The Mysterious Disappearance of Nova University’s R/V Gulf Stream
- Joe Marzo
- Aug 21
- 5 min read
By Joe Marzo
“The who, the what, the why, and the when shall ever be unknown to us.”—Epitaph for the crew of the Gulf Stream
A Ship with a Purpose
On Saturday morning, January 4, 1975, the research vessel Gulf Stream slipped out of Boothbay Harbor, Maine. She was a modest 48-foot steel-hulled former oil support vessel, powered by twin diesel engines and outfitted with flotation devices, life rafts, radios, and navigation gear. The radar had been removed the previous year, but otherwise, she was considered seaworthy.
This was no sightseeing cruise. On board were five men of science and seamanship, dedicated to a buoy-testing program sponsored by the National Science Foundation. The buoys—massive, some weighing 600 pounds—were designed to drift with the currents, relaying vital data on winds, water temperature, and salinity to satellites above. The results would advance the young field of climate science, linking ocean behavior to global weather.
The crew were as remarkable as their mission:
Dr. William Springer Richardson, 51 – Director of Oceanography at Nova University, a Harvard-trained chemist, naval pilot veteran, and pioneer in marine instrumentation.
William Ben Campbell, 49 – Master of the vessel, a skilled mariner and craftsman, steady in command.
Jack L. Spornraft, 25 – Former submarine service sailor, young but seasoned, serving as mate.
James David Riddle, 41 – Technician, diver, sometime stuntman in Flipper and Thunderbolt, with years of Navy contract work.
John Wayne Hill, 28 – Engineer from Scripps Institution of Oceanography, testing his own buoys alongside Nova’s.
They were scientists, sailors, and adventurers—men at home with risk. Yet in less than 72 hours, all but one would be lost to the sea.
A Voyage North
Why Maine? Why risk frigid waters a thousand miles from Nova University’s Florida home?
Dr. Richardson explained it plainly: “The Gulf of Maine is nasty. That’s why we go there. It’s the only way to know if these buoys will survive the North Pacific, where weather can be worse still.”
The Gulf Stream had made dozens of trips into those icy waters before. She was tested, her crew experienced, and their spirits were high as they headed out to collect and track eight buoys scattered 30–40 miles offshore.
The plan was simple: recover the first buoy, spend the night in Gloucester, Massachusetts, then return to Boothbay on Sunday. By Monday morning, January 6, Nova University’s pilot Jerry Erich would be airborne to help track the devices by air.
But the call confirming their safe arrival never came.
The Last Sightings
At first, no one panicked. The weather was reported calm—three to four-foot seas, high pressure, nothing unusual for January. Perhaps the crew had simply fallen behind schedule.
But on Monday morning, with no word, colleagues grew uneasy. Dr. Charles Yentsch of Bigelow Laboratory, expecting a call, alerted the Coast Guard.
Then came the strange reports.
January 4, 10 p.m. – A Boothbay Coast Guard radioman logged a call: “Coast Guard, this is the R/V Gulf Stream. Over.” The operator responded. The voice—nervous—replied only “This is the Gulf…” before cutting off. Attempts to reestablish contact failed.
January 6, around 10 a.m. – Fishermen Wilson Francis and John Hammond swore they saw the Gulf Stream passing Squirrel Island at 15 knots. Hammond was certain: “There goes the Gulf Stream. It’s the only research vessel around here that does any work.” He even produced receipts proving the date.
January 6, later that morning – Retired Navy Commander William Howard claimed to have heard Captain Campbell’s voice on a radio transmission. Calm, routine, not a distress call.
January 7, 11:30 a.m. – Another Boothbay operator logged a transmission: “U.S. Coast Guard Boothbay, this is the R/V Gulf Stream. Over.” The voice was normal. Hours later, a fishing vessel picked up what they believed was another Gulf Stream call.
If true, this meant the vessel was alive, under way, and communicating three days after leaving port. And yet—by the evening of the 7th, she was gone.
The Storm That Sealed Their Fate
By Tuesday night, the weather turned brutal. Winds hit 40 knots. Seas swelled to 20 feet, their tops collapsing into foam. Spray blinded search aircraft; the Coast Guard cutter Cape Horn was forced back by violent cross-seas.
Somewhere out there, if the witnesses were right, the Gulf Stream and her five souls were still afloat. But by the time searchers could resume, they were gone.
Only fragments would ever be found: a drawer from the galley, a life preserver, and the body of James Riddle.
Theories and Shadows
The Coast Guard’s final report in April 1975 offered little: no evidence of negligence, no evidence of distress, no recommendation for further action. Case closed.
But silence breeds speculation. Among colleagues, students, and grieving families, theories abounded:
Collision in busy waters – Yentsch believed the Gulf Stream may have been run over at night by a freighter, invisible without radar, too small to be seen. A glancing blow could have sunk her instantly.
Mechanical failure or icing – Even a sturdy hull can fail. A broken steering cable, a flooding compartment, or ice accretion on the deck could have overwhelmed her.
Bad luck and bad weather – Calm seas can deceive; sudden squalls and towering rogue waves may have finished her.
The sinister – Some whispered of foul play. Others connected her to the Bermuda Triangle myth, stretching its boundaries northward. Students invoked Flight 19, the “Lost Patrol” of Navy bombers that had vanished in 1945 after departing Fort Lauderdale—the same airfield that once stood where Nova’s campus now rises.
Grief even opened the door to the paranormal. Jack Spornraft’s parents consulted psychic M.B. Dykshoorn, who gave them coordinates—eerily close to those later estimated by Woods Hole scientists. Yet no search was ever carried out.
Aftermath
Nova University reeled. Dr. Richardson was not just a department head; he was its heart. President Abraham Fischler later recalled how his death left a gaping wound in the young university, setting back its oceanographic ambitions and shaking its morale.
Families struggled too. Spornraft’s parents fought insurance battles, desperate to mount their own search. Others found solace only in memorials.
Every spring in Boothbay Harbor, at the Our Lady Queen of Peace Church, the names of fishermen lost since 1798 are read aloud. Among them, five names from 1975 are spoken, and the church bell tolls:
William Springer Richardson
William Ben Campbell
Jack L. Spornraft
James David Riddle
John Wayne Hill
A Legacy of Silence
The Gulf Stream was a ship of science, not legend. And yet, because it left no answers, it has slipped into the same spectral realm as ghost ships and Triangle lore. Unlike treasure galleons or famous air patrols, it left behind no grand story, only fragments and questions.
Was she lost in a collision, unseen by any eye? Did her hull give way beneath icy waves? Or did something stranger still claim her?
In the end, all that remains is silence. And silence, at sea, is the most chilling answer of all.
Sources
Bogorff, Robert & Bettie Jacobs. The Mysterious Disappearance of Nova University’s Research Vessel Gulf Stream. NSU Books & Book Chapters, 2006.
U.S. Coast Guard Record of Proceedings (1975) on the disappearance of the R/V Gulf Stream.
NSU Digital Collections: photographs and ephemera on the Gulf Stream.
