The Buoys Are Back: Taking a Spring Run on a Coast Guard Cutter

There’s no such thing as a routine voyage. Ask Christopher Columbus. Ask Gilligan. Or ask the crew of any U.S. Coast Guard cutter, like the hard-working Sundew.

For Lake Superior people, Sundew doesn’t need an introduction. Launched from Marine Iron and Shipbuilding, Duluth, Minnesota, in 1944, it’s serviced buoys, saved distressed fishermen and broken ice longer than Strom Thurmond was a senator. That’s a long time.

Yet the Sundew’s days are numbered. The 180-foot cutter is scheduled to be decommissioned, and its 225-foot replacement, likely the Alder, is scheduled for delivery in September 2004.

In May when I arrive to do a story about Sundew and its crew, Lake Superior shipping has already started. Sundew is starting its spring servicing of 233 floating aids to navigation (buoys) on the lake. On this trip, we head for the Apostle Islands in Wisconsin.

Buoy placing, tending and recovering can be among the trickiest missions for a cutter, especially on Lake Superior. Such was proven by Sundew’s sister vessel, Mesquite, which ran aground in December of 1989 gathering buoys off of Keweenaw Point in Michigan.

Of course, I’m just along for a typical two-day mission, I tell myself while not thinking of Mesquite. But that Gilligan music and the words “a three-hour tour” keep humming in my head.

Like all branches in the U.S. military, the Coast Guard likes to start its mission early, “O-Dark-Thirty,” as the saying goes. I arrive around 5:30 a.m. and Lieutenant Ed Weiland, the Sundew’s operations officer, welcomes me. My first instructions come from Lieutenant Weiland, who explains that a loud buzzing alarm signals an emergency and the call to abandon ship. My name, I’m told, is on a lifeboat roster.

“So, you won’t forget about me, right?”

Weiland laughs and excuses himself. I’m one civilian among a crew of 48 enlisted men and women and eight officers. They won’t forget about me, I assure myself.

The weather is grudgingly on our side – overcast, chilly with good visibility – as Sundew glides under the Aerial Lift Bridge. Clear of the harbor, Sundew kicks its 1650-horsepower diesel engine into a cruising speed of 14 knots (about 16 mph), its ice-breaking iron bow slicing effortlessly through choppy water.

On the bridge, it’s business as usual, or so I assume as general observations and comments are exchanged:

“Change in bearing, one minute.”

“Speed over ground, two-point-eight.”

“Turn to starboard.”

“My wife and I went to Blackwoods last night ... the prime rib was excellent.”

I’ve just heard about the preparation to change course (bearing), the “true” or land speed of the vessel (over ground), a turn to the right (starboard) … and about a good place to eat beef.

The bridge can get crowded. On average one finds the engineer of the watch, a lookout, phone monitor, helmsman, boatswain of the watch, quartermaster of the watch and the deck watch officer.

Two radar systems stand beside each entrance. In the center, a helmsman holds the large, brass “wheel,” keeping the ship on course. Along the back wall are a computer, radios, telephones, some navigational maps … and a stainless steel bowl of chocolate-covered peanuts. I sample the peanuts and ask about some on-bridge positions.

“The deck watch officer has a lot of responsibilities,” explains Ensign Christopher Belmont. “He has to take all the information from others on the bridge and throughout the ship and process it.”

Ensign Belmont, the junior officer on this trip, is learning the job of deck officer. The 23-year-old native of Springfield, Massachusetts, is only one year out of the Coast Guard Academy, yet appears older, more mature.

“When I’m conning the ship, driving the ship, that’s my favorite part of the job. I get to use my knowledge and skills.”

Looking around the bridge, I notice an empty chair to the right of the wheel.

“That’s the Captain’s chair,” says Belmont. “Only she can sit in it.”

“Captain” is Lieutenant Commander Bev Havlik. On this trip, she doesn’t spend a lot of time in the Captain’s chair. Instead, as we approach Raspberry Island, Havlik stations herself outside of the bridge, one leg casually propped up against the side of the vessel and drinking coffee. She wears thick blue overalls, sunglasses and a cap that covers most of her closely cropped hair.

Born in Nashua, Iowa, Havlik grew up without any thought of joining the Coast Guard. After graduating from college with a “bright, shiny management degree,” she discovered that her years of working through college and in the fields didn’t constitute “work experience.” One interviewer suggested that she try the military to gain experience, and after being turned down twice for Officer Candidate School for the Coast Guard, Havlik was accepted. She viewed her tour of duty as a way to get experience, then get out. That was 16 years ago.

“I’m just not ready to go,” she says. “The transfers keep it fresh.”

The Coast Guard gave her job satisfaction and fast career advancement. With signing bonuses, college funding and the perks of being able to explore new places, she strongly recommends her branch of the military as either a career or a career move.

Sundew is Havlik’s second command, having captained a 110-foot patrol boat in Florida. The seasoned lieutenant commander from Iowa knows what she is doing.

“What works best for me as captain is ensuring you have coordination and the ability to do one’s job thoroughly. That usually means I don’t get in the crew’s way.”

It works. Relaxed and sipping her coffee, she accepts information and gives commands. She knows that what she wants done will be done by the crew.

“They’re good people to work with.”

Havlik will leave Sundew for another, as yet unidentified, assignment this summer.

By late morning, the gray sky turns sunny, and we come into view of coordinates off Raspberry Island where the first lighted buoy is to be dropped. This is Havlik’s favorite part of her Lake Superior duty.

“I like calling it, ‘Getting the lake ready for early summer, before Memorial Day.’”

As we approach the drop-off location, Sundew slows to a virtual crawl, bobbing lightly. I don’t see anything near us. A thousand-footer cruises about 10 miles out on our starboard, but that’s it. The navigational map shows deep water. I ask a stupid question: “Why are we moving so slow?”

“Slow and steady wins the race,” says Havlik. “You can’t get complacent. It could get you killed.”

Buoys, after all, direct vessels along shipping channels or away from potential hazards. That means placing them often puts the Coast Guard cutter in close proximity to those hazards.

We stop on target and a dozen crew members start the methodical process of lifting up a large red-and-green lighted buoy from the deck and attaching it to a “sinker,” this one with more than 60 feet of chain. The sinker, a 2-ton block of cement, anchors the buoy. Generally the chain is 1-1/2 times the depth of the water, to accommodate for rough water and regular motion. Both buoy and sinker are lifted over the side of the ship.

“Set the buoy,” the captain commands.

A guardsman swings a sledgehammer at the catch holding the sinker. It plunges to the bottom. The buoy, released from the ship’s boom, starts its job, light blinking.

Farther into the Apostles, Sundew services an unlighted buoy that remains on station throughout the year. Lifted on board, the buoy is inspected for damage, its top cleaned (birds hang out there) and its chain checked for wear.

Havlik says safety is a large concern with the spring mission since there are new crew members and even the experienced crew hasn’t worked with buoys on the lake since December.

Ensuring all goes well during this potentially dangerous buoy-setting process is Chief Boatswain Curt Barthel.

“That’s basically my job. They draw up to the buoy, I pick it up, bring it on deck, work on it and put it back in the water. It’s an honest day’s work.”

Barthel is a typical senior enlisted. Off duty, he’s easygoing, ready to crack jokes. He slumps in the chief’s mess, chatting and putting the last few hours of hard labor behind him. On duty, he’s professional, uncompromising and tuned to the importance of his job.

“People don’t look at the big picture,” says the 16-year veteran. “We’re contributing to commerce. Without the buoys, commerce doesn’t move. Millions and millions of dollars literally float by those buoys on a daily basis.”

As important as the mission is, says Barthel, nothing they do is worth being unsafe.

“If we break a buoy, they’ll buy another one,” he says. “But if a seaman loses a finger or an eye, or something like that, you don’t just go buy another one.”

The crew logs long hours during these two days, and the galley makes sure the mission is well fueled. Chilled buckets of Gatorade and bowls of chocolate-covered peanuts are ever present. Breakfast, lunch and dinner are filling and, unlike my Army experience, quite tasty. Besides galley chow, a box of cookies sits on one metal table, a gift from the mother of a fireman, I’m told. By afternoon the box is empty. Every little bit helps.

For the uninitiated, two or more days on a 180-foot-long cutter can make one punchy. Narrow halls force people to turn sideways when passing. Sleeping quarters are Spartan-style common to the military, but individual bunk curtains are quaint, in a military Martha Stewart sort of way. It seems there’s always something to trip over or bang your head on. The old cutter doesn’t tolerate clumsy civilians.

Noise is another thing. The ship’s two diesel electric engines buzz constantly. Annoying at first, the sound soon becomes reassuring. No engine sound means a problem.

“They’re what keep us off the shoals,” says Machinery Technician Todd Cornell, engine room chief. In a ship as cramped as Sundew, the engine room is another world. The open air and freedom of the deck seem miles away, but Cornell and his men have no problem with that.

“In the winter, we’re not outside, but down here where it’s nice and warm,” says Cornell, an 18-year veteran just finishing a four-year tour on Sundew.

“And in the summer when they’re outside sweating, we’re down here in the A.C.”

Actually, only the small control room, where the engine room crew spends most of its time, is temperature controlled. The engine room itself can reach more than 100 degrees. The crew checks the engines constantly.

“All of my guys take pride in the engine room,” says Cornell. “They keep it clean, and they keep up with the maintenance. I’m leaving this ship in good hands.”

Maybe it’s pride, or maybe cramped quarters, but Cornell and his small group of engineers and firemen seem like brothers. They work well together, and when Sundew docks in Ashland on the evening of the first day, they go out together for beers and pizza as a farewell for a departing member.

The most animated of the bunch is fireman Mark Barone. Conversation seems to revolve around the brash, fast-talking 27-year-old. It was his mother who sent the cookies. Later, when I ask about the treats, his brashness evaporates and he turns almost shy.

“It’s good for morale,” he finally says. “We all like to eat.”

Family is important for Barone, and for two years his Sundew mates have been family.

“It’s going to be tightknit, like a family, on the water. You rely on everyone here. We do spend a lot of time together. I see a lot of these guys as brothers.”

Barone, a native of Columbus, Ohio, joined the Coast Guard after doing a few semesters in college.

“It’s been a great experience. I’ve learned a lot. I’ve done things and seen things I never would have if I had never joined the Coast Guard, like lighthouses. I never saw them for real, until I joined.”

Early the next day, Sundew draws away from its ore dock mooring and spends several hours servicing buoys in the Ashland harbor. It’s warm and sunny, the water clear and calm.

We move along to Washburn to pick up buoys that had been painted during a previous stop. These are dropped at other spots in the Apostles, then Sundew starts for home. Yes, this is a routine voyage, I think.…

Rounding Red Cliff, we hit a thick fog. The water churns enough to make my land-lubber senses queasy below deck. I head to the bridge.

Things appear normal except for two seamen in raincoats standing at the bow rather than the “flying bridge,” the deck above the bridge.

“They’re the lookouts,” an officer explains. “We have them there … because the horn is too loud.”

The horn blows every few minutes when the ship travels in low-visibility. Learning that, I promptly walk outside to check the temperature. The blaring horn practically knocks me off my feet. I retreat to the bridge.

Things seem more, let’s say “focused,” than the day before. Trying to make myself useful, I check the radar. The starboard radar screen is an explosion of green lines.

“This doesn’t look right,” I suggest. The deck watch officer comes over, turns a couple of knobs, and says, “There we go.” I feel better.

Breaking free of fog, we hit rougher weather. This is the tail of a storm front that swept Duluth. It’s exciting, but everyone on board, especially me, wants to get home safe.

“We prefer calm weather,” says Belmont. “The quicker we can get from Point A to Point B, the better.”

It’s the first time this crew has experienced such rough weather on the way home. The front was unexpected; I sense this as the bridge gets more crowded. Deciding that an ignorant civilian on a crowded bridge during a storm is probably not a good thing, I head below. After half an hour of wondering what’s going on, I climb back up the steep stairs. Things seem calmer and less congested. The storm has rumbled east, leaving us a smooth, drizzly entrance into Duluth-Superior.

Perhaps because of the weather and time of year, few greet us on the canal as Sundew slips toward the bridge. Crew members on deck stand at ease facing toward their host (in this case the city of Duluth) in the custom of “passing honors” on entering a port.

As we approach the dock, families of crew wait in cars or stand outside. It’s near 9 p.m., earlier than scheduled. Havlik accommodates potential delays in her timetables.

“You hope for the best and plan for the worst and put that into the schedule.”

Sundew’s future remains up in the air. In 2004, it could be given as an attraction (some already are working toward that in Duluth), could be scrapped or may end up as a gunboat somewhere in the world. Keeping the cutter in Duluth gets my vote. That seems a fitting retirement for a vessel that’s guarded safe passages in this Great Lake during six decades of service that have been anything but routine.

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Sundew in short

Feb. 8, 1944: Launched. Cost: $861,589

Sept. 1944: Stationed Manitowoc, Wis.

1945: Stationed Milwaukee

1953: Stationed Charlevoix, Mich.

Nov. 18, 1958: Rescued survivors of Carl D. Bradley sinking

1977: $4.5 million refit

1980: Stationed Duluth, Minn.

1985: New diesel engines

1987: 6-month Caribbean drug interdiction duty

2004: Decommissioned and donated to the Duluth Entertainment Convention Center as a museum ship.

2009: Sold to local businessman Jeff Foster. It’s now used for private outings and by the U.S. Naval Sea Cadet Corps., which trains on the vessel.

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Dave Boe is a freelance writer from Duluth.