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El hundimiento del Sirio (1906):
A las
5 de la tarde del día 4 de agosto de 1906, con la mar en calma y buena visibilidad, el
Sirio
vapor correo
de 4.000 tn y 5300 CV navegaba a 15 nudos cerca de la isla Hormiga rumbo a Cartagena. El oficial de guardia, inquieto por la proximidad de la isla y de un
conocido escollo submarino (el Bajo de Fuera), se disponía a llamar al puente a D.G. Picconi,
comandante del barco. En ese instante una sacudida violenta y un enorme
estruendo de planchas rotas conmocionó las entrañas del vapor. El
Sirio elevó bruscamente su proa al
cielo, se volcó hacia estribor en medio de un chirrido de planchas de hierro al resbalar su casco sobre el escollo, quedando su popa hundida en el mar. Un
silbido de vapor a presión se escapó de sus toberas antes de que la terrible explosión de sus calderas sacudiera el barco de quilla a perilla. Decenas de
pasajeros murieron en el acto, mientras otros muchos emigrantes (que navegaban ilegalmente sin documentación ni pasaje) morían aplastados en una de las bodegas
de carga.
La escena que se desarrolló a continuación fué dantesca. Gente trepando enloquecida hacia la levantada proa, atropellándose, aplastándose... Incluso hubo testigos, que oyeron disparos de pistola de gente desalmada que buscaba su salvación a cualquier precio en los botes salvavidas. Muchos se tiraron al mar pensando que podría producirse una nueva explosión, y encontraron así la muerte. Entonces se dió el vergonzoso espectáculo, de un capitán y oficiales, que cogiendo uno de los pocos botes que pudieron ser arriados, se largaban cobardemente de su barco, dejando detrás escenas de horror. El pánico, la desesperación y la falta de una dirección adecuada consumó la tragedia del Sirio. Todo ello fue presenciado desde los playones de Cabo de Cabo de Palos, desde dos embarcaciones a vela que navegaban próximas al vapor y desde el pequeño mercante Maria Luisa que al oír la explosión se dirigieron allí. Se cree que, pese a la ayuda prestada, murieron 440 pasajeros de los 820 que oficialmente navegaban en el Sirio, pero el número verdadero de víctimas no se supo jamás. Lo que si se sabe es que durante semanas aparecieron decenas de cadáveres, algunos mutilados, en las playas vecinas.
La página de heroísmo y humanidad corrió a cargo de Vicente Buígues patrón del pailebote
Joven Miguel, de su sobrino patrón del falucho Joven Vicente y de otros pescadores de Cabo de Palos. Buigues a 15 metros del
Sirio arrió un bote para socorrer a los que se tiraban por la borda, pero este fue
hundido por la avalancha de desesperados náufragos. Entonces regresó a nado a su barco y embistió el botalón
de su velero por encima de la cubierta del buque siniestrado. A través del palo del bauprés y con riesgo de su vida y de su barco ayudó a salvar a cientos de
personas.
Primera Guerra Mundial:
La causa más importante de la multitud de hundimientos en el siglo XX en el área de Cabo de Palos, fue la actividad submarina de la flota alemana en la Gran Guerra (1914-18). Al principio de la contienda, la guerra naval se llevó a cabo según cierto código, digamos "humanitario", evacuando a los tripulantes de los cargueros antes de hundirlos. Posteriormente ante la aparición de mercantes
artillados (los célebres buques "Q" o barcos trampa) que disimulaban su armamento y cañoneaban y hundían al
submarino cuando aparentemente la dotación del mercante lo había abandonado, "la Kriegsmarine" dió la orden a sus "unterseebooten" de hundir los barcos aliados sin previo aviso. Decenas de barcos fueron echados a pique por
estos lobos de mar apostados en las proximidades de Cabo de Palos, zona casi obligada para el tráfico marítimo aliado con destino o procedente de Francia. En
algunos de estos hundimientos no hubo supervivientes o estos fueron recogidos e internados en campos de concentración. El caso es que sea por la falta de
información de unos y otros contendientes o por la falta de precisión de los medios de entonces, nunca se supo la situación exacta de muchos naufragios. Se
sabe que en los 4 años que duró la Gran Guerra, la flota alemana hundió 18,7 millones de toneladas de R.B- más de 3.000 barcos-, de los cuales cientos de
ellos lo fueron próximos a nuestras costas, pese a ser entonces España un país neutral.
Según datos de la Compañía Lloid´s alguno de los barcos hundidos en la zona de Cabo de Palos son:
Reglas de gobierno de un buque:
Si ambas luces de un vapor, por la proa has avistado, debes caer a estribor, dejando ver tu encarnado.
Si acaso por tu babor, la verde se deja ver, sigue avante, ojo avizor, débase el otro mover.
Si da verde con el verde, o encarnado con su igual, entonces nada se pierde; siga su rumbo cada cual.
Entre un vapor y un velero, maniobra siempre el primero. * (*excepto cuando el velero alcanza)
Si a estribor ves colorado, debes con cuidado obrar, cae a uno u otro lado, para o manda ciar.
Buque que a otro alcanza, gobernará sin tardanza.
Está siempre vigilante, y ten presente además, si hay peligro por delante, modera, para o da atrás. obernará sin tardanz
Lloyd's:
In the late 17th century, seafarers flocked to Edward Lloyd's coffeehouse in Tower Street, near the Thames waterfront in London, to gossip, play cards, and conduct business, and Edward Lloyd serviced their needs. Coffee, valued for its therapeutic powers, was a penny a cup. Pens, ink, and paper were free, as was news, provided by Lloyd's runners who scurried back and forth between the coffeehouse and the docks, gathering the latest information on the comings and goings of ships and their cargoes.
In the days of sail and rudimentary navigation, the news was often bad: ships were wrecked and merchants ruined. Although ship and cargo insurance can be traced back to the Phoenicians, it was at Lloyd's coffeehouse that modern marine insurance was born. A shipowner would write on a slip of paper the particulars of a proposed voyage--the name, route and ports of call of a vessel, the value of its hull and cargo, and the amount he was willing to pay for "insurance." Other coffee drinkers arrayed in booths and benches around the room, many of them shipowners themselves, would then decide how much, if any, of the risk they were willing to accept in exchange for the premium. An "insurer" would write his name on the shipowners' slip under the shipping information (hence the term underwriter).
Although risky, the business was lucrative, and it attracted investors, who formed groups, or "syndicates," to back underwriters. On the side, opportunists took bets not only on whether a ship would arrive safely but on contingencies as varied as whether a candidate for Parliament would be elected and when a sick person would die. Corruption flourished.
By 1771 larceny and wagering threatened to overwhelm legitimate business. That year, 79 of the soberer underwriters broke away and established a formal association in a building nearby. Though Edward Lloyd was long dead, his name stuck, as did the tradition of doing business from wooden benches clustered in rectangular "boxes" around a large room.
Lloyd's came of age insuring ships during a succession of wars culminating in the defeat of Napoleon at Waterloo in 1815. War drove premiums up. Many ships were sunk and much money was lost, but the skilled underwriters got rich, and Lloyd's grew in size and importance. By the 19th century, its runners had become a worldwide network of intelligence agents, utilized not only by Lloyd's for ship monitoring but by the British government for a range of economic and military intelligence--a phenomenon that fed Lloyd's reputation for mystery and secrecy.
In 1906 a signal event came to Lloyd's--the San Francisco earthquake. Cuthbert Evan Heath, a leading broker and underwriter, telegraphed instructions to his California representatives to immediately pay all claims to Lloyd's customers in full, whatever the terms of their policies. Heath's dramatic gesture, at a time when U.S. insurers were nickel-and-diming the quake victims, emblazoned Lloyd's in the pantheon of world finance as an emblem of trust.
While still insuring much of world shipping, Lloyd's by then also offered coverage for property and casualty, fire and theft, and product liability. It was known for accepting large and complex risks that no one else would touch. By granting or withholding insurance, Lloyd's could make or break a risky new business venture.
Lloyd's earned for the British balance of payments nearly as much as the entire British banking system. It was the largest private investor in the U.S. government, holding billions of dollars in Treasury bonds. It also was a cultural and social force. Lloyd's chairmen were celebrities. People stood when they entered a room. The art collection of one Lloyd's official became the nucleus of the National Gallery in London. Lloyd's name was so potent in America--a household word--that in 1936 it was celebrated in a full-length Hollywood movie starring Tyrone Power.
By the middle of the 20th century, having passed its 250th birthday, Lloyd's of London was sui generis--a singular force, with an aura unmatched by any other business enterprise.
It also had a unique structure. Unlike normal publicly held companies whose shareholders can vary the size of their investment (and thus their financial exposure), Lloyd's has been backed by a unique breed of investors known as Names.
A would-be Name had to be sponsored by an existing Name and demonstrate a net worth (in near liquid form) equivalent to at least $1 million in today's money. Each Name then joined one or more syndicates--groups of Names headed by an underwriter. After assembling the funds his Names had agreed to invest, the underwriter sold insurance policies to clients, collected their premiums and, when necessary, paid their claims.
Although Names' investments are equal to the amount of insurance coverage they agree to finance, they are required to post in advance, or pledge, only 30% of that amount--usually in the form of securities, a letter of credit or a bank guarantee. Thus Names have several opportunities for financial gain. First, they can earn a profit when premiums exceed claims. Second, they can earn money when premiums pooled and invested by Lloyd's draw investment income. Third, they enjoy income from funds pledged but not actually made available to Lloyd's.
There is, of course, a catch--the risk that claims might exceed premiums. And that risk is multiplied many times over by a key factor: a Lloyd's Name incurs unlimited liability for the risk he or she underwrites. Thus a huge claim can drain a Name of all his or her assets--"right down to your last cufflink," as Lloyd's Names were told, tongue in cheek, when they signed on. But down the years thousands of Names discovered that unlimited liability means just what it says and not what they were told and wanted to hear.
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