book is free

and you can download Frankenstein right now, narrated by me, only on Apple Books. Go to apple.co slash great first listens to get it today. That's apple.co slash great first listens. And now, on with the show. The farmers around the lake had known about them for centuries.

The stories they whispered were so unbelievable that they spread far and wide, drawing in curious explorers and trophy hunters. But it wasn't until 1928 when someone figured out how to reach them. They would simply have to drain the lake. It took a team of archaeologists and civil engineers and even a few members of the Italian Navy

nearly three years to drain enough water from the lake. But when they were done, they had uncovered something mind-boggling. It was a pair of enormous ships built entirely out of cedar, each one stretching nearly 250 feet in length. Granted, this was 1931, so the world had already seen larger ships.

The Titanic, for example, measured over 800 feet long, so three of these wooden ships could have sat on her top deck. When they were constructed, though, there was nothing like them in the world. That's because they had been built during the reign of the Roman Emperor Caligula,

making them nearly 2,000 years old. And they aren't just large ships. They had internal plumbing that included hot and cold running water, mosaic tile floors and bathrooms. They were even decorated with gold and silver and had statues installed on ball bearings that allowed them to rotate and operate mundane tasks.

They were pleasure barges fit for an emperor, and then they sunk beneath the waves. That's the problem with ships. Each one is a labor of love and the culmination of thousands of years of technological advancement. And yet, when they're complete, we place them in the most unpredictable environment

on the planet, the sea. And given enough time, the sea will demand payment, even if that payment is large or valuable or just too painful to bear. Every now and then, however, the rules get broken. The sea reaches out, takes what it wants,

and then discovers that some things are just too hard to hold onto. Sometimes, those ships come back. I'm Aaron Mankey, and this is Lore. As far back as the late 1600s, Maine has been a source of materials that shipbuilders need.

We know, for example, that in 1692, Massachusetts Governor Sir William Phipps traveled north to Maine to oversee a massive shipment of timber. They would be loaded onto a ship and transported back across the Atlantic to be used by the Royal Shipyards in their efforts to grow the British Navy.

The New World represented new resources, and in an age before steel ocean liners, the vast forests of Maine were a goldmine for anyone interested in shipbuilding. But even after America won independence from England, that legacy continued, and as global trade accelerated, more and more people along the coastline

put their fortunes into shipping. For a while, those ships from Maine did a lot of exporting. That strong old timber was needed in a lot of places, even south in the Caribbean. But as trade in molasses and sugar increased, ships began to bring goods back with an ever-increasing urgency,

and some of that business and wealth poured back into coastal Maine. That was the world that the Porter Brothers lived in back in the early 1800s. The Porters were a large family of 12 brothers, most of whom were involved in some aspect of the shipping industry, and it was right there at Porter's Landing

in Freeport, Maine. That William Porter, along with master shipbuilder James Brewer, completed work on a brand new schooner. It was built for speed and agility, something that had become increasingly important as the War of 1812 crept closer and closer to Maine. And one of the side effects of that war was a British blockade

that threatened their shipping business. A fast and maneuverable ship was exactly what they needed to outrun the authorities and maintain their livelihood. And this ship was so fast that they gave it the world's most obvious name. The Dash. The Dash spent about a year doing exactly that.

On their very first run, the crew of the Dash sailed out of Portland, Maine and headed south toward Santo Domingo in the Dominican Republic. New England goods were traded for essentials like coffee and sugar, and then they headed back north. Along the way, they encountered a British blockade

who ordered the Dash to surrender. Instead, they raised their sails and sped away, outrunning a deadly British man of war. By the time they arrived safely back in Portland Harbor, they were a legend. In September of 1814, that reputation earned them a job offer. The U.S. government wanted to hire them as privateers.

Sure, it came with official orders, and that made their actions legal, at least from the American point of view. But it was essentially an offer to become something most of us have heard about all throughout our lives. Pirates. Permission was to hunt down and capture enemy vessels, whether they were serving duty as military ships or not.

What the crew did with those captured ships was entirely up to them. All the government wanted was for them to be removed from the board, so to speak, to be taken out of play. Most privateers would bring their captured ships back home and sell them off, cargo and all, making it a lucrative enterprise.

And the Dash was good at it. It was the 19th century version of the Mini Cooper in the film The Italian Job. Light and quick and impossible to catch. And thanks to some military-provided guns, she could also sting when she had to. So the crew went hunting. Their first official catch was a British cruiser.

After that, they defeated the HMS Lacedemonian, a massive .38 gun warship. Naturally, they took it back to Portland, and those victories brought them two things. Fame and wealth. The Dash had developed a reputation for being unstoppable, which was probably fun and encouraging for the crew. But they were also making money hand over fist.

Between October of 1814 and January of 1815, just a four-month span, the Dash managed to capture at least five enemy ships. By selling off their cargo at market rates, her crew was able to bring in a payday of around $120,000. In modern currency, that would be worth nearly $2 million today. All told, over the course of seven missions as a privateer, the Dash never let an enemy vessel get away,

and she was never shot. Financially, she was one of the most successful privateerships of the entire war, but she was also untouchable. No other ship managed to build such a spotless reputation over such a short amount of time. The Dash was practically legendary. But every legend must come to an end. And the Dash was no exception.

Our world moves a lot faster than it used to. At least that's how it feels. But in some ways, things definitely have sped up. Communication is a great example of that. Today, we can send a text message to a friend across the country and they'll receive it in an instant. It's magical and so normal that we take it all for granted. But in 1814, things were different.

There was no internet, no cellular network, not even a telephone. If you wanted to let the world know something, it took time. Like setting an ice cube on the counter and waiting for it all to melt. And to be honest, there's a lot about that that's attractive. Slowing down can sometimes be a good thing. Other times, though, it can cause problems.

Take the end of the War of 1812, for example. On Christmas Eve of 1814, representatives from the United States and Britain gathered in Belgium to sign the Treaty of Ghent to end the war. And that was it. On paper, the war was over. But news still had to spread. So in early January of 1815, as Captain John Porter was preparing the dash for another mission out into the Atlantic,

he and his crew had no idea their job was over. So they went about all the tasks involved in getting ready to set sail. Supplies were brought on board. And the sailors made preparations for departure. It was a good crew that day. Captain Porter was just 22 years old, but had a lifetime of experience under his belt. It was his family that had built the dash, after all.

And while his wife was safe at home and pregnant with their first child, family was close at hand. Two of his brothers were serving on the ship, 24-year-old Ebenezer and 18-year-old Jeremiah. Alongside them were dozens of other men, many of whom were from the local Freeport area. When they were ready, they began to leave Portland Harbor, a narrow stretch of water where the river meets the ocean. But before they could exit, they were approached by another ship, and the newcomer hailed them down.

It was the Champlain, a newly commissioned privateer who was joining their ranks to help fight the war. Well, that's what they assumed, but we've already covered that, haven't we? The crew of the Champlain had heard all the stories about the dash. They had heard the tales of her untouched record, of the massive fortune her crew had earned, and of course of that unmatchable speed that made it all possible. And the Champlain wanted to do something about it.

They wanted a race. Captain Porter and his crew could have said no. They could have made it clear that they had places to be and ships to steal. They could have thanked the crew of the Champlain for their kind words and welcomed them onto the team, so to speak, and then moved on. But instead, they took the challenge to heart, sort of like Marty McFly and Back to the Future. When presented with a challenge, the dash was always quick to accept it.

The two ships sped north from Portland Harbor out into the dark cold waters of the Atlantic. Remember, it was January, so the wind would have been painfully cold as both vessels raced across the waves. Over time, it became clear exactly why the dash had earned the reputation people whispered about. It pulled ahead and then kept going. Before long, the Champlain was so far behind that they simply gave up and stopped. But when they did, they noticed something alarming.

In all the excitement surrounding the race, they failed to notice that they were sailing straight into a dark ominous storm coming down from the north. The crew of the Champlain turned their ship around and began to head home. Looking back over their shoulders, though, they could see the dash continuing north, straight into the storm. No one knows for certain why Captain Porter failed to turn back. Perhaps it was an error in judgments,

or maybe it was his passionate desire to prove his ship's superiority. Whatever his reason might have been, it kept them from returning home safely. Most people assume the ship was pummeled by the massive storm. It might have been the waves that did her in, reaching up from the sea to pull the dash down into the depths. Or it could have been the wind that ended it all, driving the vessel too far east,

where it floundered off the coast of Nova Scotia. In the end, though, all we can do is guess. The only thing that's certain is that the dash never returned home. No debris was ever found, no shipwreck ever spotted, and no bodies ever washed ashore. The dash had raced off toward the horizon and never came back.

Most of the time, the things we lose never come back to us. They slip into another realm and cease to exist. All we're left with is a memory, perhaps an emotion or just a feeling on certain days of the year. Most things that are lost are never found. But I'm not so sure that's the case with the dash. I'm not so sure that's the case with the dash. I'm not so sure that's the case with the dash.

But I'm not so sure that's the case with the dash. Because in the years that followed her tragic and mysterious disappearance, stories began to spread. Stories about how the dash had come back. And it was the fishermen who noticed it first. According to their tales, it only happened when a dense fog rolled into Casco Bay. They claimed that the legendary ship would sail into view,

cutting through the fog like a knife. And even though the sightings took place long after the ship was lost, they knew exactly what they were looking at, thanks to the name painted right on the side of the hull. The dash. Others saw the ship as well, sometimes from shore. They say that the ghost ship always made the same journey, heading north from Casco Bay,

straight into the long finger-like islands that make up Harpswell Sound. It's a direction no sailor in their right mind would race a schooner toward, for risk of running aground on one of the many jagged rocks there. And yet, the ghostly dash never seemed to care. The stories spread out over the years as stories have a way of doing it. The legendary dash might have been gone, but more and more people claim to see it from time to time. And those claims inspired even more stories.

That's how folklore works, after all. It's an organic thing, alive and growing because of the people who whisper about it. Or maybe in spite of them. In 1866, American poet John Greenleaf Whittier sat down and put the legend into verse. In a poem he called The Dead Ship of Harpswell. It took many of the common elements of the legend surrounding the dash,

and put them into the popular mind, helping the stories to spread even farther. If you were alive in the northeast of the United States in the late 1800s, chances were good you heard the poem once or twice in your life. One of the details that Whittier spread through his poem was the idea of a curse, that the wives who witnessed the dash firsthand would soon learn that their husband had passed away. It had become an omen of sorts,

a privateer out to steal loved ones rather than British supplies. I'm not sure I believe in signs and omens, but there's no denying the power of folklore. Stories like this one rarely fade away, and that's what all of these were. Stories. Humans are very good at inventing tales to entertain and keep their memories alive. But one later event seems to call all of that into question.

What if the stories were true? In 1942, Casco Bay became home to a number of U.S. Navy vessels that were set to guard the coastline from Axis invaders. World War II was in full swing, and enemy ships were a constant threat. So much so that the Navy had set up a new electronic detection system to watch for them, called radar. But life in Casco Bay wasn't about to stop for the Navy.

Fishermen had work to do, schools had children to teach, and businesses needed to operate. But they did all of this with a new influx of neighbors who came along with the military presence. And at least one of those locals became a bit too friendly with one of those newcomers. Homer Grimm lived on the southern end of Casco Bay, and had been having an affair with the wife of one of the Navy officers, a man named Bragdon. Mrs. Bragdon was said to be a beautiful, vivacious woman with a lot of time on her hands.

And Homer Grimm became her pastime of sorts, and they had a pretty complex arrangement. Homer would row out from his home in a small boat and pick Mrs. Bragdon up near her own home. Then the pair would row out to an island in the bay, dock their boats, and find a comfortable spot to, well, you get the idea. It had gone on like this for some time.

But one foggy night in August of 1942, they hit a snag. They were safely hidden away on their little island when an explosion rocked the ground. One of the warships in the bay had fired, and the projectile had struck a little too close to their hideout. Homer cautiously peered out to see what had happened, assuming that Mrs. Bragdon's husband had finally caught on and was using the might of his warship to exact revenge.

And that's when he noticed the other ship. It was an old schooner, much smaller than the large naval vessel. Her sails were full and she was speeding northward through the water, passing between the warship and their island hideaway. And then he noticed the name painted on the side of the ship. It was the Dash. To the Navy, though, it was an invading ship. The sounds of blasting horns and powerful guns filled the air,

and the larger ship gave chase to the old wooden schooner. Seeing this as their chance to quietly slip away, Homer and Mrs. Bragdon climbed back down to their skiff and pushed out into the bay, hoping to row home before they got caught. But moments later, the noises that filled the bay died down, and Homer looked up to see the Dash had vanished. Whatever it was that the warship had been chasing, they had lost sight of it, as if it had slipped through the veil

between this world and the next. The Navy ship did spot something else, though. Homer and his mistress. Their little skiff was promptly intercepted, and the officers on duty began to question them about what they had seen. Frustrated to hear that Homer had seen the exact same thing as them, the officers decided to send a crew to shore to calm the fears of the locals who had heard the gunfire

and also ask if they, too, had seen anything out of the ordinary. And many had, apparently, which left the Navy with a very difficult problem on their hands. They had been tasked with protecting the coastline of Maine, but had somehow ended up firing expensive and deadly ammunition into the bay. They needed to explain it, but in the end, the truth was a lot less believable than it should have been. They had fired at a ghost ship.

For as long as humans have been building ships and pushing out into the deep, dark waters of our world, those ships have been disappearing. Some of the oldest shipwrecks discovered by archaeologists have been found in the Black Sea, dating back over 2,400 years. But as humanity expanded toward the oceans and then beyond, ocean-born tragedy was bound to happen. Ships were expensive to build,

and they took a lot of time and effort to get right. So having one disappear into the waves of the cold Atlantic was a painful loss for any business with a stake in the game. In fact, one of the oldest insurance companies in the world, Lloyds of London, began in the 1680s as a way to ensure ships. Loss was always assumed. But the biggest tragedy of all is the loss of life. When a ship goes down, it takes dozens,

perhaps hundreds of sailors with it. And each of them has a family back home, a community that will mourn their loss and fight to remember them. Because when a ship disappears, so too does a part of us. So we try to hold on. And that's where folklore comes in. It's an anchor that helps us stay a little closer to what we lost, to remind us of the lives that once played out around us,

and just how fragile they really are. The tales we tell about the ocean are really stories about us. Stories like this one. In 1975, Sam Smith took his mother out to lunch along the coast of Casco Bay. They enjoyed a bit of conversation, perhaps a bowl of clam chowder, and had a normal lunch experience.

But at some point in the meal, Sam's mother glanced out into the bay and went completely silent. Oh look, she said. It's the ghost ship of Harpswell. Hours later, he and his mother received a phone call. His father had been working near the shore a little farther north and had suffered a massive fatal heart attack.

And as Sam and his mother tried to process what had happened that day, both of them were reminded of the poem by John Greenleaf Whittier, the dead ship of Harpswell. A poem about the very same ship his mother claimed to see during lunch. A poem about a cursed ship and the death that brings to those who witness it. So they pulled out their copy of Whittier's poems and turned to the correct page and began to read.

Whittier's words, even a century after they had been written, seemed to vibrate with new meaning. And men shall sigh and women weep, whose dear ones pale and pine, and sadly over sunset seas await the ghostly sign. They know not that its sails are filled by Pity's tender breath,

nor see the angel at the helm who steers the ship of death. The story of the dead ship of Harpswell is one of those perfect maritime ghost stories, but it's not the only one that's still whispered about in Maine. I've saved one more tale to share with you, and I think you're going to love it. Stick around after the break to hear all about it.

The Portland was a steamer. It was built in 1889 by the New England Shipbuilding Company in Bath, Maine, and delivered to a local client shortly after. The ship was over 280 feet long and 42 feet wide, and it was a side-wheel steamer with large paddle wheels on both sides of the ship that were powered by the engines inside. And it was a beauty, too. Velvet carpet throughout and gold trim on the fixtures.

And even though it had been built for shallow water, the ship's owners used the Portland to transport passengers up and down the New England coast between Portland, Maine and Boston to the south. On November 26th of 1898, the Portland left Boston's India Wharf and headed north to make one of those routine trips. It would be an overnight journey,

delivering the passengers to Portland by morning. But as they pulled out of Boston, Captain Hollis Blanchard received a warning about the weather farther north, ignoring it. The ship steamed ahead. No one is sure what happened that night as the Portland traveled north. But we know a lot about the storm.

It was actually two storm systems that happened to collide off the coast of New England with ferocious intensity. Wind speeds reached 90 miles an hour, and waves were recorded as high as 40 feet. Farther north, where it was cold enough, 10 inches of snow fell on land in just six hours. On the stormy sea, though, things were much darker. Over 400 ships were lost or wrecked that night,

taking hundreds of innocent lives with them. And among them were the 190 passengers aboard the Portland. Even today, we don't know exactly what led to the ship's demise, because not a single person survived. But wreckage and bodies washed onto shore, helping to confirm that the Portland would never return home to Maine. All told, 38 bodies were recovered, washed onto the rocky beach by the cold Atlantic waves.

Of course, word about the wreck spread. Newspapers around the country carried the news, spreading the tragedy and pain to countless strangers in faraway places. It didn't help that the folks had begun to refer to the Portland as the Titanic of Maine. The loss of life was morbidly attractive to a lot of people, as was the mystery of the ship's disappearance. But the story doesn't end there.

Many local Maine residents claim that something bizarre happens every year on the 27th of November, the anniversary of when the Portland had been scheduled to arrive. According to the tales, the old port exchange down near the Portland docks becomes the site of the most unusual experience. Each year on that date, a crowd of ghostly figures is said to gather there. They are all described as dressed in Victorian-era clothing

and are all dripping wet, as if they've just climbed out of the sea. And yes, this would be a frightening thing to see on a cold New England autumn evening. There's no doubt about that. But that's not the most shocking thing about the sightings, because all of them record one other small detail that makes the tale even more difficult to forget. Each time these Victorian ghosts have been spotted, there have been the exact same number of them.

38. 1. For each body that washed ashore. This episode of Lore was written and produced by me, Aaron Mankey, with research help from Robin Minitor and music by Chad Lawson. Lore is much more than just a podcast. There's a book series in bookstores around the country and online, and the second season of the Amazon Prime television show was recently released. Check them both out if you want more Lore in your life.

I also make two other podcasts, Aaron Mankey's Cabinet of Curiosities, and Unobscured, and I think you'd enjoy both. Each one explores other areas of our dark history, ranging from bite-sized episodes to season-long dives into a single topic. And you can learn about both of those shows, and everything else going on in the world of Lore, over in one central place. The World of Lore, dot com slash now. You can also follow the show on Twitter, Facebook, and Instagram.

Just search for Lore Podcast, all one word, and click that follow button. When you do, say hi. I like it when people say hi. And as always, thanks for listening.