As the whitecaps roll from the Arctic Pole Through the straits from the Chukchi Sea, They whisper of tales of the merciless gales That have turned many boats to debris.
And one of the boats that didn’t survive In one of those terrible blows Was a factory trawler, with fifteen men, Whose name was the Arctic Rose.
That trawler’s goal was flathead sole Northwest of the Pribolof Isles, And the first few tows of the Arctic Rose, The hard working crew were all smiles.
But one of those nights when the northern lights Were casting their eerie glow, The winds and the waves on a storm tossed sea Had driven the deckhands below.
Then a frigid breeze came out of the North, And kicked up a freezing spray, And started to coat that old fishing boat On rigging and mast and stay
With a layer of ice so thick and so white, She looked like a sheeted ghost That was making its way from bay to bay Up and down the Alaska coast.
And as they pounded that building ice, The crew knew deep in their soul That soon that poor ice encrusted boat Would make her one final roll.
They weren’t the first to have such a thirst For life on those Arctic waves, And they won’t be last to be brutally cast In the sea to their watery graves.
But I like to think that they’re fishing still Instead of some sunken wreck, And they’re hidden away in some glacier bay Still trying to clear her deck.
But you never know when your number’s up, And your maker will take you away, So when you’re ashore, show the ones you adore Your love and affection each day.
And I’ve got a notion the salt in the ocean Comes from the widows’ tears That were shed at the ports all ‘round the world Over lonely and countless years.
So stop for a moment and send out a prayer, As we bring this tale to a close, To the sweethearts and wives of the fifteen lives That were lost on the Arctic Rose.