WHEN PLANS UNRAVEL—SCI’s Enduring Mission of Care in Times of Maritime Disaster
Stefan Dreisbach-Williams
Archivist
The Seamen’s Church Institute’s mission almost always focuses on the living. When we encounter death at sea, our efforts are most often channeled toward meeting and tending to the survivors: the crew who remain, or the friends and families left behind. As we reflect on the tenth anniversary of the El Faro disaster, the roll-on/roll-off container ship that went down in Hurricane Joaquin on October 1, 2015, with 33 U.S. merchant mariners aboard, our archives offer perspective and solace.
In recent generations, thankfully, large-scale maritime tragedies have become less common, but in the 19th and much of the 20th centuries, sinkings caused by storms, navigation errors, or structural failures were frequent. Such losses were mourned, but rarely commanded headlines unless they involved passengers or affected communities ashore. In our organization’s earlier days, SCI’s Chaplains sought to be among the first responders. They assisted survivors, identified their material, legal, emotional, and spiritual needs, and worked to see those needs met. Their resources included the Missing Seamen’s Bureau, the “Sloppe Chest” stocked with clothing, the advocacy of the Center for Seafarers’ Rights (now the Center for Mariner Advocacy) and the Legal Aid Society, and the simple provision of meals and clean lodging for seafarers in port at our storied facility at 25 South Street.
For countless mariners, the “Sloppe Chest” was their first stop after rescue. As previous issues of The Lookout explained, aboard ship the “Slop Chest” (from the old English “Sloppe,” meaning breeches or trousers) was run by an officer who sold clothing and gear, restricted by law 24 to a 10% profit. (That restriction itself was won through SCI’s advocacy in the late 19th and early 20th centuries.) A 1913 issue of The Lookout described SCI’s vision: a place where sailors could obtain boots, cutlery, soap, and gear “at practically cost price.” By 1940, the vision had shifted again: clothing at the Institute was provided free to any seafarer in need.
Whether in saltwater or fresh, families often struggled to know if a mariner was alive or lost, as departures typically meant long absences. One of the greatest challenges of a maritime career was isolation—for those at sea and those waiting at home. Seafaring existed in a liminal space, a gray area between life and death, and that uncertainty weighed heavily on loved ones ashore. It’s why some early photographs of SCI facilities show large signs urging seafarers to “WRITE HOME,” reminders of how tenuous those connections could be. A letter was often the only proof that a mariner was alive, well, and still at work on the water. Without it, families had no way of knowing their whereabouts or what fate might have befallen them.
In 1919, SCI established the Missing Seamen’s Bureau, originally called the Missing Men Department, to bridge these gaps. Families—parents, spouses, children, siblings— as well as women searching for fathers of their children and seafarers searching for lost friends, all wrote to SCI. Under the leadership of Janet Lord Roper, known as “Mother,” the Bureau sent hundreds of copies of the Missing Seamen’s Bulletin around the world each week to consulates, hospitals, union halls, and missions. In 24 years, the Bureau located 6,500 missing mariners.
The most devastating chapters in SCI’s history came during the World Wars, when German attacks on merchant shipping decimated fleets. Survivors, often rescued from lifeboats with nothing left but their lives, came straight to SCI for clothing, meals, and a chance to reestablish themselves before, in most cases, returning quickly to sea.
An issue of The Lookout from May 1940 captures the weight of those years, describing a week when survivors from three separate vessels arrived at SCI’s headquarters at 25 South Street. One was the Finnish freighter Wilja, torpedoed at sea; others included a Dutch freighter with a Muslim crew from modern-day Indonesia, who were accommodated in SCI’s kitchens to prepare halal meals, and the Nova Scotia schooner, Chisholm, whose crew hung from the masts of their submerged but still floating ship for 14 days after a storm before rescue.
All ships depart with the same general plan: to navigate from one port to another, then another perhaps, as safely and efficiently as possible. But sometimes that plan unravels. Whatever the type of ship or voyage, when things go wrong and the plan fails, SCI does not hesitate. Once the crew’s physical safety is secured, SCI steps forward to care for those in need.
Each of these stories leads to the same conclusion: SCI has always adapted to meet mariners where they are, whatever their faith, culture, or circumstance. Whether through food, clothing, advocacy, or simply presence, our mission has remained the same; to provide comfort, dignity, and care to those who endure disaster at sea, and to the families who wait for them ashore.
Each of these stories leads to the same conclusion: SCI has always adapted to meet mariners where they are, whatever their faith, culture, or circumstance. —Stefan Dreisbach-Williams, Archivist
The tenth anniversary of the El Faro disaster reminds us that SCI continues to provide vital services to meet the needs of mariners and their communities on their worst days and in their everyday lives, and it holds special significance for me. My first task as SCI’s Associate Archivist was to go through a massive box of documents associated with the tragedy—mostly applications for relief from families of crew members—and assess those documents and describe the collection. The personal stories of those seafarers’ families and extended families resonated with me with the importance of SCI’s service, not only to the people who work on vessels, but equally to their communities that love and support them.
