TINY MIAMI ISLET HAS BLACK PAST

‘Whoever named Miami Islet had an odd sense of humour…’

Although identified on marine charts (the only maps in sufficient scale to show it) as Miami Islet, and acknowledged as a nesting place for cormorants, there’s nothing to indicate that this bald hump of rock just north of Thetis Island has a history of tragedy and notoriety.

Only about 200 metres long at low tide, the barnacle-encrusted rock seldom boasts more than the usual litter of driftwood, drying seaweed and transient birds. However, if one were to look closer into the adjacent depths, the discerning eye might detect something more than shadows and sea bottom.

Here, pretty much forgotten, lie the remains of the fine steam collier Miami, from which the islet takes its name.

Victoria Colonist headlines of January 1900 tell the story: “Big collier on the rocks–Miami piles up when leaving Oyster Harbour fully laden with coal–Fears her back will break at low tide…

“The big steam collier Miami, engaged in the coal carrying trade for Messrs. Dunsmuir between their new business at Oyster (Ladysmith) Harbour and San Francisco, is lying across White Rock, a dangerous reef extending across the channel leading to Oyster Harbour. It was the general opinion yesterday that she would break her back at low tide last evening, she being heavily loaded with coal.

“She left the [Ladysmith] coal bunkers…early yesterday morning in charge of Pilot Butler, and it was 7 o’clock when she struck, travelling…at a pretty good rate. The news of the accident was received in a brief telegram to Messrs. Langley and Logan, who were asked to send the tugs Lorne and Pilot to the assistance of the collier…

The Miami was highly regarded by marine men and her [anticipated] loss [comes] as a sad surprise to local navigators, particularly concerning the circumstances…”

Fully loaded with 4,500 tons of coal when she struck White Rock with considerable force at high tide, she was said to be literally straddling the hazard, hence the Colonist having already written her off because of fears that she’d break in two as the tide began to ebb.

Nevertheless, the collier Bristol was dispatched in the hope that her powerful engines and those of the steam tugs would be sufficient to release the nine-year-old, 320-foot-long, 3,000-ton Miami from her perch.

Two days later, First Officer J.L. Alexander and 18 of her crewmen arrived in Victoria after he and three men had rowed nine miles to Ladysmith to raise the alarm. He reported that the ship was a total loss but he defended the pilot, placing the blame on Admiralty charts which, he claimed, were inaccurate.

The Colonist also defended the ship’s pilot, noting that he was “acknowledged to be a most competent and careful navigator,” and this was his first accident in six years with the Pilotage authority.

Then the job of picking the Miami’s bones was begun, all gear worth saving from the $300,000 ship being removed. Ironically, she’d just been completely refitted, including new engines, and these were given priority by the salvors. Upon removal they were taken to Vancouver for rebuilding and eventually installed in that city’s electric light plant.

For years, the Miami’s remains were visible at low tide. In July 1905, Capt. H.P. Babington, master of the tug Bermuda, and a salvage crew armed with a dipper dredge, recovered 600 tons of her cargo of export-grade Extension bituminous coal.

One who witnessed Capt. Babington’s efforts must have done so with mix emotions. As master of the collier Montar, Capt. Riley observed the salvage operation while outbound from Ladysmith for San Francisco. Five years before, on the same run, he’d been in command of the Miami when she drove ashore.

Marine buffs were reminded of this pioneer shipwreck some 40 years after, when the old American tug Augusta was scrapped after a long and colourful career. Described by one historian as a “floating marine museum,” the Augusta’s engine was originally that of the Whitelaw, her pilothouse that of the S.L. Mastick, and her wheel that of the ill-fated Miami. The engines and helm had long outlived the fine collier whose career was ended so ignominiously on an uncharted islet near Yellow Point.

Fortunately for her owners, both the ship and her cargo had been fully insured.

Miami Islet, named in memory of the wreck, regained the headlines in 1971 when American artist Robert Smithson proposed to transform the rock into a work of art by covering it with 300 tons of broken glass. Although he originally secured permission for his novel project from the provincial government, then-Lands and Forests Minister Ray Williston withdrew consent when pressured by environmentalists who preferred the islet as a nesting ground for cormorants to an artistic masterpiece.

When a Vancouver news team visited the rock for a photo story, the woman reporter, with true journalistic cheek, declared the islet to be for the birds and conjectured that “Whoever named Miami Islet had an odd sense of humour.

“It could never make a resort and as islands go, B.C. probably has a million that are better looking.”

Had she checked the records she’d have found that the lonely rise of rock and driftwood is all that reminds us of the day a good ship died.