I’ve walked the decks of the Cuauhtémoc while reporting for a newspaper. I’ve stood on her planks, leaned against the rail, and watched her crew—Mexican Navy cadets in pressed whites—handle her lines with precision and pride. She’s more than a ship. She’s a symbol. A living classroom. A floating ambassador of seamanship, heritage, and grit.
That’s why the news from New York hit so hard.
The Cuauhtémoc, a 297-foot sailing vessel with masts stretching nearly 160 feet into the sky, lost power while navigating the East River—one of the trickiest stretches of water on the East Coast. With no propulsion and no steering, the river’s swift current took over. She drifted stern-first into the Brooklyn Bridge. Her masts struck the underside and snapped. Three down. Nineteen sailors injured. Two died.
And yet, even before the Coast Guard can finish its report, the know-it-all crowd fired up their keyboards. Mocking the crew. Mocking the ship. Mocking the navy.
No sailor—no matter the flag—deserves that kind of treatment after a tragedy.
And since memories seem short, let’s revisit our own wake:
Our own U.S. Navy has had its share of sea-going heartbreaks. The USS Fitzgerald and USS John S. McCain both collided with commercial ships. The McCain lost power before slamming into the cargo ship–just like the Cuauhtémoc. Seventeen of our own sailors were either crushed to death or drowned in their bunks. In February, The aircraft carrier USS Harry S Truman collided with a merchant ship in open ocean. And we’ve dropped more F-35s aircraft into the drink than most countries have jets.
In other words: It happens. Even to us.
That’s not a dig—it’s a reality. The sea is unforgiving. It doesn’t care what flag you fly or what rank you wear. One mechanical failure, one missed signal, one surge of current—and you’re at the mercy of something older, stronger, and colder than any of us.
What happened to the Cuauhtémoc wasn’t incompetence. It was a tragedy. It was the kind of moment every mariner dreads: drifting with no way to steer, watching disaster unfold in slow motion, powerless to stop it.
The sailors aboard did what all good sailors do—they stayed with their ship. Some were clinging to the rigging when the masts broke. Two didn’t make it home.
So to those tossing jokes and cheap insults from behind a screen, here’s your lesson: unless you’ve felt the deck roll beneath your boots, unless you’ve stood a midnight watch, unless you’ve seen the ocean change from calm to killer in ten minutes flat—sit this one out.
Because this isn’t a meme. This is mourning.
And for those of us who’ve stood beside sailors of all stripes, in every uniform, from every nation—we know better. We know the sea doesn’t play favorites. And we know respect when it’s due.
To the crew of the Cuauhtémoc: You honored your ship and your fallen. May the wind be kinder on your next voyage.