IDENTITY CRISIS
Finding a Name for the “Middle Grounds Wreck”

Michael C. Barnette
(Photography by the author and James Rozzi)

Descending through the tranquil waters of the Gulf of Mexico, my first indication that I was approaching the shipwreck was the legion of amberjack that rushed upwards to greet me.  As I dropped below the thermocline, the clear blue surface water gradually transformed into a hazy curtain with a muted green hue, however, water clarity on the bottom was still respectable, with about 40 feet of visibility.  As my eyes struggled to make out any recognizable lines on the bottom, I soon observed the unmistakable structure of a towering engine and large double boilers.  Was this the lost steamer Heidelberg?

The “Middle Grounds Wreck,” so named due to the wreck’s proximity to the Florida Middle Grounds in the Gulf of Mexico, was originally visited by divers in 1981.  Resting in 130 feet of water, the virgin wreck was teeming with marine life.  While divers pursued the abundant grouper, snapper, and amberjack that flourished around the scattered wreckage, few, if any, paid any attention to the wreck itself.  While the location of the wreck was rather remote – over 80 miles offshore – the wreck has since been regularly visited by divers.  Almost 25 years have elapsed since the wreck entertained its first visitors.  And yet, the “Middle Grounds Wreck” was still unidentified.  That was until now.  

I was originally turned on to the wreck of the Heidelberg by a friend who also shared my passion for shipwreck research and exploration.  The story of the Heidelberg was intriguing:  built in 1852 at a New York shipyard, the 174-foot long steamer ran aground south of Miami in November 1859 en route from New York to New Orleans.  Successfully salvaged, the steamer was taken to Key West so that the United States District Court could determine the appropriate award for the salvors.  Shortly thereafter, the Heidelberg departed for New Orleans to be repaired and put back into service.  Unfortunately, the steamer would never reach its destination.  On December 22, 1859, after encountering a winter squall off the central west coast of Florida, the steamer Heidelberg was abandoned and left, ultimately, to founder and sink.  While 17 passengers, one mate, and the insurance underwriter survived a harrowing night at sea in one of the lifeboats before being rescued by the ship Maritana, the Heidelberg’s captain and nine of her crew were never seen again.

Before venturing out to the wreck, I tried to gather as much information on the unidentified “Middle Grounds Wreck” as I could.  Unfortunately, as spearfishermen are typically preoccupied with pursuing their quarry, reliable information on the wreck’s characteristics and architecture were hard to come by.  However, I was lucky enough to meet one diver who provided a couple of valuable clues to the wreck’s identity.  He first visited the site in 1981, when the wreck was still relatively unknown.  On one of his first dives, he observed brass portholes and other loose artifacts strewn across the seabed.  More importantly, he happened to find and recover two brass letters that were resting on the sandy seabed underneath the bow.  Those letters, presumably from the bow nameplate, were an “I” and an “L.”

This information was very beneficial, and helped to support the theory that the “Middle Grounds Wreck” may indeed be the Heidelberg.  Planned charters to the wreck in the waning days of 2003 resulted in constant frustration, as the weather continually cancelled our trips.  The spring of 2004 was equally as frustrating, as the wind seemed to strengthen as we approached the dates for our scheduled excursions.  Delays only fueled our fire to explore and identify the unknown wreck.

Finally, my attempts to reach the wreck were rewarded in May 2004.  As the wreck came into view on that first descent, I looked for the shipwreck that my imagination had crafted over the past several months.  Once on the bottom, I eagerly swam forward to the bow, documenting the site with my camera.  The entire wreck had a very prominent list to starboard: while the lean of the engine did not seem to exceed 40 degrees, the small remainder of the bow careened over more than 65 degrees.  Just aft of the bow, the remains of the bridge lay scattered on the seabed.  I was startled to see the binnacle and other prized brass artifacts still residing in plain view.  With my time limited, I turned aft and headed for the stern, noting prominent features and continually firing away with my camera.  Portholes were obscenely obvious amongst the wreckage.  Towards the terminus of the wreck, the detached fantail with its exposed steering quadrant still maintained some of its integrity, while the remainder of hull and structure were largely flattened and spread out in the sand.  The entire dive passed in a blur, and on the ride back to the dock, I worked to put all the pieces together.

In discussing my observations with colleagues and reviewing the images taken of the shipwreck, a few discrepancies emerged.  The Heidelberg was constructed with three decks and had a square stern.  The amount of wreckage within the shipwreck’s perimeter did not seem sufficient for three decks’ worth of material, and the rounded fantail of the “Middle Grounds Wreck” did not match that of the square stern of the Heidelberg.  Most troubling was that the hull of the “Middle Grounds Wreck” was constructed of steel, while the steamer Heidelberg possessed a metalled hull, meaning she was built of wood but sheathed in copper to ward off wood-eating teredo worms.  However, the most damning evidence would be found on a subsequent trip.

I was not able to return to the wreck site until two weeks later, again delayed by foul weather.  I intended to gather more information on the first dive, and set out to measure the length of the unidentified vessel.  Running a tape from the bow, I obtained a rough measurement of approximately 140 feet to the stern; due to the wreck’s disposition, it was impossible to get an exact measurement of the ship’s former length.  In any case, the length definitely appeared to be a bit short for the Heidelberg.  I then set out to search amongst the debris with my fellow divers, looking for an artifact that could yield any insight into the shipwreck’s identity.  Just off the starboard side, aft of the engine, we found a nice cache of objects.  As Dean Marshall recovered a couple of nice glass candle holders, I noticed the graceful lip of a brass object buried nearby.  As I started to pull it out of its sandy internment, my heart raced as I uncovered a beautiful brass bell!  We all reveled in the discovery, hoping that it would be adorned with the name of the ship.  Unfortunately, after wiping away some of the encrustation, it appeared the bell was barren of any identifying names or dates.  Near the engine, I found a brass junction box embossed with the manufacturer, “RUSSELL & STOLL CO., NEW YORK.”  While the Heidelberg was indeed built in New York, as the junction box and some other observed artifacts indicated the ship was wired with electric lights, it was now clear that the “Middle Grounds Wreck” could not be the steamer Heidelberg; electric lights did not appear on sea-going vessels until the late 1870s.  The wreck was still far from being identified.

On the second dive, we again worked as a team.  After rounding up numerous artifacts from the bow and the debris field, Dean Marshall and I again poked around the engine and stern area.  Towards the end of the dive, Dean raced over to me, clutching something that he clearly found to be intriguing.  As I palmed the brass artifact, I quickly realized that Dean had found a portion of a letter from the name that graced the fantail of the shipwreck!  Knowing that the letters “L” and “I” had already been found years earlier, we now had the letter “G” as yet another clue to potentially identify the wreck.  Dean and I celebrated the discovery underwater, hoping that this would facilitate our work to identify the “Middle Grounds Wreck.”

As the dive vessel Cubera cruised back towards the dock, I was hopeful that we had revealed enough evidence to potentially identify the wreck, or at least narrow the range of suspect vessels.  Back in my office the next day, I poured through my files.  Thumbing through some printed copies of archived newspaper articles that detailed various maritime calamities, I came across the tale of the Gwalia.

The Gwalia was a robust 415-ton, ocean-going tug built in 1907 at a Philadelphia shipyard.  A stout vessel, she registered a length of 130 feet and a breadth of 27.5 feet.  With Captain M.D. Cogswell at the helm, the Gwalia and a crew of 14 departed Mobile, Alabama on December 2, 1925, bound for Tampa.  In tow was the barge Altamaha, burdened with a load of gravel for the Tampa Coal Company.  The iron-hulled barge, formerly a large freighter outfitted with three masts and auxiliary sails, was tended by Captain W.L. Borden and a crew of five men.  On Friday, December 4, the two vessels encountered a strong winter storm churning in the Gulf of Mexico.  Pounded by heavy seas, the Gwalia began taking on water from a leak underneath her boilers.  The crew hastily departed the doomed tug in a single lifeboat after the Gwalia had almost filled with water.  Immediately thereafter, the Gwalia rolled over and slipped beneath the tumultuous surface of the Gulf approximately 85 miles northwest of the mouth of Tampa Bay.

Chief Engineer O.J. Hillberg described the abandonment of the Gwalia:  “On lowering the boat she struck the side of the sinking tug and battered a hole in the portside.  Before we knew it, our lifeboat was beginning to fill with water.  With a couple pails we began bailing the water out.  The seas were high and we were drifting away from the barge.  We worked frantically to keep our boat afloat.  It was a tough job but Captain Cogswell spoke encouragement to us through it all.  Saturday afternoon we sighted the barge and with all the strength we could muster, we rowed toward her.”

Hillberg’s matter-of-fact description on the chain of events is undoubtedly an understatement in relation to the actual peril the men faced.  Onboard the barge Altamaha, Captain Borden detailed the arrival of the haggard Gwalia survivors:  “The men couldn’t have stood it any longer.  Those men suffered.  It is a miracle how they pulled through that gale in their lifeboat and reached us after we had drifted away during the night.  When we lifted Captain Cogswell and his 14 men on board, they were so weak they couldn’t stand up.”

The connection was immediate.  The relative sinking position coordinated almost exactly to that of the “Middle Ground Wreck’s” resting place.  Considering the deterioration of the collapsed hull, the dimensions of the wreck and tug were very similar.  The junction box recovered near the engine had a patent date of April 1, 1902, which fit the era of the vessel.  I noted that very large portholes were found throughout the bow area, but towards the stern, the portholes were significantly smaller.  This would be consistent with the typical layout of a tug, which commonly had larger portholes gracing the rounded wheelhouse and forward superstructure.  But the most telling of all the artifacts and diagnostic features on the wreck, the one that I totally neglected to consider until reading the 1925 newspaper article, was the abundance of large brass bollards and bitts.  In fact, the H-bitt still resides on the remaining bow structure of the wreck.  Tow bitts were mandatory on tugboats, so that they could secure the hawser lines from barges and other vessels in preparation for towing.

While the crew of the Gwalia reached the Altamaha safely, their ordeal was far from over.  The drifting barge successfully signaled the steamer Tampa late on the afternoon of December 5, but Captain Borden refused any aid or provisions and simply asked for the Tampa to report the situation of the Altamaha to officials of the Tampa Coal Company.   The following day, the barge was sighted by the tug Jim Sid.  The tugboat already had a barge in tow, but proceeded towards shore to anchor its tow and return to rescue the Altamaha.  But upon returning to the area, the Jim Sid was unable to re-locate the drifting barge and the 21 survivors.  For the next five days, several vessels and one aircraft searched for the missing barge.  Hope for the missing men dwindled with each passing day, until finally, eight days after the sinking of the Gwalia, the U.S. Coast Guard cutter Tallapoosa located the barge 130 miles off Tampa Bay on December 12.  According to Chief Engineer Hillberg, the arrival of the Tallapoosa was extremely fortunate:  “We had already cut the meals down to two a day and were practically without food when the cutter came to our rescue.”

The Gwalia still rests peacefully on the bottom of the Gulf of Mexico, awaiting its next visitor.  The wreck site is small, easy to navigate, and typically covered in marine life.  Aside from the ubiquitous schools of amberjack, swarms of spadefish and clouds of tomtates frequently flow around the slowly collapsing tugboat.  As with many wrecks along the west coast of Florida, the Gwalia also plays host to several large Goliath grouper.  While commonly a stop for anglers and spearfishermen looking for that last fish on the way back to the dock, perhaps some will now also stop to inspect the shipwreck for its own unique attributes.  Hopefully, the “Middle Grounds Wreck” moniker will slowly disappear, and the wreck will be recognized by its real name – the tugboat Gwalia. 

Michael C. Barnette is the Founder and Director of the Association of Underwater Explorers (http://uwex.us), a coalition of divers dedicated to the research, exploration, documentation, and preservation of submerged cultural resources.  Employed as a marine ecologist with the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration (NOAA), he recently published Shipwrecks of the Sunshine State: Florida’s Submerged History, which offers an extensive and comprehensive cross-section of Florida shipwreck narratives.