Nearly 70 years ago the Navy experienced its greatest peacetime disaster—the loss of seven destroyers at Point Arguello, off Santa Barbara, California. In September 1923 two divisions of destroyers, traveling down a stormy, fog- shrouded coast in a competitive engineering run, followed their flagship blindly onto the deadly rocks of Honda Cove. Seven destroyers were sunk, two more were damaged, 23 men died, and 11 naval officers were court-martialed.
The Navy set the scene for the disaster when it decided that a routine trip from San Francisco to the ships’ home base in San Diego would be a good opportunity to test the destroyer fleet’s dependability at high speeds. Each destroyer squadron—composed of three divisions of six destroyers each—was to make the 400-mile trip at a top cruising speed of 20 knots to test the reliability of their vintage turbines under load. Captain Edward H. Watson, squadron commander, was determined that his ships and men prove themselves superior.
These 314-foot long ships were the proud workhorses of the fleet. Each was powered by two high-pressure and two low-pressure turbines, armed with guns, torpedoes, and antisubmarine weapons, and capable of 32 knots. The trim destroyers were in the front line of the nation’s defense system.
Manned by a crew of approximately 120 officers and enlisted men, each ship of Squadron 11 filed through the Golden Gate, forming three parallel lines behind the flagship Delphy (DD-261). Divisions 31, 32, and 33 maintained a speed of 20 knots and a distance between them of 250 yards.
Navigating the California coastline is never a task to take lightly. Particularly hazardous is the infamous elbow where the north-south coastline turns into the Santa Barbara Channel and runs nearly east-west for 80 miles. This elbow—from Honda Point to Point Conception—is known as the Graveyard of the Pacific. Buffeted by high winds, strewn with submerged reefs, dotted with rocky pinnacles, and frequently shrouded in pea-soup fogs, this stretch has claimed many lives and ships. Traveling south requires a sharp left turn around the elbow, through the Santa Barbara Channel, avoiding the dangers of Point Arguello on the left and San Miguel Island on the right.
The flagship was bearing navigational responsibility for the formation. In order to keep radio frequencies clear, only the commander was allowed to call the coast radio station for a fix. Captain Watson received conflicting information, and he cursed the unreliability of the new-fangled radio direction-finding gadgets. He was certain that the squadron had passed Point Arguello, yet the radio transmitter was telling him that he was still north of it.
Radio direction-finding techniques were in their early stages of development, and because of occasional errors, they were distrusted by old-time sailors. Captain Watson, Lieutenant Commander Donald T. Hunter, skipper of the Delphy, and Lieutenant (junior grade) Lawrence Blodgett, the ship’s navigator, recalculated their figures. Yes, they were sure the squadron was well past Point Arguello. A cautious man might have slowed to take depth soundings and thus pinpoint his location, but Captain Watson wanted his squadron to win the engineering award for excellence. The race was on; there was no time to slow. At 2100 he ordered 15° left rudder.
Moving now into column formation for the night, Division 33, led by the S. P. Lee (DD-310), moved in behind the flagship. Division 31, led by the Farragut (DD-300), took position behind them, and Division 32 fell to the rear. Within seconds the squadron was enveloped in thick coastal fog, but, confident of their position, the destroyers maintained speed.
At 2105 the Delphy slammed into the treacherous rocks of Honda Cove. Known as the Devil’s Jaw, and located just north of Point Arguello, the area had already trapped many other unwary ships. One by one, the ships of divisions 31 and 32 followed, their frantic crews unable to escape the deadly trap of submerged rocks, offshore currents, and crashing waves.
The Delphy drove herself, full throttle, onto the low rocks at the foot of the cliffs of Honda Cove. Almost immediately her engines flooded and she lost power, her lights and radio now useless. Giant waves effortlessly picked the ship up and tossed her against the rocks. Her fuel tanks ruptured; thick oil poured into the sea around the ship.
The S. P. Lee began to slow and swung left to avoid a collision, taking her straight into shore. The starboard bow hit bottom, then the surf pushed the destroyer onto the rocks. Although she was taking on water and listing 30°, she was in no immediate danger of sinking.
The Young (DD-312)—third in line— hit a submerged pinnacle rock at 20 knots. With a deep hole tom in her bottom, the ship charged toward the deadly cliffs, already in her death throes. Within 30 seconds, she was listing 45°. In darkness, the crew frantically scrambled to the top deck and then to the port side. There was no time for life preservers or rafts. Another minute passed and the Young was horizontal in the turbulent surf with only two feet of her port side above water.
Seeing a confusion of lights ahead and thinking a man was overboard, the Woodbury (DD-309) reversed engines, but too late. A huge rock—known today as Destroyer Rock—loomed ahead, and the Woodbury rammed it. Through swirls of fog and smoke from flooded turbines, the Nicholas cut speed and veered left, only to be trapped on a barely submerged ledge of rocks.
Seeing what he thought was a collision ahead. Lieutenant Commander J. F. McClain, captain of the Farragut, ordered full stop. A sudden flash of light from an exploding boiler revealed the eerie sight of sinking destroyers all about him. Unfortunately, the reversing of engines at full speed knocked out the Farragut's lights. Suddenly, it was dark again.
The Fuller (DD-297), unaware of the tragic scene ahead and unable to see the Farragut, hit her amidships, ripping off lifeboats, denting the side, and tearing a four-foot hole in her own side only seconds before hitting a pinnacle rock. With her engines flooded, the Fuller found herself helplessly pushed up on the same rock as the Woodbury.
Damaged but still navigable, the Farragut ever so carefully backed out of the rock-strewn trap already holding so many victims. The Percival and Somers, seeing confusion ahead, slowed and turned seaward, but not before the latter suffered propeller damage on a submerged reef.
The fog was now streaked with thick smoke and steam as the last destroyer in Division 33, the Chauncey (DD-296), approached the scene at 2/3 speed. Lieutenant Commander R. H. Booth had heard the Delphy's final radio signal— ’’Keep clear to the westward”—and assumed a collision had taken place. Too late, his searchlights revealed the scene of sinking, burning ships. His light swept over the nearly submerged Young, her crew clinging to the port side. Thinking that he could carefully maneuver himself out of danger while simultaneously heaving life rafts to the desperate destroyer, Booth cautiously approached the Young. A sudden swell of towering waves pushed the Chauncey into the Young's submerged propeller, slicing open the engine room. A giant wave pushed the now-doomed rescuer onto the rocks alongside the victim.
Destroyer Division 33, under the command of crusty old Commander W. G. Roper, had already determined that it was too soon to turn eastward. Ordering his ships to turn seaward instead, Commander Roper spent the long night standing by at sea, the fog and heavy swells preventing any attempt to assist in the disastrous drama taking place in Honda Cove.
The crews of the various ships rigged lines across the turbulent surf to rocky peninsulas for dangerous hand-over-hand evacuations, or they used small rubber rafts to attain the base of the bluff, then clawed their way over rocks and up the face of the cliff to the top of the mesa. There, Southern Pacific railroad station crewmen welcomed them. Still others simply remained on board until a safe, daylight evacuation could be undertaken.
The night passed slowly for the unhappy crews of Destroyer Squadron 11. Meanwhile, however, a massive relief effort was being rallied by the citizens in the railroad towns of Ventura, Lompoc, and Santa Barbara. By morning, food. blankets, warm clothing, medical supplies, and doctors were on the scene. Small fishing boats arrived to help evacuate men from their miserable refuge on Destroyer Rock.
At first, public sympathy for the unlucky sailors was high. Their heroic attempts to save their ships and fellow crewmen were widely publicized. But as questions about how the accident occurred remained unanswered, the public became suspicious. When a secret court of inquiry was established, the outcry in the press was immediate. Secretary of the Navy Edwin Denby, irritated at the contradictory information he was receiving, and keenly aware of the public demand for the truth, instructed the court of inquiry—composed of flag officers—to conduct an open investigation into the catastrophe.
The first week of testimony covered in detail the navigation techniques used by the Delphy to determine her position and the reliability, or lack thereof, of radio direction-finding equipment. By Saturday morning of that week. Captain Watson, weary and recognizing that his naval career was virtually ended, accepted full responsibility for the catastrophe. He had ordered the change of course; he had thought the radio bearings wrong.
The second week of testimony delved into the issue of the destroyer doctrine of “follow the leader.” Captain Robert Morris, Commander Destroyer Division 33, testified that it would have been “very much out of place” for any officer of the squadron to suggest to the flagship commander that depth soundings be taken. Commander Roper, who had refused to allow his squadron to make the fatal turn, testified that he would not “follow the leader when he jumped off the bam.” Indeed, the Thompson (DD-305)—the last ship in formation—had slowed of her own accord to take soundings.
On 1 October Secretary Denby announced the shocking results of the investigation. Eleven officers were recommended for court-martial. Captain Watson, Lieutenant Commander Hunter, and Lieutenant Blodgett faced charges of culpable inefficiency in the performance of duty and, through negligence, suffering vessels of the Navy to be run on the rocks. The two division commanders and six destroyer captains were to stand trial on charges of negligence. The unwritten doctrine that destroyer captains must follow the leader had been repudiated at the highest levels.
“In the opinion of the Court no rules or regulations .. . may preclude a captain . . . from taking every precaution to safeguard his own ship. He must risk rebuke instead, and must at all times be prepared to take the initiative and to use his own individual judgment.”
Though soon forgotten, this tragedy nevertheless significantly shaped modem naval navigation and tradition. In 1925 a radio beacon was established at Point Arguello, enabling ships to take their own bearings rather than relying on a land-based radioman. And the clarification of responsibility that arose during the courts-martial led to an emphasis on individual initiative and leadership in naval officer training.