At 0220 on 15 April 1912, the new ocean liner RMS Titanic foundered in the North Atlantic after striking a moderate-size iceberg at a speed of 22.5 knots. During the 160 minutes from the collision to the moment the 28° waters closed over her stern railing, nearly every human emotion—unimaginable fear, bravery, stoicism, resignation, and finally uncontrolled panic—played out on her decks. Of the 2,200 passengers and crew on board the ship, more than 1,500 perished in the excruciating agony that accompanies drowning and hypothermia, and 700 survived in far-too-few lifeboats. Over the past 86 years, this event has taken on a larger-than-life character of near-fanatical proportions and certainly ranks at the top of this country's most legendary catastrophes.
The sinking of the Titanic has been explored in 13 major motion pictures, hundreds of books, and thousands of articles. Many of her passengers are now household names, and the seemingly endless aspects and angles of this tragedy boggle the mind. Interest in the ship's abbreviated life and death has remained high over the years, yet it was slowly on the wane when an expedition under command of deep-sea explorer and best-selling author Robert Ballard discovered the wreck in 1985.
With the wreck site common knowledge ever after, commuter-like dives to the doomed liner are now relatively commonplace. Most expeditions ostensibly are to take photographs, yet others set out audaciously to harvest artifacts. Salvaging Titanic memorabilia has sparked an international controversy between those who consider the wreck to be a gravesite for 1,500 souls and those who see the conservationist, educational, and of course commercial value of the wreck.
George Tulloch, chief executive officer of RMS Titanic, Inc., and self-fancied "Indiana Jones of Titanica," has been at the forefront, actively salvaging items from the 12,600-foot-deep wreck site. Over the past decade, under the Titanic Memorial Act of 1986, his business has ignored those who want the wreck to remain untouched and has persisted in pushing the envelope of deep-sea salvage. The law appears to have sided with Tulloch et. al., by way of a 1994 U.S. Federal Court ruling that granted him salvor-in-possession rights. The recovery of artifacts resulting from dives in 1987, 1993, 1994, 1997, and now 1998, however, has perpetuated a firestorm among Titanic aficionados.
By August 1998, Tulloch's New York-based publicly held corporation had salvaged and displayed more than 5,000 artifacts in various locations around the world. Attendance at these exhibitions has been staggering, and the public, incited further by the success of James Cameron's mega-blockbuster film, Titanic, is demanding more. In 1996, RMS Titanic, Inc., attempted to retrieve a small section of the wreck's hull, but the 11-ton chunk of steel broke loose just 200 feet from the surface. Those who were invited to the salvage site in cruise ships were tainted as having taken part in a "ghoul cruise." Inevitably, a second attempt, on 10 August 1998, was successful.
That day, a 20-ton piece of the ship's outer hull emerged from the North Atlantic, exposed to air and light for the first time in more than 86 years. With renewed energy, the "preservationists" again dubbed the salvage effort as grave-robbing for profit, and salvors retorted with the rationale that bringing up the hull section was and is for the purposes of conservation and education. Unintentionally, both sides in this debate are more closely aligned than they care to admit. They share in a moral Titanic paradox—as we all do.
Setting the standard for acceptable treatment of the tragedy, within days of the collision, was New York's Savoy Moving Picture Theater, which advertised a "moving picture of the Titanic wreck" for 50 cents a customer. The show was bogus and later closed by the police, but a long line of other schemes emerged to profit from the catastrophe. Wireless operator Harold Bride sold his exclusive story for $500 to The New York Times, and the following month, actress Dorothy Gibson, a surviving second-class passenger, received a full-length feature movie contract. Books, songs, poems, paintings, and technical explanations abounded—for a price. Those who championed restraint were overridden, and the standard—or lack thereof—was set in the public's mind and has continued and grown to the present day.
Even those who most loudly decry the recent recovery of a real piece of the ship have at one time or other profited from exploiting the life and death of the Titanic. Artifacts have been recovered by other expeditions, and relatively obscure personalities have been catapulted to international fame. Societies and associations dedicated to the memory of the Titanic at the same time sell T-shirts, license plates, and inscribed coffee mugs. Even Robert Ballard seems to have made, and continues to make, a sizable living on the subsequent books he writes about expeditions funded in large part by you and me. And of course, the 1997 film, of which I had a small part, now is expected to gross more than $2 billion.
A minor but illustrative drama, portraying the moral paradox of Titanic exploitation, played out on its own during the film's production in Mexico. The senior film production staff ate dinner in a reserved and guarded tent on the studio set at its Baja California location. The meals were excellent and always of the finest quality (prawns, filet mignon, prime rib). Across the studio lot, film extras and other workers ate nutritious but uninspired cuisine in a crowded and drafty tent. Occupying an even lower echelon, Mexican manual laborers, required to wear red baseball caps and thus identified as "red hats," were neither mistreated nor starved, yet they were obviously further down the food chain, so to speak. One night, a production executive was pontificating that the segregation of third-class passengers from those in first and second class on board the Titanic was abhorrent and that he was gratified this behavior was no longer permissible, all the while stuffing buttered lobster into his mouth.
The White Star Line intended RMS Titanic to be a successful commercial venture, but no one ever imagined it would continue for decades. As for the moral paradox, most who have linked themselves with the Titanic have in some way, whether by design or by accident, exploited this phenomenon. It is difficult to take the moral high road as a selective detour from the low road. This is how it began and how it continues today.
RMS Titanic Inc. salvaged a 20-ton piece of the great ship's hull and, in concert with the Discovery Channel, will be exhibiting it at the World Trade Center in Boston. We have the right to boycott, complain openly, or simply enjoy the opportunity to view this piece of history. A recognizable standard was established decades ago, yet ultimately, the resolution of this moral paradox rests with each of us.