Lost at Sea

We are given a ticket when we enter the exhibit. We are told it is an exact replica of an original boarding pass. It holds an actual passenger’s name; one that boarded the Titanic on its first and only voyage 96 years ago. Personal information about each passenger is on the ticket. I am a first class passenger; a business man. My son, Jaevin, is a third class immigrant bringing his family to America for a better life. His friend, Dakota is a second class mother.

“At the end of the exhibit there is a list of survivors and those lost at sea,” says the guide.

We are not permitted to take pictures; and I am disappointed. I have brought Jaevin to the Ontario Science Centre because he’s fascinated with the Titanic. The moment we walk into the first room my disappointment becomes understanding. I would not take my camera to a grave yard; and these eerily preserved artifacts have come from a graveyard at sea.

A door handle, a piece of rope and an engine thermometer, over-looked and taken for granted in their formal lives, now are guarded and treasured. These ordinary things are rare because they survived when so many others perished.

We walk down a first-class hallway. It is beautifully decorated with white walls and a dark burgundy carpet. Each accessory, such as door handles and lamps, is gold-plated and engraved with beautiful designs. There’s a happy melody playing. It is bright, warm and elite. I can see the ghost of John Jacob Astor, a wealthy first-class passenger, wearing his tall hat and holding his hand out to his new bride, Madeleine. They walk slowly down the hall in front of me and disappear.

We see a spacious first-class room; it’s filled with luxuries such as a fireplace, vanity, a soft comfy bed and a round table to entertain guests with a cup of tea. This room would have had its own promenade deck for strolling. First class excesses. Everything on Titanic was new and expensive.

I caress the velvety cord blocking me from the room. I can smell the ghost of fresh coffee and the fine cuisine and delicacies being served aboard the Titanic during breakfast. The first-class menu consists of sirloin steak, omelets and fresh fruit; third class passengers were given oatmeal, bread and marmalade.

We continue walking and enter a third-class hallway. It is bare. It is cold. It is dimly lit. The loud pounding of the boiler room can be heard instead of music.

“Who slept here, Mommy? It’s smaller than my room!” Jaevin says, pointing to a third-class room.

This room, expected to house entire families, is one-fifth of the size of a first-class room. It is grey and dark. Two bunk beds are cramped against the walls, leaving just enough room for a small dresser. Each bed has one, thin White Star blanket. Uncovered pipes run along the roof; barely leaving room for passengers sleeping on the top bunk. Only a small round porthole would have reminded these passengers that they were on a “ship of dreams” and not in a cell. There were only two bathtubs available for the 700 third-class passengers to share.

Jaevin pulls my hand. He has made another chilling discovery.
“Why is there a chain here?”
I look and I can’t answer him for a moment; if I do I will begin sobbing.
“These chains are here to keep the gate locked. Third-class passengers were not allowed to go up to the rest of the ship.”

I can hear the ghost of immigrant, Mr. Sage, begging the guard to open the gate and give him, his wife, and nine children a chance to survive. As cold water begins rushing down the hallway he holds his youngest child and cries; “Just give us a chance!”

I can’t move for a moment, but Jaevin is calling from the next room, so I must leave these ghosts forever pleading.

The boiler room is astonishing. Men, not machines, laboured here to keep the ship moving. Shoveling coal day and night, these men became black with soot. They would have had only seconds to escape from the boiler room, as water rushed in, before the bulkhead door slammed shut in an attempt to keep the water from the rest of the ship.

A giant iceberg sits below dark skies illuminated with sparkling, beautiful stars. It was deceptively calm and breathtaking night; a contradiction to the pending chaos and horror. I pull back my hands quickly when I touch the iceberg; it is unbearable. The water was below freezing and the shock of plunging into it would be similar to being stabbed by one thousand knives.

I can hear ghost cries of passengers struggling to stay alive in the freezing Atlantic Ocean on April, 14, 1912. John Jacob Astor was crushed by a smokestack as his wife sat shivering in one of the only 20 lifeboats. The entire Sage family drowned.

Most passengers did not drown immediately after the ship disappeared into the sea. Hundreds of people were left screaming in the ocean until their screams subsided into whimpers, then silence, as they painfully and slowly froze to death.


We are now standing before the list at the end of the exhibit.

“Can you find my name, Mom?” Jaevin asks .

I feel the ghosts of loved ones frantically searching the faces of survivors being led off the rescue ship, the Carpathia, after docking in New York. I search with them, but do not find our names on the “Saved” list.

I clutch my boarding pass and realize that when we take away the handlebar moustaches, the large hats and furs the passengers are stripped to humanity. These were true people. This was a true disaster. Our only difference is our position on the earth’s timeline.

I feel true horror as I locate our names. All three of us were “Lost at Sea”.