The USS Yukon left the Seward city dock at 4:20 p.m., February 3, 1946 with 496 passengers aboard. Twelve hours later, her distress calls were heard as far away as Honolulu, Hawaii. Several miles off course, veteran Captain Christian F. Trondsen was uncertain of his position; 40-50 ft. icy ground swells had crashed the ship aground on the rocks.
Around 4:30 a.m., the distress calls ceased.
The Yukon had operated in Alaskan waters for over two decades, and now it seemed almost a certainty that she would be dashed to pieces before help could possibly arrive. Struggling against heavy snowstorms, terrific east northeast gales, 30 degree air temperatures, and water at zero; chances for any survivors would be slim.
As the first jagged crags ripped through her hull, Trondsen wisely ordered engines full ahead, wedging her bow in a 45 degree angle hard against the rocks. This kept the upper deck afloat when her stern broke off and sank.
Seward’s Malcolm MacDonald joined a member of the Yukon crew who volunteered to rig a breeches bouy from the wreck to a narrow strip of beach. Landings were hazardous. Several victims fell into the water and were hauled out more dead than alive. Many were severely injured. A man dropped from the bouy, striking the water flat with a pistol shot report, screaming in pain. The severity of the fall ripped off his clothing.
At dawn, Mr. and Mrs. Vern Trakowski, owners of Seward’s Alaska Scenic Airservice, braved the storm to locate the wreck. Spotting an oil slick on the water, they followed it to the dead ship. Conditions were so bad there was little they could do beyond returning to report the Yukon’s position, Cape Fairfield, to the Army.
The US Coast Guard cutter Onondaga was responding to a Middleton Island distress when they heard the call from the Yukon. Weather conditions were so severe that the Onondaga almost passed the Yukon when they searched for her.
The Onondaga drove to within 700 yards of the wreck and lowered small motor whale boats to collect as many passengers as possible. There was no reported hysteria or disorder in the evacuation. Young ladies were placed in charge of small groups of children, while the older women stayed behind.
CMM Cleo Duncan was trying to reach the rope ladder when a rogue wave caught his lifeboat, hurling it high into the air, and down again far from the ship. This motion caused Duncan to throw both arms up and out to steady himself. At that moment, a blanketed infant was flung loose from the Yukon’s top deck, catapulting downward towards the freezing water below, landing squarely in Duncan’s outstretched arms.
Duncan told the Seward Weekly Marathon that he didn’t see the baby coming, and stood there for several moments after it fell, clutching the warm little body against his chest in astonishment and thanksgiving at the lucky accident that had permitted him to save its life.
The oldest passenger, an Alaskan lady who had made the trip outside several times before, refused to go into the life boats until forced to do so by well-meaning fellow passengers. She was struggling down the rope ladder with a line tied under her arms when a huge wave tore at her, ripping her loose, and leaving her hanging mid-air, drenched to the skin by the icy water.
As anxious rescuers watched for her to reappear, she shouted matter-of-factly, “Somebody please help me get my hands back on that damn ladder!”
At the Seward first aid station, when she was asked whether or not she had been frightened, she reportedly replied. “Of course, I was scared. Who the hell wouldn’t be scared?”
It took five heart wrenching days of coordinated effort between Army, Navy, and Coast Guard forces to rescue the Yukon's passengers and crew. Three civilians, six servicemen, and two crew members were lost; including one Yukon crewmember who went over the side to bring up a victim of the shipwreck, only to go under from the cold himself.
“Only eleven lost,” reported US Coast Guard Lt. Garrett Tuck. “That’s the miracle, so few being lost when at one time it looked like nobody was going to be saved."
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