It’s an ill wind that blows nobody good” is a trite old proverb that has been bandied about through the years and one wonders whether there is any basis of truth in it, especially at such times when you happen to be the “nobody” on whom the elements are venting their full fury. However that may be, I am sure that I can speak for the entire ship’s company that thoughts, if any, along that line those of us on the Pathfinder may have had while riding out a severe typhoon in the northern Philippines, were most certainly centered on nothing but the forward half of that familiar quotation. In retrospect, of course, having safely weathered the particular storm, the full meaning of the saying began to dawn as the real value of such an experience was recognized—not, mind you, that there has ever been any desire to seek a more liberal “education” by repeating such an experience unnecessarily.
The U. S. Coast and Geodetic Survey ship Pathfinder, a flush-deck, coal-burning, steel steamer of 875 tons, had in her time weathered more or less successfully many typhoons. Built in Elizabeth, New Jersey, in 1899, she was sent from duty in Alaska to the Philippines in 1901 where she continued in operation until destroyed in early 1942 as a result of Japanese hostilities. Her triple-expansion engines of 846 horsepower gave her a speed of about 12 knots originally, but this had decreased through the years to a maximum of about 10 knots. The complement consisted of 9 officers (Americans) and a crew of 71 Filipinos.
On being ordered to command of the Pathfinder in the spring of 1932 instructions were received to resume hydrographic surveying operations, initiated several years previously, along the northwestern and northern coasts of Luzon. Work in these areas could, in general, only be carried on from March through October; that is to say, during the period of the tail end of the northeast and the major portion of the southwest monsoons—in short, the typhoon season. Having had, as a junior officer, several rather close brushes with typhoons during a previous three-year hitch in the Philippines and an experience or two with hurricanes while in command of a small vessel in Florida waters, the writer had developed a healthy respect for such storms and realized that no “gravy- train” assignment lay ahead of us for the next few months. Although the general condition of the 33-year-old Pathfinder was considered fairly good, there was no intention that we take too much for granted or deliberately pit her seagoing qualities against undue weather hazards, if such could be avoided gracefully. Suitable all-weather harbors were few and far between, being limited to that of Port Bolinao, 130 miles to the southward, and Port San Vicente, 100 miles to the eastward of Cape Bojeador on the northwestern tip of Luzon, with the additional possibility of finding fair anchorage in the mouth of the Cagayan River at Aparri, approximately midway along the north coast.
By the end of June work off the northwest coast had been completed. This part of the project had been carried on steadily and without unusual incident. Weather had been generally good and the few times it became necessary, adequate shelter from the northeast could always be obtained by anchoring close under the lee of the shore. In fact, this part of the season might readily have been termed the “milk run.” After making a few minor repairs, including the renewal of a number of defective boiler tubes and the installation of two tobin-bronze metal rods as diagonal bracing along the after bulkhead of the wooden pilothouse to stiffen it and remedy a slight “working” which occurred with the roll of the ship, we sailed from Manila on July 11 to take up our assigned work along the north coast of Luzon. By now the Northeast had subsided and typical Southwest conditions had set in with light variable breezes, smooth seas, and good visibility, the latter often exceptionally good just before a storm. There was a rather disturbing element present, however, that caused us to keep a very close watch on the weather. A trough of low pressure extending from the China Sea through the Balintang Channel and far out toward the Ladrone Islands had developed shortly before our arrival and showed no signs of filling up or moving on. As a matter of fact, it persisted for about a month. This trough or path of least resistance offered an enticing invitation to any disturbances that might be forming in the Pacific typhoon breeding grounds to set a course in our direction and hook up full speed ahead.
Except for a survey of the bar and mouth of the Cagayan River, made soon after our arrival, to determine whether access could be had to an anchorage within the river mouth—shoaling was found to preclude this —plans had long since been made to take the best possible advantage of every break in the weather to operate farthest from shelter and to reserve the near-by areas for operations during doubtful or suspicious periods when it might become necessary to seek refuge on rather short notice. In general, local weather conditions continued favorable and work was carried on with but one interruption until July 25, despite the fact that “lows,” disturbances, and typhoons were being reported almost daily in practically all surrounding areas. On the 18th a typhoon had appeared in the Pacific about 300 miles to the eastward of Luzon and by the 20th was crossing that island only about 60 miles to the southward of our anchorage at San Vicente. It did not, however, affect us to any great extent aside from passing squalls with 50- or 60-mile breezes which, coming off the land, did not kick up any seas.
By July 25 a low that had shown up several days previously far out toward the Ladrones had finally graduated and was reported as a typhoon of light intensity some 300 miles to the eastward of central Luzon moving WNW—in our direction. Work was continued throughout the day, but indications of approaching trouble began to be manifest. Although the barometer had been below normal for some time, its diurnal oscillation now disappeared and the trend was definitely downward. The surface wind was a light NE breeze, but the high clouds indicated greater velocities. Clouds became thicker and squalls became more frequent and violent, and the breeze steadily freshened to moderate NE. Anchorage was made that evening in San Vicente outer harbor and a close watch kept on developments. During the night the barometer continued to fall gradually, squalls became somewhat more frequent but only slightly more intense, and the breeze continued to freshen from the NE. Weather reports received at this time did not indicate anything more serious than a low, or very light typhoon, still located about 200 miles out in the Pacific. By early morning of the 26th it was apparent that a typhoon of considerably more severity than previously reported was closing in on us and that it was now time to make all preparations accordingly. The ship was taken into the inner harbor and anchored in the center of the basin with the port anchor to which “false” palms had previously been attached. All awnings, dodgers, and loose gear were removed from above deck; small boats and other deck gear were secured with additional lashings; all rigging and stays were examined and set up taut; hatches not immediately necessary and skylights were covered and battened down; the second set of false palms was attached to the starboard anchor; the spare bower anchor was rigged over the side in readiness for dropping and the end of a coil of 12-inch Manila hawser broken out from the hold and made fast to it for emergency use—needless to add that a full head of steam was maintained and the engines kept warmed up for instant use.
Having completed all the above preparations by 0900, our situation was carefully reviewed. The ship was riding comfortably to one anchor in the center of a landlocked harbor, with swinging room of about 450 yards’ diameter; the depth of water within this area was about 4 fathoms with mud bottom (which we hoped would prove of good holding quality—how good, we found out to our entire satisfaction later). Fringing the anchorage basin for an average width of about 400 yards were shoals and coral reefs, permitting a maximum scope of anchor chain of about 75 fathoms providing the mooring held in the center of the basin. The ground tackle consisted of two stock 1500-lb. bower anchors to which the false palms above referred to had been attached. These palms, four in number, were of 1-inch boiler plate about 2 by 3 feet, roughly triangular in shape, curved slightly to fit the regular palms snugly, and held in place by means of four 1-inch steel bolts; this extra equipment added about 250 lb. to each of the 1500-lb. bower anchors. The anchor chains consisted of 94 fathoms of 1 1/8 inch on the starboard, and 120 fathoms of 1 ¼ inch inch on the port. The spare anchor was a stock type of 2079 lb. Since the Pathfinder had a tendency to yaw badly when riding to a long mooring, it was decided to limit the scope first to 45 fathoms and later, if necessary, to pay out not more than 60 fathoms. We would ride to one anchor as long as possible, or until the course of travel of the storm could be more definitely determined, and then, when necessary, the second anchor would be dropped where it would serve the best purpose. The wind was still holding NE with no sign of shifting, indicating that we were on or very near the storm path, and latest reports placed the center only some 100 miles off. By noon, with the wind still holding the same direction and having steadily increased to about 50 miles per hour, squalls becoming more frequent and violent, and the barometer dropping steadily about .04 inch per hour, it was decided to delay no longer in dropping the second anchor and so, with the next lull, the starboard anchor was let go not too wide off the port anchor and both chains paid out to 45 fathoms and secured.
Anticipating a wakeful and rather busy night and since there seemed nothing else to be done for the time being, the writer thought a little siesta might come in handy, and so, with a competent watch set, time was taken out after lunch for a rest of about a couple of hours. The storm gradually but steadily grew more violent up to 1600, with practically continuous rain and a NE wind up to about 70 m.p.h. Shortly after 1600 the storm began to break in real earnest with squalls of increasing fury; seas began to pick up in our sheltered anchorage; darkness settled down and visibility became extremely limited. An officer was stationed in the eyes to keep the pilothouse advised of the lead of the moorings; the engines were used frequently to keep the ship’s head into the wind and to ease somewhat the strain on the anchor chains, taking due care not to override them; the drift lead of about 15 lb. was soon replaced by another of about 25 lb., but this proved of academic interest only as the force of the wind on the bight of the line was so great that it was impossible to determine the relationship between the drift lead and the vessel; a Quartermaster was detailed to take occasional soundings off the stern to try to detect any incipient dragging. The fury of the storm increased in violence each minute. The gale howled and screamed through the rigging. The torrential rain was carried in horizontal sheets by the force of the wind which continued to rise in violent gusts—upon its reaching 100 m.p.h. the vanes of the anemometer were carried away, thus preventing further recordings. It was impossible to see beyond the bow of the ship. The waves in the harbor were whipped up to a height of 6 to 8 feet and the crests were blown off in a continuous foam of white spray. The pilothouse shuddered with each heavy gust and it was feared that it might be carried away. To face the wind and rain directly was practically impossible. Watching the lead of the moorings was an extremely difficult task. To make one’s way about the deck it was necessary to cling to a rail or life line and, wherever possible, crouch below the bulwarks. A cautious turn about deck was taken at intervals to examine the security of gear and several times it was found necessary to break out the crew to strengthen some of the lashings—one of the launches was found partially lifted from its chocks. As the storm mounted in fury the barometer continued its nose dive; with each tapping of the glass the indicator hand dropped a hundredth or two with no sign of leveling off; each time the pilothouse door was opened the barometer needle would drop another point and a small hatch about 20 inches square in the center of the deck leading to a small storage compartment beneath was blown off.
Shortly before 1800 the force of the gale appeared to abate slightly and within a very few minutes rapidly decreased in violence to a moderate NE breeze. This sudden change in the situation called for immediate action as it was now evident that the center or eye of the storm was upon us and that the gale would break anew at any minute, probably from a new quarter. Anchor chains were hove in short in readiness to swing to the new direction when this could be determined, and a close watch was kept for the first signs of the rear half of the storm. The wind dropped to a very light breeze, veering slowly from ENE to NE to NXE and then died out completely. The rain ceased; the heavy clouds began to grow thin and finally broke away entirely revealing a beautiful blue, unclouded sky overhead with the last waning rays of the setting sun pouring through. This “fool’s paradise” lasted for only about 20 minutes. The barometer had finally stopped its dive at 28".12. The lull gave us an opportunity to make a quick survey of our situation which appeared to be so far so good; no serious damage was apparent and the anchors had dragged very little, if any.
Soon, however, thin cloud streamers began racing across the clear blue overhead from an ESE direction—this was the clue we had been awaiting. The ship was quickly swung around to this new heading and maneuvered to a position between the anchors with the engines. Within no time the surface breeze began to pick up from the ESE; the spare anchor was let go and the ship kicked astern to a mooring of 45 fathoms on the chains and with about the same on the Manila hawser—all were equalized as much as possible and secured. It was fortunate that this scope had previously been decided upon as it was now discovered that there was a badly frayed strand in the hawser only a few fathoms inboard when all had been secured. These arrangements had barely been completed before the storm again began to gather real headway—dense clouds had blotted out the blue sky, heavy rain squalls had returned, and the breeze freshened in quickly succeeding gusts. Within less than 10 minutes the gale had mounted to its previous intensity and finally exceeded its former fury. This half of the storm was somewhat more nerve-racking than the first half, what with complete pitch-black darkness except for lightning flashes and with the greater severity and frequency of the gusts which reached an estimated velocity of well over 100 m.p.h. —probably 115 to 125. It was much more difficult to keep a close watch on the lead of the moorings, but the officers assigned to this duty did a magnificent job and as a result of their directions, signaled by flashlight, the ship was kept headed into the gale with fairly uniform tension maintained on the moorings. It was now simply a matter of riding it out and hoping that the anchors would hold and nothing give way, as it seemed that having passed through the forward half of the storm in a matter of a couple of hours, the rear half, although much more intense, should not last too long. The barometer by this time was rising rapidly.
Shortly after 2200 a slight diminution in the strength and frequency of the gusts was detected. By 2230 the decrease was decidedly noticeable and from then on the force of the gale rapidly declined until shortly before midnight when only a very gentle breeze was blowing from the SE. Although the sky remained partly overcast, the rain squalls became infrequent and of no particular violence. We had apparently weathered the storm safely and, although it was too dark to determine whether we had dragged anchors, at least we were afloat and not piled up in the midst of mangrove bushes.
The morning of the 27th broke cloudy, with light southerly to southwesterly breezes and intermittent light rains. It was noted that the ship had dragged not more than 15 or 20 yards during the entire storm, and the answer was soon disclosed. What was thought to be a mere routine job, that of picking up the anchors, was commenced about 0700, but was not completed until about 1130; the windlass lacked power to break them out and it was necessary to heave each one short in turn and steam ahead full speed to accomplish it. When brought to the surface the reason was at once apparent; the anchors had dug well into the bottom and each brought up a load of hard-packed mud weighing probably a half ton or more and requiring the use of shovels and pike poles along with the hosing to remove it and clean the chains and anchors. There remained no further doubt about the holding qualities of this particular anchorage.
A careful examination revealed that except for the pilothouse we had suffered practically no damage. The force of the wind had opened many seams in the tongue-and-grooved framing of the forward part of the pilothouse in a number of places by as much as one-half inch and it is firmly believed that the diagonal bracing, referred to before, was all that saved it from being carried away. Some of the awning stanchions were somewhat awry and a few spreaders were missing, but otherwise everything was intact. The deck was littered with all sort of debris from ashore—small branches, palm fronds, sand, pebbles, etc. During the night we had also captured a large sea bird of the goony family which had been blown in from sea by the gale and had sought refuge on the deck of the ship. On making a turn of inspection one of the officers had suddenly and literally come face to face with this tall, black, strange creature in the dark behind one of the hatches and with the help of several crew members had succeeded in placing it in a large crate; it was liberated the following morning when it appeared to have recovered from its exhaustion.
Although the barometer had leveled off, it still remained below normal and the weather continued unsettled and did not clear as quickly as might be expected once the typhoon had passed. Local conditions, however, were not unfavorable and work was resumed on the 28th and carried on until the afternoon of the 29th, when, fuel and supplies running low, it was necessary to return to port. On rounding Cape Bojeador southbound, somewhat to our surprise we ran into a strong SW gale with rough seas. Despite reports indicating much better weather ahead, conditions became worse the farther south we proceeded and the barometer crept lower. Not caring to subject the gallant old vessel to unnecessary punishment and strain, we eased ahead through heavy head seas and pulled into San Fernando about noon on the 30th and awaited there more favorable weather. On the morning of August 2 our voyage was resumed and arrival at Manila was made on the morning of August 3, completing not-soon-to-be-forgotten experiences with tropical disturbances that had ranged through the full scale within a period of less than one month.
It was with genuine regret that some months later orders of detachment were received and my relief came aboard to take over command, but my tour of duty in the Philippines was finished and it was now time to return to the States and leave the vessel in the hands of my successors, who invariably held the same high regard and feeling of warm attachment for the faithful old ship. The Pathfinder continued on surveying duty in various areas of Philippine waters until the advent of the present war. Having recently returned to Manila, she was slightly damaged in one of the first Japanese bombing raids, but was able to proceed to Corregidor with valuable records. Off Corregidor she suffered further damage from bombings during the last days of December, 1941, and had to be beached. The last report, transmitted in March, 1942, indicated that the 43-year- old veteran was among those listed for total demolition to prevent her falling into enemy hands. Although the long career of this vessel had thus come to an inglorious end, her name is perpetuated in a new ship completed that same year. The new Pathfinder is a modern all-steel vessel of 1,900 tons, especially built and equipped for surveying work in the most remote regions, and, since her completion, has been steadily engaged on just such duties, frequently in enemy-held territories, the accomplishment of which has had a vital part in the successful operations of our naval and military forces in carrying the war ever closer to total victory.