New Jersey Shipwrecks

“This large, handsome coffee-table book is lavishly illustrated… but the research and quality of the writing make this a picture book most people will actually want to read.”
— The Times, Trenton

“Tales vastly more interesting, and with a fascinating cast of characters, are told in New Jersey Shipwrecks.”
— The New York Times

“New Jersey Shipwrecks commands attention with its gripping true tales of life, death, survival and rescue.”
— Midwest Book Review

“Rather than just giving facts and figures, she adds a human touch…. Buchholz writes with a storyteller’s skill in recounting this fascinating segment of maritime history.”
— ForeWord Magazine

“Superbly documented... highly recommended.”
— MBR Bookwatch

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"Buchholz writes about New Jersey's maritime casualties with vigor, knowledge and style. Buchholz brings these shipwrecks to vivid life from the viewpoints of the terrified voyagers and the brave people trying to save them."
— The Star Ledger

“Amazing heroism.”
— The Press of Atlantic City

“Gripping accounts”
— Book News

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ADVANCE READER REVIEWS:

"Margaret Buchholz has written a gripping and informative account of what appears to be America's deadliest coastline. After reading New Jersey Shipwrecks, you'll never look at the Jersey Shore as before. Forget needles and pollution, it’s the shifting shoals and treacherous shallows that make these waters so dangerous. Thank God for modern engines and GPS. A great read."
— W. Hodding Carter, author of A Viking Voyage and Stolen Water: Saving the Everglades from its Friends, Foes and Florida

"New Jersey Shipwrecks: 350 Years in the Graveyard of the Atlantic is a book of historic importance and a moving tribute to the spirit of the courageous people who died trying to reach the beaches of New Jersey. Buchholz writes with exquisite detail. A passionate researcher, she has transformed historical documentation, filling pages with vivid and powerful accounts of life and death. It reads like an engrossing novel. New Jersey Shipwrecks is a visual and literary feast. I was swept away."
— Sharon J. Wohlmuth, New York Times best-selling author of Sisters, Mothers and Daughters and Best Friends

"Over the centuries the New Jersey Shore has acted like a magnet luring hundreds of wayward ships to its beaches. These gripping tales are recounted in stunning detail by Margaret Thomas Buchholz. The writing is crisp and numerous illustrations are dramatic. The acts of heroism in the face of such calamity affirms basic human survival. Once you start reading Shipwrecks, you will not put this book down.
— Gary Jobson, championship sailor, America’s Cup Hall of Fame inductee, Herreshoff Trophy winner, ESPN sailing commentator, and Olympics commentator for NBC.

"With New Jersey Shipwrecks: 350 Years in the Graveyard of the Atlantic, author Margaret Buchholz continues her tradition of bringing New Jersey coastal history to vivid life through her unmistakably intelligent, attention-capturing writing style and graphically-rich books. Her depth of research is unmatched, ensuring readers that they are experiencing the state’s famous — and obscure — shipwrecks and rescues as they happened. When her career comes to a close, Buchholz can rest easy knowing that her body of work ranks among the best maritime history ever published in the United States."
— John J. Galluzzo, Editor, Wreck & Rescue Journal,
US Life-Saving Service Heritage Association

"The ocean can be both coy and menacing, and never more so than in the way it hoards the secrets and the sorrows of the vessels it takes into permanent custody. New Jersey Shipwrecks offers a marvelous and detailed unveiling of an underwater world that combines dream and nightmare in equal measure."
— Madeleine Blais, Professor of Journalism, University of Massachusetts; author of Uphill Walkers: Portrait of a Family and the national best-seller In These Girls, Hope Is A Muscle.

"Margaret Thomas Buchholz's book is a well-written and wonderfully illustrated book that recounts the fascinating and often frightful stories of the major shipwrecks and disasters along the treacherous New Jersey coast. This book is a fitting tribute to the heroism and sacrifice of the lifesavers and to the trials and tribulations of the victims of these calamities. Shipwrecks will certainly entertain and educate readers about the dangers of seafaring and the limits of human endurance."
— Robert M. Browning Jr., Chief Historian, U.S. Coast Guard

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“Superbly documented… highly recommended.” —  MBR Bookwatch

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Winner: The Foundation for Coast Guard History Award — "A brilliantly researched chronicle of shipwrecks along the New Jersey Shore from 1642 to the present day."

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Revised, redesigned 2nd edition softcover.

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1848 to 1861: A Matter of Conscience

The staggering number of reported shipwrecks over the centuries — about 5000 including both documented and undocumented — has earned New Jersey waters the sorrowful epithet, "Graveyard of the Atlantic." The configuration of the land contributed to the many wrecks that led to building the first lifesaving stations here. Imagine a cone with New York City its apex, Long Island on one side, and New Jersey on the other. Only 6 miles separated Sandy Hook and Coney Island, and before the Swash and Ambrose Channels were dug and maintained, the constantly shifting shoals in the harbor approach made getting in safely a gamble in the best of weather. During a storm, unless a skipper could beat to windward, any northeast gale would blow an inbound sailing vessel onto the lee shore – the Jersey shore. Sandbars parallel the coast from 200 to 400 yards offshore, with depths as little as 3 feet at low tide. The American Coast Pilot in 1800 warned mariners about the shoal at Barnegat Inlet, saying: "It does not extend beyond three miles from the beach and is very steep too. You may turn this shoal in six fathoms of water within pistol shot of the outward breakers."

If a ship grounded on any of the offshore shoals and didn’t break up, but was blown over it and stranded near enough to shore for the crew to swim in – if the water was warm enough to avoid hypothermia – what awaited the men on the beach? On the barrier islands south of Manasquan Inlet the dunes rose to 20 feet and behind them was a dense growth of bayberry, sumac, cedar, scrub pine, sea oats, and beach plum, with a tidal marsh beyond that. And perhaps an occasional fishing or gunning shack, but no villages.

When Newell introduced his lifesaving bill, the Second District coast was almost totally unpopulated; most people farmed inland. Tuckerton was a thriving port at the southern end; Manahawkin, Waretown and Toms River were small villages; Point Pleasant had a few boarding houses and Long Branch had boarding houses and five new hotels. But the roughly 57 miles of shoreline between Long Branch and Little Egg Harbor Inlet had no villages except for Squan. With the exception of a small settlement on Absecon Island — which wouldn’t become Atlantic City until 1854 — the situation south to Cape May was equally bleak. A stranded mariner could walk for 10 miles in either direction — if he had the strength left — and not find even a fisherman’s hut for shelter. Only if the ship could be seen from the mainland might help come.


Eight government lifesaving stations were in place by May 21,1849. The 28-by-16 foot, one-room frame huts were built on pilings, designed to be moved to a different location if the encroaching sea altered the shoreline. Captain Ottinger equipped each with a galvanized iron surfboat and a beach cart, although in a letter to Newell he explained that the "most intelligent" surfmen had recommended a lightweight wooden boat. The energetic officer also wrote Newell that he was experimenting with "throwing a line from the shore to a vessel with a rocket." Each station was outfitted with mortar apparatus, lanterns, shovels, stove, and firewood, as well as the new iron lifecar — complete with air chambers and India rubber floats and fenders — built by Toms River boat builder Joseph Francis. Both the new lifecar, as yet untried, and the line shot from a mortar would be instrumental in saving lives in the following decades.

The first stations were Sandy Hook (located at Spermaceti Cove, and the first to be built), Long Branch (Monmouth Beach), Deal Beach, Shark River, Squan (Chadwicks), Six Mile Beach (Island Beach), Harvey Cedars, and Long Beach (Bonds/Beach Haven), all completed by May 1849. A year later Brigantine, Absecon (Atlantic City), Great Egg Harbor, Ludlam’s Beach (Townsends Inlet), Five Mile Beach (Hereford Inlet), and Cape May Point were built. Ten more stations were added in 1854: Bay Head, Toms River, Forked River, Barnegat, Ship Bottom, Little Egg Harbor, Corsons Inlet, Tatham’s, Turtle Gut, and Cold Spring. The men placed in charge of each lifesaving station were the most experienced surfmen, several of them wreckmasters of their districts, but most serving as volunteers. It wasn’t until 1854 that the government appropriated money for the keepers’ salaries, and 1857 until they actually received the $200 yearly stipend. Four years later, Congress authorized another $26,440 for 28 of the "best self-righting lifeboats."


The system wasn’t perfect — the government offered no fixed funds for maintenance or salaries for the still-volunteer lifesavers. A keeper usually got his position through the recommendation of the wreckmaster or underwriter agent, but local patronage occasionally ruled out a more qualified man. Equipment was lost or pillaged. No rules and regulations were written. Keepers could not enforce drills to keep the men’s skills sharp. The service suffered from neglect and political wrangling. But it was a start. Both the failures and the accomplishments of the lifesavers and their new equipment during the 1850s demonstrated the potential and the necessity of a well-funded government lifesaving service, but the Civil War took the nation’s interest and able-bodied men elsewhere. Not until 1871 would Congress get serious about the Lifesaving Service.
(Excerpt © Down The Shore Publishing)

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1890: Collision Off Barnegat Light

The beam from Barnegat Lighthouse parted the ocean’s still surface 6 miles offshore. The late October night was clear, yet dark; the moon would rise shortly. Cuban passengers in the iron-hulled, coal-fired liner Vizcaya were lingering in the saloon after their first dinner at sea. Some of the men lounged in the smoking room. Jose´ Casarego had gone to bed, tired after the New York boarding, but happy to be on the way to Havana. Chief Officer Felipo Hazas, tall, slight, and elegant looking, was talking to the second officer in his room. The 287-foot Vizcaya was heading due south at 11 knots when the officers heard the engine room bell ring full astern. They ran on deck to see what happened.

The 225-foot, four-masted schooner Cornelius Hargraves was fairly new; she had been launched in Camden, Maine, in September 1889. On October 31, 1890 she was off Barnegat under full sail on a port tack, steering northeast at about 8 knots. The ship had had a good run from Philadelphia, where it had taken on a full load of coal. First Mate Henry Perring, who before the sail had enjoyed a visit to his hometown of Fall River, Massachusetts, was on deck with Second Mate Angus Walker. At about 8:30 pm, the lookout spotted the lights of a steamer about 5 miles ahead. Perring had the right of way and held his course. Walker burned a warning torch and called Captain John Allen to come up on deck. He checked his course, eyed the steamer, and said, “I guess we can clear them.”

The liner didn’t alter its course, and Perring testified at the hearing following the collision, ?It seemed as if people on the steamer were all either drunk or asleep. They did not swerve a hair’s breadth from their course, but simply rushed down upon us.?

Moments after Allen made the decision to hold his course, Walker said, “We’ll strike them, Captain!”
Captain Allen swore, then shouted at the top of his voice, “Hard a’starboard! Put your helm hard a’starboard!” At that moment, the Vizcaya crossed right across their bow.

Chief Officer Hazas reached the open deck of the Vizcaya just as the two vessels collided. He later recounted, “The bow of the schooner struck us just forward of the bridge on the starboard side. The vessel’s headway had been stopped. I went to find the captain but he must have been killed on the bridge.” He tried to get to the lifeboats, but all four on the side of the collision had been splintered. He ran for the port side and had almost cut one of the boats free when the liner started to sink. “I sprang into the rigging and climbed up as the water rose,” he said.

Dr. Andres Rico was in the Vizcaya’s smoking room enjoying a cigar when the impact threw him out of his chair. He rushed on deck and saw the schooner’s 40-foot bowsprit towering above them, ripping away the rigging and deckhouses. At that moment engineer Francisco Serra came up from the engine room and said that the schooner’s bow had pierced the hull and the ship was flooding. The vessel began to settle, and a woman came stumbling up to them with her little boy in her arms, screaming, “For God’s sake, save my little one!” The engineer moved to take the boy, but, Dr. Rico said, “the final tremble of the steamer came as the engineer tried to get hold of the child … he just had time to catch the fore rigging as she sank. At least twenty-five men got into the rigging, but one by one, they lost their hold.” The little boy was lost.

Casarego had been thrown out of bed when the vessels collided. He pulled on some clothes and ran on deck. “Here was a pitiful sight,” he later said. “Women were kneeling, praying to the Virgin to help them, and men and sailors were running wildly about as though they had lost all presence of mind.” The liner was sinking fast, and Casarego jumped into the frigid water and climbed onto some floating spars.

The Cornelius Hargraves struck the Vizcaya just behind the coal storage area. Hazas said, ?The crushing force of the schooner’s blow carried her bow clean into our engine room and the water poured in. It was evident nothing could be done to save the ship. The confusion was frightful and everyone could think only of himself. There was a terrible scramble for the rigging by some while others leaped up onto the schooner, which still lay alongside us, tangled with our rigging. The bridge where the captain had been standing was swept away completely by the long bowsprit and I think that both the captain and the third officer were killed by the first crunching blow.?

Second Mate Walker said, “For the next few seconds after we struck everyone seemed to be paralyzed with fear, and there was a perfect silence. Then, as people realized the great danger, they raised agonizing cries and rushed hither and thither over the steamer’s deck. Many of them began jumping down upon the decks of the schooner, imagining that she was not as badly damaged as the steamer. Captain Allen was standing under the light of the binnacle lamp. His face was pale. He shouted to us to keep the people back and to look after the schooner’s crew first. He seized a broadax, cut away the lifeboat and jumped in and was followed by the first mate and three sailors.”

Walker was forward and couldn’t get to the boat in time. He shouted to the captain to wait, since the boat could hold another dozen men. “For God’s sake, come back,” Walker said. The schooner was going down with the liner, and the rest of the crew were climbing high into the rigging. Walker took a large gangplank and jumped overboard with it. He said, “When I rose to the surface I saw men jumping into the water and soon there were thirteen Spaniards [from the Vizcaya] on it with me.” They all clung to the gangplank until a long swell tipped it over; when Walker got back on, only seven men were with him. By nine o’clock, all the others had fallen off and the stillness was absolute: “The cries and prayers of the passengers and crews were all hushed; most of the poor wretches were already dead,” Walker said.

Walker started paddling the gangplank toward Barnegat Lighthouse, occasionally passing a floating body. He was bitterly cold as the wind blew through his wet clothing, but the strong 24-year-old New Englander kept moving. Paddling past a floating poultry coop, he grabbed two fat ducks and tied them to his suspenders, thinking he could eat them if he had to. But, he said, “a wave broke my suspenders and took my ducks away.” After a few more hours, he realized that no matter how hard he stroked, the current was pulling him away from shore. He was beginning to think he’d never put foot on land again. He saw several schooners and steamers, but none saw him. At about 4 o’clock in the morning, he came across Casarego on his large raft of spars; this was sturdier than his gangplank, and with his last bit of strength, he pulled himself up onto it. Both men were injured — Casarego had a broken rib, Walker a head wound — and struggling against hypothermia. When they were picked up just before dawn by the pilot boat C. H. Marshall, they were more dead than alive.

When Hazas climbed into the Vizcaya’s rigging, he found himself ?a little too low, for there was quite a swell on and the water came up to my shoulders. I climbed higher. The moon rose and shone brightly on the calm, rolling surface of the ocean, and nearby, with all sails set, we saw the upper portion of the four masts of the schooner. The cold and wet were almost unbearable, and never was night so long. One of the sailors cut away a section of the foresail and wrapped it around himself and his fellows and this helped to keep the sea and intense cold off some of us.?

At about 8 o’clock in the morning, the lookout on the steamer Humboldt spotted two sets of masts sticking straight out of the water. As they got closer they saw about a dozen men clinging to the foremast yard. “We hailed the approach of the Humboldt’s boats as only men who had looked on death twelve miserable hours could hail their savior,” Hazas said. Two boats were quickly lowered, and within 30 minutes all were rescued. The survivors were so cramped and stiff that they couldn’t move and had to be lifted off. One Humboldt officer said, “They were in a pitiable condition, half crazed with fear and unable to give any coherent account of the disaster. We wrapped them in blankets and dosed them with hot drinks until their teeth stopped chattering.” When the survivors could speak, they identified themselves as four officers and eight crewmen of the Vizcaya. They told how men had one by one dropped out of the rigging, unable to hold on in the numbing cold. They said all the women and children had gone down with the ship. When the Humboldt arrived in New York that morning, it was the first anyone onshore knew of the tragedy...
(Excerpt © Down The Shore Publishing)

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