As steam-powered ships matured and largely replaced commercial sailing vessels, their designs coalesced into fairly common configurations. There were, of course, variations--one of the biggest being engine placement. Some designers placed the engine and boilers midships, while others placed them in the stern, shortening the length of the propeller shaft. When a ship like this sank, it might land upright on the bottom or on its side (except warships, whose top-heavy guns often made them land upside-down). Cargo vessels generally had wide, flat bottoms to maximize hold capacity, and these flat bottoms more often than not facilitated the ship initially settling upright on the ocean bottom.

As years passed following their sinking, the corrosive effects of the ocean, as well as the constant forces imposed by storms and currents, took their toll on the vessel. The long expanses of flat hull plates along the ship's sides, as well as the decking, first began to sag; joints failed and eventually the sides of the hull fell outward onto the ocean bottom and the decks collapsed downward. The curved structures of the bow and stern are naturally stiffer and often lasted far longer, leaving fairly intact bow and stern sections on some wrecks. Inevitably, however, the hull eventually collapsed, leaving a few of the stouter parts of the ship still standing. The massively-built compound steam engine and boilers are generally the last parts to deteriorate, and in so many cases are the highest part of the wreckage still standing today. Since the original design of these ships was so similar, most steamship wrecks take on a common appearance on the bottom, with a largely collapsed hull broken down and partially scattered, while the engine, boilers, bow and stern generally form the highest part of the remaining wreckage.

Below are a number of representative examples of steamship wrecks off the US East Coast, with rough sketches and a series of photographs showing how they appear today (or at least at the time I dived them), and some of the major features of the wreck site.

The small, 279-foot-long steamship Durley Chine was built in 1913 at the Osbourne, Graham & Co. shipyard in Cardiff, Wales for the Canadian government. In April 1917, while on a voyage in ballast from Halifax NS to Norfolk VA, she was sunk in a collision with the British freight steamer Harlem. Contemporary news reports stated that the Chine was cut nearly in two, but her entire crew was rescued. This wreck site was known only by the cryptic name "Bacardi Wreck" until Rick Jaszyn found the ship's bell in June 1987 on an exploratory trip aboard the dive boat Seeker. (For the complete story of the Durley Chine and her identification, see the book Beyond Sportdiving by Bradley Sheard, Menasha Ridge Press, 1991.)

This wrecksite, lying 18 miles south of Fire Island Inlet, was for years mistakenly called the Yankee--a 296-foot steel screw steamer sunk in a collision with the Argentina in June 1919. In 1994, however, Captain John Lachenmeyer recovered a dish from a nearby wreck then known as the "G & D Wreck." The dish bore the crest of the Pittsburgh Steamship Company, the original owners of the Yankee (previously named German when she was in service on the Great Lakes), proving that that wrecksite was in fact the lost Yankee. This, of course, left the identity of this wrecksite as a mystery. According to Ben Roberts' website (Eastern Search and Survey), research by Captain Gus Bricker has led to the conclusion that this wreck is actually the 252-foot steamship Foscolia, sunk in a collision in 1898 in the same area.

This wrecksite is commonly known as the "Viriginia Wreck," but is strongly believed to be the Norwegian freighter Sommerstad. That ship was torpedoed by U-117 during the First World War, south of the Long Island coastline. The wreck is largely collapsed, but when I dived it in 1987 both the bow and stern were still standing, with the bow pointing skyward and the stern on its starboard side. There are three boilers midships, two sitting normally and one upended; behind the boilers is a jumbled pile of debris that is likely the steam engine, but it is a confused junk pile and difficult to make sense of; nearby is a spare propeller oddly standing upright. Running aft from this debris pile is the propeller shaft, complete with the shaft alley frames largely standing intact. On another dive in 1990, I sat on the bottom mesmerized as huge codfish swam in and out of an open cargo hatch on the wreck's stern section. The wreck is heavily fished, as evidenced by massive cobwebs of monofilament all over the site.

The passenger liner Carolina was the sixth and final victim of the German submarine U-151 on June 2, 1918--a day that has become known as "Black Sunday" (a term first coined by Gary Gentile) amongst divers. By 5:30 pm that day, U-151 had ravenously devoured five victims--a good days work for any submarine, but the piece-de-resistance was yet to come. Leaving five ships in its wake, it wasn't long before the submarine's next victim appeared in the periscope. Surfacing, U-117 gave chase and again fired warning shots at its quarry. Aboard the New York and Puerto Rico Steamship Company's passenger liner Carolina, Captain T. Barbour was faced with a decision--try to outrun the submarine or hand it over for destruction. Only minutes earlier, the Carolina had changed course and sped up, after wireless operator E.W. Vogel had received news of the schooner Isabel B Wiley's sinking, only 13 miles from their present location. After the first warning shots, Vogel sent out several S.O.S. messages. Within two minutes he received a low-power transmission from the German submarine: "You don't use wireless-we don't shoot." With 218 passengers and 117 crew on board the liner, Captain Barbour decided fleeing the raider was not an option, and ordered Vogel to silence the radio, halted the ship and gave the order to abandon ship. By 6:30 pm the Carolina was empty of passengers and crew. Captain Barbour collected eight of the ten lifeboats on the Carolina's port side, and in single file began the long row westward, toward shore. Hidden from view and forgotten, on the starboard side of the ship, were a motor launch and the number five boat, which had capsized during launching. The boat was righted and its 22 passengers helped back in, but by then they had lost sight of the other lifeboats. With the ship clear of passengers and the lifeboats on their way, it was time for the Germans to finish off their prize. With the visibility dropping and a profusion of wireless traffic on the radio, Korvettenkapitan von Nostitz und Janckendorf decided to use one of U-151's precious torpedoes on the liner. The torpedo proved defective, however, ran wild, and the Germans were forced to finish off the ship with artillery. About twenty minutes later the ship began listing to port, then finally went down amidst great clouds of fire and steam with flags still flying.

For years divers dreamed of finding the wreck of the Carolina. Over the winter of 1994/1995, John Chatterton and fishing boat captain Paul Regula put their heads together to puzzle out the liner's location. On June 15, 1995, barely two weeks past the seventy-seventh anniversary of the Carolina's sinking, four divers (John Chatterton, John Yurga, Barb Lander and Brad Sheard) descended 240 feet of anchor line to find the huge and decaying fantail of a ship, sitting on a sandy bottom and listing to port. Portholes lay everywhere, as did bits of scattered white china. The wreck was large, clearly old, but who was she? After surfacing from the first dive, five of us sat around the back of Paul's boat discussing the dive, what we had seen and what to do next. Every one of us felt that this had to be the Carolina--but how to prove it? Everything fit--the close proximity to the historical sinking position, the size and appearance of the wreck--everything. I'm not sure who thought of the answer first, but as we stared at historical photographs of the ship, one of us ponderously mused "I wonder.....you don't suppose that the name is still on the stern, do you?" We all looked at each other with sudden revelation. Only Chatterton had a sufficient surface interval to make a second dive that day--when John finally surfaced, the grin on his face was a mile wide, and he held up a large brass letter "C." The Carolina had been found and identified!

The passenger liner Oregon was built in an era where a premium was placed on speed and luxury. It was a time when ships competed for the honor of holding the record for the fastest Atlantic crossing--symbolized by awarding the coveted Blue Riband to the owner of the fastest crossing time. Built for the Guion Line in 1883, the 501-foot long passenger steamer Oregon was indeed fast, and that speed required massive engines, a hull crowded with boilers and holds stuffed with coal to feed steam to that engine. The ships of this era also called for luxury with graceful lines and elegant wood-paneled dining saloons, parquetry floors and extravagant cupolas. Plush furnishings, upholstered in rich velvet, complemented deep pile carpeting in lounges and smoking rooms. Long promenade decks, stretching very nearly the full length of the ship, provided well-to-do passengers with ample space for a leisurely stroll during the long crossing. Sleeping accommodations ranged from opulent staterooms and suites for the more fortunate members of Victorian society, to more basic arrangements in steerage for the masses of working class immigrants traveling to America. Six months after entering service, the Oregon captured the Blue Riband for her owners by making the passage from Queenstown to New York in 6 days, 10 hours and 10 minutes--at the time the fastest crossing on record. Financial difficulties soon forced Guion to sell the Atlantic greyhound, however, and the rival Cunard Line was more than pleased to bring the speedy Oregon into their stable of luxurious ships. Oregon quickly established yet another speed record, this time in both directions, for her new owners, bringing the Blue Riband back to Cunard. Fast and furious lives are often short, however, and the speedy Oregon was destined to remain in the fast-paced passenger trade for less than three years. On March 14, 1886, inbound for New York in the early dawn darkness south of the Long Island coastline, a bright light suddenly appeared off her port bow. Seen far too late for any evasive action to be taken, the Oregon made a violent impact with a wooden coal schooner, later established to be the Charles H Morse. Holed below the waterline, the Oregon's wounds proved fatal, and she slipped beneath the sea eight hours after the collision. Passengers and crew were picked up by a host of passing ships eager to lend a hand, and not a single life was lost aboard the great ship. The crew of the small schooner were less fortunate, however, and were never heard from again.

The Oregon's compound steam engine was quite literally the beating heart of the ship, providing the power that enabled her to capture the Blue Riband. She was the third in a trio of fast liners built for the Guion line: first was Arizona, followed by Alaska and finally Oregon. Each one of these "Ocean Grayhounds" was built with a larger engine in order to attain higher speed. Arizona was built with a compound engine of 6357 ihp and she achieved a sustained speed of 16 knots. The subsequent ships had engines of essentially the same design, but larger. Alaska was built around an engine of 8300 ihp, giving her a speed of 17 knots, while Oregon's engine was larger still at 12,000 ihp, making her the fastest of the trio at 18 knots. Oregon's engine had a central high-pressure cylinder of 70-inch diameter, with a low-pressure cylinder of 104-inch diameter on either side. Today this massive steam engine is the largest remaining structure on the wrecksite, still towering above the otherwise collapsed hull.