As the 12.500-ton french liner Champollion, the eastern Mediterranean's best-known luxury ship, churned in a gusty sea toward Beirut, Lebanon, early-rising passengers thought something was odd about the ship's course. Instead of heading north to Beirut harbor the ship was steaming due east. Suddenly there was a scraping and a severe thudding as the Champollion ran aground a quarter of a mile offshore.
The 111 passengers and 212-man crew, too near shore to be taken off by a large ship and too far to risk swimming through the surf, huddled on the Champollion's sharply listing deck. Ashore, firemen from Beirut's airport, lebanese fishermen and palestinians from nearby refugee camps led futile attempts to reach the Champollion with small boats. All day long boats were forced back or capsized. By next morning, fearing the decks might collapse - the hull had already split open - the ship's captain advised those who could swim to try for land. Fifty set out, Fifteen died, beaten against the rocks in the violent, oil-covered waters.
Later that morning, with a british cruiser standing by to lessen the wind's force, a harbor boat made it to the Champollion. As the shoreline crowd, now grown to 25.000, alternately groaned and cheered, it took off three large loads of survivors. A smaller boat brought in the rest, and by nightfall the ship was cleared.
With the deserted Champollion breaking up, Beirut buzzed with rumors as to the cause of the wreck. The most plausible explanation was that in the stormy bleakness the new beacon at Beirut's airport might have been mistaken for the familiar light at the entrance of the harbor.
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