A Chicago man crossing Lake Michigan in a watermelon-shaped craft disappeared 120 years ago. Here’s what we know.
An experimental capsule designed by an eccentric explorer to cross a large body of water disappeared while on an epic journey, scrambling volunteers and authorities to search for it while family and friends anxiously waited for updates knowing oxygen supplies were limited.
The saga mirrors that of the submersible Titan, which was attempting to visit the wreck of the Titanic on Sunday, but happened 119 years ago in Chicago.
Known as Foolkiller No. 3, the 30-foot long and 20-foot wide canvas-covered vessel looked more like a floating blimp than a submersible. It was not designed to sink, but to glide — across land or water — when propelled by the wind. Its cavity was dotted with one glass porthole on each end and hollow except for an axle to help the watermelon-shaped machine turn while its occupant was seated atop it.
The contraption was the brainchild of Peter Nissen, a local bookkeeper who was a native of Denmark. Nicknamed “F. M. Bowser” for reasons that aren’t clear, Nissen had already garnered front-page headlines for his successful navigation of Niagara River rapids along the U.S.-Canada border four years prior — in a wooden boat he built and designed.
“Chicago’s ‘I will’ is greater than Niagara Fall’s ‘You shan’t,’” the Tribune boasted on July 10, 1900 about Nissen’s journey.
The paper’s tone was less enthusiastic, however, when Nissen told reporters he hoped to open a “dime museum” to celebrate surviving the feat.
“After one man has successfully performed a sensational and idle trick of this kind there are usually a number of people ready to imitate him,” the Tribune’s editorial page proclaimed on July 11, 1900. “Many of these imitators are not likely to be as lucky as the originator, and he may in the end be the indirect cause of several deaths.”
Nissen didn’t heed the warning. He conquered the Niagara rapids a second time in 1901 — this time by piloting a boiler-powered boat.
A new challenge arrived three years later: Lake Michigan. Nissen planned to travel from Chicago to Michigan inside the Foolkiller No. 3 — powered by the wind like a tumbleweed. During a May 15, 1904 demonstration, however, the bloated ball failed to roll forward as its inventor had promised and drifted back to shore. Nissen blamed the conditions — not his ingenuity — for the scrubbed effort.
Undeterred, Nissen brought his bag of air to Chicago Avenue on Nov. 29, 1904. He spent an hour inflating it before loading up three days of rations of “biscuit, cheese, tobacco and water,” the Tribune reported. When its tethers were cut around 3 p.m., the craft was swept out into the lake. The 65-mile journey had begun.
Snow flurries pelted the canvas, the temperature dropped several degrees below freezing and the balloon bounced fiercely like a rubber ball on the waves.
A captain’s wife spotted the “awful looking thing” in Chicago harbor 45 minutes later traveling east at 15 mph. Three Illinois Steel workers watched him roll by near Gary.
The plan was for Nissen to notify a friend in Chicago via telegram after he reached the Michigan shore around 3 a.m. the next day. The friend remained awake all night, but never received the confirmation.
A full day after its launch, Foolkiller No. 3 couldn’t be found. Family knew the outlook was grim since only 24 hours of oxygen was contained inside the bladder.
“And so,” said Andrew Nissen, a brother, to the Tribune. “Pete either is on land or dead. There is no possible way he could have kept his boat afloat longer than this.”
At 11 a.m. on Dec. 1, 1904, a farmer’s wife near Stevensville, Mich. looked out her window and discovered the form of a man on the beach below — with what looked like a gigantic deflated football nearby.
Only minutes later, authorities confirmed it was Nissen’s body and noticed his watch had stopped at 6:45. He had not drowned, they speculated, but remained inside the vessel until it crashed upon the beach. A small piece of paper in the pocket of Nissen’s coat said, “In the chair. Cannot use hose.” From it they surmised that Nissen had not been able to get fresh air from outside the vessel, but the mission was completed anyway.
His body was taken back to Chicago and is buried in Mount Olive Cemetery.
Nissen’s name didn’t make the Tribune again until 11 years later — when a clever diver invoked it to help him sell tickets for an attraction that had been buried in three feet of muck at the bottom of the Chicago River.
William “Frenchy” Deneau had been considered a hero for recovering hundreds of victims’ bodies following the horrific SS Eastland disaster, which capsized and killed 844 people on July 24, 1915. The experienced diver was back in the river months later laying cable when he hit metal.
Deneau believed he had found a submarine formerly owned by Nissen. He worked with the federal government to secure ownership of the vessel and raise it.
Starting in February 1916, visitors to the Rector Building on State Street could tour the “tragic and historic relic.” Deneau, now calling himself a captain, placed a full-page advertisement in the Tribune for “the most intensely interesting exhibit ever shown in Chicago.”
The Tribune has no further mention of Deneau’s prized artifact. The boat’s connection to Nissen is confounding and its whereabouts today are unknown.
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