By James Heinz
Not this Love Island:
No, this story will not be about sweaty, sultry, scantily clad singles in skimpy swimsuits in a tropical paradise. This story will be about a desperate battle for survival in the icy cold waters of Lake Michigan just off the shores of Milwaukee on top of what was once a local landmark while thousands watched.
One man will survive. One man will become a hero.
In 1890 Milwaukee had a problem: clean drinking water. At that time Milwaukee got its water from wells dug next to outhouses and the polluted Milwaukee River. That year the city of Milwaukee began construction of a water intake crib 3,000 feet off what is now Bradford Beach.
Milwaukeenotebook.com describes the crib: “Workers began by building a small island – called a “crib” – 3,000 feet off Bradford Beach. Built of timber pilings and large rocks, the crib was octagonal in shape and 100 yards in diameter. From this manmade island, workers dug a shaft 140 feet down and then started to drive a tunnel to shore that would eventually house two 60-inch intake pipes.
“While the work progressed, the engineers, miners, and bricklayers lived in a large timber structure on top of the crib, which also housed the tools, compressors, and other necessary machinery. Wary of Lake Michigan storms, the contractor made the shelter walls of 12-inch-thick timbers.”
Halfway through its construction, tragedy struck.
On April 19, 1893, a fierce storm struck Milwaukee. 65 mph winds whipped the Lake into a churning froth. In a Milwaukee Sentinel article in the files of the WMHS, sole survivor James Miller described what happened: “So severe was the gale Wednesday that at 10 o’clock in the evening the men decided to seek safety in the upper lock, where we remained until 5 o’clock this morning. At that hour the water, which earlier in the evening had penetrated to the shafts, began entering our compression chamber. When the air in the lock became so foul that suffocation was certain if we stayed longer, by a unanimous vote, we decided to open the upper trap and force our way to the top of the crib. We pushed up the door, and the water rushed in. Only six of us reached the platform. Those left behind must have been immediately drowned, and I think their bodies will be found in the shaft when it is opened.
“The six of us were obliged to climb a ladder through ten feet of water, and it was only after a desperate struggle that we gained a wire rope which had been attached to the hoisting engine. We grasped the rope, and there we all swung for about ten minutes. Then the first of us gave out. He fell from the rope back into the pit and disappeared. One by one the men dropped, until before the end of the first half hour, McBride and I were the only ones still clinging to the rope. He held on until within ten minutes of when the lifeboat arrived, but finally he became exhausted, loosened his hold on the rope, and sank, waving his hand as he disappeared below the water, as if to encourage me to cling to the line.”
The wooden structure on top of the crib washed away at 5:30 am on the morning of April 20. It vanished into the waves with an audible crack heard by the patients at St. Mary’s Hospital. When the structure washed away it took with it the boilers, pumps and compressors that supplied air to the shaft.
St. Mary’s staff notified the Milwaukee Lifesaving Service Station. Legend has it that North Point lighthouse keeper Georgia Stebbins, whose career I wrote about previously, also alerted the U.S Lifesaving station in Milwaukee after seeing the disaster unfold from the top of the lighthouse.
This was the last thing the Lifesavers wanted to hear. They were cold and exhausted from spending the night rescuing the crew of the schooner LAURINA. The LAURINA was blown in from the Lake by the same storm. She sought shelter behind a short seawall sticking out from the shore in front of Juneau Park. The sea wall was not providing much protection, so the lifesavers hired a horse to drag their surfboat on a wagon to the park. At the intersection of Broadway and Wisconsin Avenue in downtown Milwaukee, the horse collapsed from exhaustion.
Apparently made of sterner stuff than their horse, the Lifesavers apparently carried their Lyle gun to the park and found that fortunately the LAURINA was only 50 feet offshore, although in the raging surf, it might as well have been 50 miles. They were able to fire a light heaving line out to the schooner, and the schooner crew were then able to haul out to the ship a heavier whip line and secure it to the ship. As a result, the lifesavers were able to bring the crew ashore safely.
The Lifesavers had just returned to their station when a man on a horse rode up, shouting “The crib is breaking up.” However, in the best traditions of the service, they put their surfboat on a wagon and pulled and pushed it by hand down Jones Island from the lifesaving station at the north end of the island south to National Avenue.
There they recruited a team of horses from a lumberyard to pull the wagon but as the wagon was crossing the railroad tracks at National and Water Street, the axle of the wagon broke and could not be repaired. Experienced sailors also felt that the surfboat could not make it through the surf that was raging between the crib and the shore.
The Lifesavers then recruited the tug STARKE to tow their surfboat to the crib site. The STARKE had to turn back when the storm shattered its windows. The Lifesavers then persuaded Captain William Gnewuch and his tug WELCOME to tow their surfboat to the crib, a trip that normally would take about 10 minutes. The trip took an hour to get to the crib and another hour to maneuver around to its east side where there was a platform or pier that had not been washed away. The waves were that bad.
WMHS files show that for William Gnewuch it was deja-vu all over again. In 1879 he had assisted his father Charlie Gnewuch in saving seven lives from the wreck of the scow schooner WILCOX, for which Charlie received the gold Lifesaving Medal.
When the tug got close enough to the crib the crew slacked the tow line so that the surfboat could approach the pier. The surfboat was commanded by Captain Nels Peterson, whose grave in Forest Home cemetery I wrote about in a previous article. It had a crew of 7 including surfman Ingar Olsen.
Onlookers on shore watched the tug approach, rolling in the storm. The watchers included relatives of the men trapped on the crib. As the surfboat approached the crib, one of the men lost his grip and dropped into the shaft and drowned. Only James Miller still clung to the cable.
Captain Gnewuch then described what happened next: “All the while the lifeboat was drifting slowly toward the crib. It got close enough for Olsen to spring upon the pier. Just as he landed, great waves, over thirty feet high, swept the pier for several moments, and we thought both men were done for. But when the waves subsided, Olsen was seen to be making his way slowly towards Miller with a life line. He got hold of Miller just as he let loose his hold on the cable. The weight of the man was nearly too great for Olsen, but with extreme exertion he managed to release his own preserver and place it around Miller’s waist. Then he fastened the life-line to Miller. Taking another preserver, which had been thrown him, Olsen secured it about himself.”
“Then came the feat that caused all of us to admire him. Unhesitatingly Olsen threw Miller into the sea, and sprang in after him. In the water, with the waves breaking over their heads, Olsen got Miller on his back, and thus they were dragged into the lifeboat. Miller was more dead than alive.”
Miller, who weighed 235 pounds, had lost consciousness but had wrapped the cable around his arm, which prevented him from dropping into the flooded shaft. Olsen then described what happened: “As we finally maneuvered into position, I unconsciously dropped my oar, picked my way between the other men in the boat … and made a dive. No command had been given and weeks later, when I was asked to explain how I happened to do what I did at the time, I was unable to give any explanation … it was just as though an unseen hand was guiding my actions.”
“First, I took off my life-preserver and tried to put it on Miller. Trying to maneuver the inert form into proper position as the icy sea beat against us and sought to wash us from our perilous perch was a job that taxed my remaining strength. Finally, with this accomplished, the crew of our lifeboat threw me a heaving line, which I tied securely around Miller’s body. Watching my chance for a lull in the waves, I picked Miller up bodily, managed somehow to get him on my back and crawled with him to the lee side of what remained of the crib, and dumped him over for the crew to haul in.”
It took Olsen two hours to accomplish what he did. Olsen barely made it back to the tug. He had no memory of the return trip. Although badly bruised, Miller survived. He visited Olsen 32 years later when business brought him to Milwaukee.
The crew of the WELCOME were not the only people who admired Olsen’s feat. The Lifesaving Service was so impressed that they awarded Olsen their highest award, the gold Lifesaving Medal, whose history I wrote about previously. This is the official citation:
“Date of Award: May 24, 1893
“During night of 19 April 1893, the house on the crib of a new city waterworks tunnel washed away during a prevailing gale. The 15 workmen took refuge in the air lock and on morning of the 20th, all but one had drowned. The lifesaving crew of the Milwaukee Life-Saving Station were towed to the crib by the tug Welcome and rescued the survivor from the crib. The superior intelligence, remarkable strength, and courageous daring of Surfman Ingar Olsen resulted in the rescue of the lone survivor. On the following day the crew helped recover the bodies of ten of those drowned in this disaster.”
Captain Gnewuch said it best of Olsen’s feat: ““It was the most courageous piece of work I ever saw.”
According to the Find-A-Grave website, Ingar Olsen was born in 1870 in Norway. The website goes on to say: “Capt. Olsen stayed with the Life-saving Service, and retired as the Milwaukee Station Commander. Capt. Olsen died on December 8, 1964 in Shorewood WI. His wife Emily died two years later, and both are buried in Wisconsin Memorial Park in Brookfield, Wisconsin.”
The crib structure went on to become Milwaukee’s beloved landmark, Love Island or Love Rock, so named because in 1970 someone paddled out to it and spray painted the word LOVE on the side facing Bradford Beach. In 1986, concerned about the safety of the deteriorating condition of the crib, and of those who kept paddling out to it to refresh the paint on the word LOVE, the City of Milwaukee blew it up. However, according to legendary Milwaukee underwater explorer Capt. Jerry Guyer, the city only removed about the top 40 feet of Love Island. The lower 100 feet of it still remains and is an excellent dive site with lots of fish.
James Heinz
Photos:
Love Island All Stars photo courtesy of Wikipedia
North Point 2nd Intake Crib Structure photo courtesy of Milwaukee Water Works
Workers digging North Point Second Intake Tunnel photo courtesy of Milwaukee Water Works
North Point Second Intake Compressed Air Lock photo courtesy of Milwaukee Water Works
Lifesavers towing a surfboat on a wagon photo courtesy of Wikipedia
Love Rock photo courtesy of the Milwaukee Journal
Love Rock from above dated 1963 photo courtesy of the Milwaukee Journal
Love Rock demolition in 1986 photo courtesy of the Milwaukee Journal – read their article at: https://www.jsonline.com/story/life/green-sheet/2021/11/23/what-happened-milwaukees-love-rock-lake-michigan-what-the-wisconsin/8451715002/
____________________________________
James Heinz is the Wisconsin Marine Historical Society’s acquisitions director. He became interested in maritime history as a kid watching Jacques Cousteau’s adventures on TV. He was a Great Lakes wreck diver until three episodes of the bends forced him to retire from diving. He was a University of Wisconsin – Milwaukee police officer for thirty years. He regularly flies either a Cessna 152 or 172.
