In my comings and goings on-line I found a Great Lakes maritime site. The huge volume of visitors proved quite useful. This came to be just as crucial as the lighthouse book, “Unholy Apostle” and newspaper article bearing names.
 
In spite of the generous responses from museums and libraries, my insatiable appetite for information wasn’t satisfied. In fact as the dots started to connect, my obsession picked up speed. It felt as if I were getting close to answers and anticipation took hold of my break-neck pace.
 
I asked the site for anything at all regarding the Marigold. I was looking for one more scrap I didn’t have the day before. Any source was regarded as a potential key ingredient. A lady from Detroit was among those who wrote back. Rather than quoting the ship’s dimensions or where she was last seen, this person relayed different information. There was a sailor on the Marigold who died while on duty. He was her uncle.
 
I wrote back asking if he died in an explosion in Oct. 1929. Cautiously, she replied a yes. I told her, “I have some information you might like to see.”
 
We wrote constantly, trading everything we knew. She spoke of how she had been searching for anything on her uncle as part of her genealogy interest. The family knew what happened to him, but no one knew where he was buried. She hunted tirelessly in the area, where he was rumored to be. Nothing. As her son was an active duty Coast Guardsman, it was more than quaint family interest that motivated her. Her son was following in the uncle’s footsteps.
 
The newspaper article containing the officers’ names was more valuable than originally suspected. I sent the lady photocopies of all of my research, including that article. Upon receipt, she had to call. The uncle’s name was misspelled. Indeed, my flash of unexplained knowledge was correct, there was no “Rudolph Potestio”, but there was a “Gandolpho Potestivo”. She had been searching for a grave with his properly spelled name, not realizing that the marker might be wrong. It was the spelling from my article that would guide her to him.
 
Uncle Gandolpho was born while crossing the Atlantic, en route from Italy to America. As he got older he wanted a more American-sounding first name and thought “Murphy” appropriate. He joined the United States Light House Service in his teens and won a spot on the supply ship Marigold. Courageous Murphy and the intrepid the Marigold sailed to lighthouses on the Great Lakes. Their missions entailed delivering and picking up keepers and supplies, transporting inspectors and rescuing anyone in trouble. They were forerunners of today’s Coast Guard.  He took the wheel, carrying her through calm seas and raging storms.
 
At 19 Murphy was at the site of an offshore, unmanned light. He was with a small group of men replacing the acetylene tank inside the light. It was a beautiful, crisp day in early October when suddenly the tank exploded, killing him.
 
Although the details were sad, the lady was delighted to have closure on this point in family history. I, however, was incomplete. I’d shifted from needed every last word of information on the ship to needing to know what happened to Murphy. The mountain of collected information and her family’s recollections wasn’t enough. While terribly grateful for all of that, what drove me was events of that day.
 
My obsession should’ve been gliding back to Earth, but instead became feverish. My thoughts started to settle into very pointed questions… “Where is Murphy? What happened to him? Why can’t I find him?”