Disaster at Titran

From Sogndal, we continued north, arriving at our hotel in Trondheim late in the evening of our second day in Norway. In the morning, I would hear the story of the devastating storm that had struck Froya, an outermost island about ninety kilometers due west of Trondheim. There at the age of nineteen, my grandfather narrowly avoided one of the most tragic fishing disasters in Norwegian history. At breakfast, he spoke about it for the first and only time. 

It was mid-October in the year 1899. He and a partner had pooled their resources to have a fishing boat built for them in a town on the coast southwest of Trondheim. From his description, it may have been Kristiansund, which was a boat-building center in those days. To get to Kristiansund, they traveled by boat three hundred miles down the coast from Nesna near the Arctic Circle. They sailed on the Hurtigruten, which means “the fast route.” First established in 1893, it was a passenger and cargo line that still sails the coast today with service between Bergen on the southwest coast and Kirkenes in the far north. 

The two young fishermen took delivery of their boat and sailed north for a day. Late on the afternoon of October 13, 1899, they arrived at the fishing village of Titran, located on the sheltered side of the narrow island of Froya. The port provided a safe harbor along with catering, supplies, and accommodations. There was postal service and a chapel, as well, to serve the swollen ranks of fortune hunters. 

For years each fall, giant shoals of large herring were observed on the outer side of the island. Crowds of  fishermen gathered from villages all along the central coast to grasp their share of the immense resource. Using a tactic of string-based net fishing, the boats would drift along the outside of the island during the night and the nets would be tugged in the next morning, usually with a large catch. 

My grandfather and his fishing partner were well aware of Froya’s reputation. Anxious to test out their new boat and hopefully share in the bounty, they considered sailing with the fleet that night. To reach the fishing grounds they would have to sail around the southern tip of the island and cast their nets off the rocky, western shore. Realizing they were not yet familiar with the waters, they elected to drop anchor and spend the night in the harbor. It was a fortunate decision. 

At two the following morning, unexpected hurricane force winds struck the unprotected outer coast. My grandfather said that some of the large, tender ships with steam engines were able to head out into the relative safety of the open sea. Meanwhile giant waves swallowed small boats immediately. Others tried to sail ashore and crashed against rocks and reefs. Miraculously, thirty boats managed to sail back around the tip of the island and reach the safety of Titran’s harbor. Still, when the storm was over, they counted the loss of twenty-nine boats and one hundred forty fishermen. A monument engraved with the names of the lost fishermen exists to this day at the Vagoy church on the island of Froya. 

It was not the greatest loss of life in Norwegian fishing disasters, but it was the most thoroughly documented. Forty years after our trip to Norway, I was finally able to corroborate my grandfather’s story online. I have since wondered if the trauma of this experience influenced his decision to give up the dangers of the open sea and immigrate to America.