Into the Devil's Jaw: The Honda Point Disaster

Into the Devil’s Jaw: The Honda Point Disaster

It’s September 8th, 1923. The destroyer USS Delphy cuts through the large swells at twenty knots. Behind her, in a single column in tight formation, thirteen more destroyers of Destroyer Squadron Eleven follow. They have been ordered to keep radio silence to simulate battle conditions during their speed run to San Diego. 

The fog comes in low and gray off the port bow, swallowing the running lights of the ship ahead and, shrouding the California coastline in mist.

On the bridge of the Delphy, Captain Edward Watson stands patiently, monitoring the squadron’s progress and waiting for updates from his navigator, Lieutenant Commander Donald Hunter. The coast should be out there somewhere. When they reach Point Arguello, they will turn east into Santa Barbara Channel, the long safe run down to San Diego. Hunter’s careful calculations have been tracking their course, speed, and elapsed time, and all of it gets plotted on their charts. Dead reckoning is a discipline every mariner takes pride in. 

Below decks, a radioman leans close to his set, one hand cupped over an earphone, pencil scratching bearings onto a scrap of paper. The shore station at Point Arguello has been transmitting all evening, providing radio compass bearings toward every ship that cares to listen. 

The radioman carries the bearings to Hunter. They are logged and noted.

But the numbers don't agree with the plot on Watson's chart table. They put the squadron farther north than their own calculations. How could this be? He thinks to himself. Both he and Hunter dismiss these as faulty information from the new-fangled radio technology. Instead, they place their faith in the decades of experience and their dead reckoning.

The fog continues to thicken, and the spray of salt water stings against the faces of the men on the open bridge wing. The column of ships hold steady, following their flagship as ordered, each trusting the ship ahead and following in its wake. 

At nine o'clock, the calculations dictate a turn to the east into Santa Barbara Channel. With thick fog still obscuring visibility, Watson gives the order. Turn east into the channel. He believes he is heading into the safe channel. Into his squadron’s home waters. What he doesn’t know is that he is leading his squadron straight into disaster.

Into the Devil’s Jaw: The Honda Point Disaster. Today, on Shipwrecks and Sea Dogs.

Hello and welcome to Shipwrecks and Sea Dogs, tales of mishaps, misfortune, and misadventure. I’m your host Rich Napolitano. 

 

Toward the end of World War One, the United States Navy began construction of its new Clemson Class destroyers. Like the previous Wickes and Caldwell class destroyers, the Clemson class were “flush deckers”. This moniker was given to them as they did not have the raised forecastle of previous designs.  Flush deckers featured 4 funnels, with gun batteries and torpedo tubes to primarily engage other surface ships, rather than submarines or aircraft. In addition to “flush deckers”, these ships were also referred to as “four-stackers”, and “four-pipers”.

 

The Clemson class destroyers were a slight redesign of the Wickes and Caldwell classes with 100 tons of additional fuel capacity stored in wing tanks above the waterline. While this added a degree of vulnerability, its 4,900 nautical mile range was seen as a worthwhile risk. Other improvements were a larger rudder to increase turn radius, and the addition of a 3 inch anti-aircraft gun. With an impressive maximum speed of 35.5 knots, the Clemson Class destroyers could escort convoys and other warships across greater distances, with the speed to chase down enemy targets. A total of 156 Clemson class destroyers were commissioned between 1919 and 1922, and were the most numerous of any class in the US Navy until the World War Two era Fletcher class.

 

Destroyer Squadron 11, or DesRon 11, consisted of 14 Clemson Class destroyers. On September 8, 1923, the squadron was in San Francisco Bay, having just escorted Battle Division 4 from Puget Sound in Washington, to San Francisco. At 8:30 AM, DesRon 11 departed San Francisco Bay on a 24-hour exercise. Tactical and gunnery drills were performed until 11 A-M before the entire squadron went on a speed run to San Diego. 

 

The squadron was led by Captain Edward H. Watson, on board his flagship USS Delphy. The 49 year old Watson was the son of an Admiral, graduated from the U-S Naval Academy in 1895. Watson earned the command of storeship USS Celtic from 1912–13 before returning to the Naval War College, where he graduated in 1914. He gained further experience as executive officer of the battleship USS Utah and as the Commanding Officer of the gunboat USS Wheeling.

 

Watson's WWI record was solid: he skippered the troop transport USS Madawaska from August 1917 into January 1918, then took command of the battleship USS Alabama, where his service in the Atlantic Fleet earned him the Navy Cross, the citation praised him for exceptionally meritorious service in a role of major responsibility. After the war, he shifted from combat command to diplomacy, serving as U.S. Naval Attaché in Japan from March 1919 until May 1922. Just two months later, in July 1922, he stepped into command of Destroyer Squadron 11, a post for which he would ultimately be remembered.

 

As this exercise was a simulation of war conditions, Watson did not want the other ships to use their Radio Direction Finding equipment or slow down to take depth soundings. His ship, the USS Delphy, would be solely responsible for navigating the entire squadron. In command of the Delphy was Lieutenant Commander Donald Hunter who personally took charge of navigation over the ship’s assigned navigator, Lieutenant Commander Lawrence Blodgett. 

 

Steaming south at 20 knots, the weather began to worsen during the afternoon, and Captain Watson ordered the squadron into a tight formation, in a column behind the Delphy to reduce the risk; the same procedure that would be used during actual wartime. Visibility became poor due to thick fog, and Hunter was forced to use dead reckoning to navigate. This required careful tracking of compass readings, distance, speed, and visual observations to determine the bearing and location of the squadron. While the Delphy was equipped with radio direction finding equipment, it was a relatively new technology at the time, and many naval officers didn’t entirely trust it, preferring instead to use their own navigation skills and training.

 

A week prior on September 1st, a magnitude 8  earthquake, known as the Great Kantō earthquake, had rocked mainland Japan. Its epicenter was about 60 miles, or 100 kilometers offshore of Tokyo, and caused massive devastation to Tokyo, Yokohama, and the surrounding communities. Fires raged throughout the area afterwards, adding even more suffering.  It is estimated that as many as 140,000 people were killed as a result of the initial quake and the two aftershocks of magnitudes 7.2 and 7.3. 

 

While this was thousands of miles across the Pacific Ocean, the earthquake triggered unusually strong ocean swells and currents that reached the California coast and caused problems even a week later. Many ships reported these conditions which were not caused by storms. 

 

DesRon 11 continued to run through these large swells as they continued down the California coastline. The unusual conditions made it even more difficult to calculate their speed and bearing, and dead reckoning became increasingly more challenging. 

 

Between six and seven o’clock PM, Lieutenant Commander Hunter received several radio signals from the station at Port Arguello. But these coordinates didn’t match Hunter’s own calculations, and he disregarded them, believing them to be incorrect. The Delphy’s assigned navigation officer, Lieutenant Commander Blodgett, requested to slow down and take a depth reading, but Watson wanted to maintain wartime conditions, and denied the request. Battling thick fog, rough seas, and dark moonless night, the squadron continued on toward Santa Barbara Channel.

 

At 8:00 PM, Hunter received a radio signal which showed the squadron was still far north of Point Arguello and the Santa Barbara Channel. But Hunter mistrusted this, and was confident that his calculations were correct. He then transmitted a message to the squadron, giving their position about nine miles off Point Arguello. Another radio bearing was received shortly before 9 PM, and it once again indicated they were still north of the channel. And again, it was disregarded.

 

At 9 PM, Captain Watson ordered a turn to the east to enter what was believed to be Santa Barbara Channel. However the dead reckoning calculations from Hunter were incorrect, and the squadron was actually still 3 miles north of the channel. The squadron was unknowingly headed directly into Honda Point, a stretch of coast called “The Devil’s Jaw.”

 

Honda Point, now named Point Pendernales, is a well-known treacherous stretch of coastline. Its dangers had been documented as far back as the 16th century by Spanish explorers, who gave it the name of “Devil’s Jaw.” Jagged rocks, strong currents, and rocky outcroppings have wrecked over 50 boats and ships, and locals were all too aware to stay away.

 

The squadron steamed at 20 knots through the thick fog into the Devil’s Jaw, with USS Delphy in the lead of a single column. At 9:05 PM, in the dark of night, the USS Delphy plowed into the razor sharp rocks of Honda Point. Sailors on the deck were thrown into the raging surf. 

 

USS Delphy Machinist Mate W. G. Gerlach later described one man who was pulled out of the water. He had been blinded by the fuel oil and “crazed by the horrors of the accident,” he could not keep hold of the rope. The man had to be tied to the vessel’s deckhouse until the following morning.   

Captain Watson attempted to back the Delphy away from the rocks, but the destroyer was stuck fast. Sirens and alerts were sounded, and radio operators sent desperate messages to the other ships in line behind her. As waves and surf crashed over her, she rolled to starboard and was dragged off the rocks, with her hull sliced open and her stern ripped off. Three of the Delphy’s sailors were killed.

 

While the Delphy’s crew took quick action to warn the other oncoming vessels, they were traveling too fast and they could not see the carnage ahead. At the last moment, the USS S.P. Lee veered to port, but she ran aground in shallow water and destroyed her propellers. The crashing surf pushed the vessel broadside onto the shore. With her hull ripped open, the crew abandoned her there on the rocks. 

 

Next was the USS Young, which struck an underwater reef, then grazed the already wrecked S.P. Lee, and careened into the rocks. Her hull was sliced open from stem to stern, and she rolled over on her starboard side and sank in the shallows. Dozens of men were thrown into the water and were soon covered in thick fuel oil that burned their eyes. Some attempted to swim for shore. Others climbed onto the slippery hull of the stricken ship, desperate to find a grip.

 

Captain of the USS Young, William Lowndes Calhoun later testified, “I was starting for the bridge when I felt a slight trembling. I dropped everything and went on the run. I reached the bridge in time to be sprawled by a terrific knock. I thought we’d been rammed.”

 

One survivor from the Young lamented, “All about us were huge rocks jagged and harsh in appearance through the fog as they were lighted for a moment by a flare from one of the many carbide pots thrown overboard from the life rafts. As each wave receded, we could look down at the rocks beneath us and then the angry seas washed it again spraying us with crude oil that floated out from the ship’s tanks, threatening to wash us from our insecure positions on the side.”

 

The oil soaked men clung to smashed open portholes while the waves crashed over them. Meanwhile, some men were trapped below in their bunks or in the engine room, struggling in the dark. 

 

Trusting the navigation of the Delphy, an additional four more destroyers followed in close formation into the perils of the Devil’s Jaw.

 

USS Woodbury tried to turn away but broadsided a rocky offshore island instead, tearing her hull open. As she settled against the rocks, her engine rooms began taking on water. The engine crew bravely kept working as the water rose past their shoulders, desperately trying to keep the ship's lights on. The Oxnard Press-Courier newspaper described, "When the lights went out...the darkness added more terror to the frantic men."  The surf kept pounding the hull until it started breaking apart, and the crew climbed off onto the rocky outcrop and waited out the night until rescue came the next morning.

The USS Nicholas never even had the chance to turn. She struck bottom first, tearing apart her rudder and propeller. Out of control, she slammed into the seabed several more times before finally wedging into the rocks, tearing multiple large gashes in her hull. By the time her crew abandoned ship at first light, breakers were already washing straight across her deck.

USS Fuller fared little better, but a last-second turn kept her from striking the rocks head-on and she slid broadside into the rocky island, adjacent to the Woodbury. Still, one side of her hull was torn open by the impact and her crew just made it safely onto the rocks before their vessel sank.

In turn, USS Chauncey also ran aground, but was fortunate not to strike any of the jagged outcroppings. She came to rest on the shore, sitting several feet clear of the water. Relatively stable and out of immediate danger, her crew didn't abandon ship right away. 

The Chauncey had somehow slipped onto shore between the rocks and the USS Young. Boatswain’s Mate Arthur Peterson displayed an incredible act of courage and bravery when he swam approximately 150 feet, in raging surf, from the Young to the Chauncey to establish a rope line between the two ships. The men from the Young began using the line to transfer to the relative safety of the Chauncey, and finally to dry land. Some, dripping in fuel oil, could not keep their grasp on the line and fell into the surf. The Chauncey’s crew jumped into action to pull men out of the water while their own vessel was taking a beating from the waves. Seventy men made it to safety that night using this rope line. 

Finally, as the surf began breaking the Chauncey apart, her crew was forced to abandon her where she sat.

The USS Farragut and USS Somers had heard the warning sirens and began to slow. They struck an offshore reef, but only sustained light damage and were able to reverse engines to get clear. 

 

The five ships at the rear of the squadron, in order of formation, were US ships Percival, Kennedy, Paul Hamilton, Stoddert, and Thomspon. 

 

Division Commander Walter G. Roper on the USS Kennedy had been carefully monitoring the same radio signals Watson and Hunter had not trusted. However, Roper did trust them and his calculations confirmed the squadron's correct position. As the squadron turned east following USS Delphy in tight formation, Roper was certain there was trouble ahead, and ordered his division to slow down and stop. 

 

With seven US destroyers wrecked on the rocks, and two more damaged but floating, the rescue operation immediately got underway. The five undamaged destroyers approached as closely as was safe, and launched their lifeboats. Local fishing boats also arrived on the scene to assist, and survivors in the water or on offshore reefs were gradually picked up and taken on board the destroyers.

 

The crashing, grinding noise of the ships hitting the rocks, and the cries for help caught the attention of locals. Nearby, Southern Pacific Railroad foreman John Giorvas rushed to inform authorities, and he and other of the railroad’s workers raced to the cliffs overlooking the wreck site. Breeches buoys were rigged up to a line at the top of the cliff and sent down to the shore below, where the line was also secured. For reference, a breeches buoy is a device resembling a life-ring with an attached leg harness, all connected to a rope line. The person being rescued gets in, puts their legs through the harness, and is pulled to a safe location, whether that is to another ship or to shore. In this case, those who made it to the shore below were hauled up the rocky cliff face one at a time, using only manpower. The breeches buoy was then sent back down for the next person. The grueling rescue continued throughout the night. 

 

Railroad Foreman John Giorvas gave up almost his entire house to provide comfort for as many as possible. Doctors and nurses from the surrounding area came to the scene to treat the wounded and provide food and blankets.

 

Three days later, on September 11th, all of the Navy personnel were sent by train to San Diego, except for a small patrol force of 16 men under command of Lieutenant C.V. Lee. 

 

Out of approximately 800 men on the seven wrecked destroyers, twenty-three were killed. Three sailors on the Delphy perished during the collision. Twenty more from the USS Young were trapped below deck and could not make it out. The list of all 23 servicemen who perished are listed in this episode’s show notes.

 

Starting September 17th, a Court of Inquiry spent nineteen days working through testimony and evidence. Captain Edward H. Watson accepted full responsibility for the disaster. During his testimony Watson explained, “Because of the extraordinary demands upon the station for service due to the proximity of many other ships in the vicinity…we were unable to get our bearing promptly. When messages came telling us we were north of Arguello, I could not believe it. We had traveled 120 miles from the time we had received our bearings earlier in the day. I did not believe it was possible we were still north of Arguello.”

 

In the end, the court placed responsibility squarely on Watson as squadron commander and on the flagship's navigation team including Lieutenant Commander Donald Hunter. It also singled out 23 officers and sailors for commendation for their participation during the rescue efforts. This included Commander Walter G. Roper, who received a Letter of Commendation for leading his ships out of danger. 

 

The Court recommended a full general court-martial for eleven officers, charging them with negligence and "culpable inefficiency to perform one's duty." The commanding officer of each wrecked destroyer was charged. It is the largest group of officers ever court-martialed in U.S. Navy history. 

 

Weeks of hearings and testimony followed, and the court found that the loss of the destroyers is, "directly attributable to bad errors of judgment and faulty navigation". During testimony, Hunter gave a possible reason for the navigation errors, explaining, “I think there is also a possibility that abnormal currents caused by the Japanese earthquake might have been another contributory cause, or magnetic disturbances connected with the solar eclipse affected the compass – but of these I cannot, of course, speak with any first-hand knowledge.” 

 

In its findings, the Court of Inquiry wrote, “...the disaster which resulted in the stranding of the destroyers on Pedernales Point, and in the grounding of two others in the same vicinity, is in the first instance attributable to bad errors in judgment and faulty navigation. After considering carefully the testimony adduced the court finds nothing which reflects on the efficiency of the radio compass installation. A mass of confusing testimony has been brought forward to prove that bearings may not be relied upon, but out of this testimony shines the clear fact that it was not the compass bearings sent to the Delphy, which were wrong, but the judgment of the men who interpreted these bearings and used them wrongly.Dead reckoning alone can never be relied upon.”

 

In the end only three officers were actually found guilty: Watson himself, squadron navigator Lieutenant Commander Donald Hunter, and Lieutenant Commander H. O. Roesch, who had commanded the USS Nicholas. The remaining eight were acquitted without much deliberation.

 

A review of the convictions by Rear Admiral S. S. Robison resulted in Roesch’s conviction overturned. However, the convictions of Watson and Hunter stood and each man lost his seniority toward any future promotion. 

 

Many disagreed with the numerous acquittals, including President Calvin Coolidge who remarked, “Just learned court martial has been very lenient with everybody." Secretary of the Navy Edwin Denby was also dissatisfied with the results, saying, “the sentence in Watson’s case is inadequate.” Denby ordered the Judge Advocate General corps in Washington D.C. to review the findings of the Court. The review resulted in all of the acquittals to be reversed, but no new trials were ordered, and no further action was taken. 

 

Watson was reassigned to the Fourteenth Naval District in Honolulu, where he served as Assistant Commandant until he left active duty in November 1929. Hunter was posted as navigating officer aboard USS Nevada, and he too retired in 1929.

 

Secretary Denby resigned five months later, in February of 1924.

Watson found the sentence harsh but fitting, telling reporters, “I am glad that the sentence is as severe as it is. It puts me very near the bottom of the list of captains, I guess. Needless to say, it does not make me happy.”

It is still a matter of debate as to why experienced naval officers could have been so mistaken about their location. One theory is that Hunter did not consider the loss of forward momentum from the rudder fighting the strong winds and currents to stay on course. In addition, the large swells and rough seas would have caused the ship’s propellers to come out of the water at times, meaning they were still spinning at their full speed (or greater with the lack of water resistance), but not providing any forward propulsion while out of the water. Nevertheless, neither Watson nor Hunter made any attempts to verify their location by visually observing the shoreline.

In the Navy’s own words, the catastrophe was caused by, “a combination of abnormally strong currents and navigational complacency."

 

The seven destroyers lost in the accident remained in place where they were, although after only one month, just the S.P. Lee, Chauncey, and Woodbury were still visible above the water. The Navy ordered what remained of the wrecks to be stripped of anything valuable, and in December of 1923, the Navy sold the salvage for $1035. About $20,000 in today’s value. 

 

A memorial to the Honda Point disaster was dedicated on the 8th of September, 1983 at the Lompoc Veterans Memorial Building, in Lompoc, California. Featuring a stone monument and plaque, it was dedicated by the American Legion William Proud Post 211, and was donated by Ernest and Carson Porter. A brass propeller recovered from the USS Delphy is on display alongside.

 

Today, Honda Point is called Point Pendernales and the wreck site is within an active missile launch zone at Vandenberg Space Force Base. Access is restricted and permission to visit the site is rarely given as the cliffs have become unsafe due to erosion.  A weather beaten memorial sits on the cliffs overlooking the wreck site below, honoring those who lost their lives. An anchor from USS Chauncey was once included but has since been moved to the Lompoc Valley Historical Society. Remnants of the wrecked destroyers can still be seen scattered among the rocks. 

 

The loss of the seven destroyers in the Honda Point disaster remains the greatest peacetime loss in US Navy history. 

 

That’s going to do it for Into the Devil’s Jaw: The Honda Point Disaster. Thank you so much for listening.