Two years ago, as I was reading scores of old newspaper articles to learn more about my paternal great-grandfather, someone with the exact same name popped up.

Dad’s grandfather’s name was George E. Vayo. This second person’s name was also George E. Vayo. They both spent a considerable amount of their lives in Maine. The story of this second George and his son stuck with me, and this week seemed a good time to dig a bit deeper to see if we are related.

While gathering specifics on Ancestry.com, it quickly became necessary to start a new – albeit tiny – family tree for this second George E. Vayo and his son Edward.

Try as I might to find that familial connection, it seems to be missing.

But there’s still a human connection, and a tear to wipe away as we learn more about the sudden end to the young life of John Edward Vayo.

Edward, as he was called, was just shy of turning 17. It was the summer of 1898 and life was good. He had an apprenticeship working alongside his father at a printing company.

George was a lithographer and pressman at the Lakeside Printing Company in Portsmouth, Maine. His son worked as a press feeder, learning the trade.

Late morning on Saturday, July 11, 1898, Edward hopped on his bicycle to ride over to Merrill’s Wharf on Portland Harbor to see his friends off on an afternoon of fishing at nearby Cushing Island.

Edward wasn’t planning to go along, but since the other fellows (all but one) worked with him at Lakeside Press, they were able to talk him into joining them. The group ranged in age from 35 to 16.

Together, the seven friends hired the Annie May, an 18-foot sailboat. It was a cat-rigged centerboard craft.

Similar to this boat:

But the group of seven never got to fish that afternoon.

As The Portland Daily Press reported the next day:

There was a strong southwest breeze and the tide was running out strong. The surface of the water was choppy when they started out and the breeze grew stronger as they beat out toward the ship’s channel.

Quite a number of cottagers were watching them from both sides of the channel when the accident occurred. They had just tacked off Cushing’s Island and [one member of the party] took control of the tiller while [another] hauled in the sheet. A sudden gust caught the boat and she jibed, going down stern first.

The occupants of the boat started to swim, some of them striking out toward the shore and others making out for a spar buoy, about 400 yards off. It was a hopeless struggle, for the water was rough and the tide running out at a rapid rate.

Rescue efforts began immediately, as there were many witnesses on shore who saw the sloop capsize in the rough water. Two of the older men were saved, but the rest couldn’t stay afloat any longer and slipped into the depths of the channel.

One of the survivors, Jeremiah E. Foster, 35, was quoted in that same article:

The boys all struck out for themselves. I knew they were good swimmers. And I believed they could keep afloat till assistance came. I shouted to Sullivan and O’Donnell and told them to make for the spar buoy. I didn’t feel so sure about young McAuley; I kept him afloat fully eight minutes, occasionally putting my hand under his arm and keeping his chin up. But he gave up just before the boat reached us. I saw Vayo go down about a minute before I was taken into the boat.

Two of those lost had been the main source of income for their widowed mothers and younger siblings.

The story of Edward Vayo was also a sad one:

Edward Vayo was the only son of George Vayo, a pressman at the Lakeside Press. More than that, the dead boy was his father’s only remaining near relative, his mother having died years ago and there being no other children. Mr. Vayo said last evening: “I brought my boy up from the time he was a baby and he was a good boy and was doing well. My boy did not intend to go sailing but went to the wharf to see the others off and then at the last moment decided to go with them. I’m a lone man now,” added the stricken father, who spent the evening waiting for any news which might come of the finding of the body of his boy.

It took until Tuesday for Edward’s body to be found.

His funeral was the next morning.

Just as in modern times, news accounts varied on some of the details. For example, a claim that the owner of the boat wouldn’t release Edward’s bicycle until the sunken vessel was paid for was refuted the next day. Most alarming was the statement that grappling hooks could not be used in the channel due to the existence of mines in the water. (Other articles referenced grappling for the deceased bodies as well as the boat.)

George’s statement that “I’m a lone man now” rang truer with each step back into his past. His wife, Theresa Morgan Vayo, died of phthisis – pulmonary tuberculosis – in 1883, just two days after turning 24. Young Edward was just 17 months old. He never met his older brother. Just eight months old, George Thomas Vayo died of pneumonia in 1879.

George and Edward’s boss at Lakeside Press, Novello Crafts, wrote a heartfelt letter in memory of his lost employees. The Portland Evening Express ran the tribute, including the following:

As far as I can tell, George lived the rest of his life alone.

He stayed employed at Lakeside Press for at least another decade. Toward the end of his days, he returned to Boston, where he passed away in 1925, at 72 years old.

Even though I haven’t found a blood connection with George, our shared last name brought the father and son to light after all these years. While considering whether to pursue their story, the final song from the musical Hamilton came to mind, with the lyrics: “But when you’re gone, who remembers your name? Who tells your story?”

So many of Gary’s and my ancestors have huge families, with a dozen offspring each going on to add another dozen to the family tree. George and Theresa’s plans were never realized. Edward’s dreams will never be known. It’s not nearly enough, but we do our best: We remember.

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