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A version of this story was originally published by the Door County Knock, an independent, nonprofit news organization covering Door County, Wisconsin. Subscribe to its newsletters here.

The 143-foot tug boat Donny S. sits aground in a few feet of water on the northeast side of Baileys Harbor. One cannot miss it, whether buying smoked fish from Baileys Harbor Fish Company, renting a waterfront cottage, hiking at Toft Point State Natural Area or watching a sunset from the Baileys Harbor Yacht Club. 

Depending on who you talk to, the forsaken tugboat is a hazard, an eyesore or a curiosity. No matter what folks think about it, there is no question the Donny S. is something of a local celebrity. Hundreds of social media posts have been made about the vessel on what William Stephan, the chief engineer of another tug, calls “boat nerd” sites.

Attempts to move it have failed. Municipal, county, state and federal agencies have received complaints and inquiries about it. State representatives have gotten involved. The Wisconsin Department of Natural Resources has convened four working group meetings and issued citations and fines to the boat’s owner, Jeremy Schultz. 

But the Donny S. remains mired on the lakebed, its status and fate uncertain.

The curious second life of the Donny S.

Before it came to rest in Baileys Harbor, the tugboat had a long and industrious life. Built in 1950 and named the G.W. Coddrington, it eventually wound up as the Donny S. in Sturgeon Bay. Owned by Selvick, and then Sarter Marine, the tug broke up ice for the winter fleet at Fincantieri Bay Shipbuilding and performed other commercial tugboat operations. 

The boat was decommissioned  in 2020 and sold to private owner, Jeremy Schultz, after it was unable to meet regulatory requirements laid out by Subchapter M. The rule, issued by the U.S. Coast Guard in 2016, established new protocols and standards for commercial tugboats and marine towing companies. 

Schultz moved the Donny S. to Baileys Harbor in 2021, with the intention of eventually taking it to Manitowoc to be scrapped, according to Mike Cole. Cole owns Ironworks Construction in Baileys Harbor. He also owns the dock the Donny S. was tied to when it arrived in Baileys Harbor. 

Sometime after August 2021, Schultz began preparing the tug to be moved to Manitowoc, Cole said. Preparation included “de-ballasting” the tug  – removing the water from ballast tanks that keep the heavy vessel from moving around in wind and damaging the dock. Schultz also got the boat moved farther away from the dock and  “pointed in the right direction,” Cole said. In order to do so, the Donny S. had to be untied, but at least one line was kept between the tug and the dock once it was situated where Schultz wanted it, he added. 

All of the ballast water had been pumped out of the vessel, a float plan was approved, and the tug was ready to go, Cole said. Then the Coast Guard received a complaint about possible contaminants on board, he said, and moving it was delayed.

It was just enough time for weather conditions to go from ideal to difficult. Autumn storms pushed the Donny S. aground, according to Cole. It has not moved since. 

Not for lack of trying, according to William Stephan. Stephan is the chief engineer on the Cheyenne, a tugboat owned by Five Lakes Marine Towing in Sturgeon Bay. Schultz worked on the Cheyenne and had arranged to have it tow the Donny S. to Manitowoc, according to Stephan.

The DNR issued its first citation to Schultz for obstruction of navigable waters in October 2022. On Dec. 22, the Cheyenne tried to move the Donny S. Stephan was on board. 

It was a zero-degree day, with a cold fog settled over Lake Michigan, he remembered. When the Cheyenne got to Baileys Harbor, the Donny S. was “high and dry,” he said, which was a surprise to him and the rest of the crew, as they thought it was ready to be moved. Instead, the 500 ton Donny S. was grounded firmly on the bottom of the lake and surrounded by ice chunks.

The Cheyenne tried a few maneuvers anyway, Stephan said, but it could not get close enough. The water around the Donny S. was too shallow and the Cheyenne did not have enough line to reach it from deeper water. 

“It was a wasted trip,” Stephan said. The Cheyenne’s crew had volunteered their time in exchange for getting a cut of the salvage from the Donny S., he said.

 “(Schultz) still owes me a port light,” he quipped. 

Tug condition, knowns and unknowns

Reports and observations vary regarding the condition of the Donny S. and what exactly is on board. There have not been any formal state or federal assessments made of the tugboat recently, and that is part of the reason nothing is being done about it, according to Mike Kahr. 

Kahr is a Baileys Harbor resident and civil engineer who owned Death’s Door Design and Development, a marine construction firm, for 35 years. 

“I believe it’s sitting on solid rock now with soft sediment around it,” he said, “and I believe if it starts moving in the storm, it’s going to pop a hole in it, and the oil in the bilge is just going to end up on the beach. I firmly, firmly believe that it’s not a question of if, but when.” 

Kahr became concerned about the tugboat when it first went aground in Baileys Harbor, he said. He has since contacted the Coast Guard, the DNR, the Town of Baileys Harbor and the Door County government, alleging it is an environmental hazard. Kahr is also part of a working group convened by the DNR in August 2025 to address the stranded vessel. 

In August, Kahr boarded the Donny S. and took photos, soundings and measurements that he claimed prove the boat is an environmental threat. There is upwards of 3 feet of “oily liquid” in the bilge and about 112 different fuel tanks present on board, he noted. The engines are still in the boat as well, though the transmission has been removed, he said. 

Kahr also took hull measurements with an ultrasound meter and the steel hull is pitted with rust and is ½ inch thick, he said.

It was the Coast Guard’s understanding that all potential pollutants like fuel had been removed from the Donny S. prior to attempts to remove it from the harbor, according to a phone conversation with Lt. Nathan Herring on Dec. 5.

Herring is the commander of the Coast Guard’s Marine Safety Unit in Sturgeon Bay, the office responsible for inspecting commercial vessels, waterway safety and pollution response. He attended the first DNR working group meeting on Aug. 28 and heard about Kahr’s findings for the first time.

“That was, I think, new news to everybody in the meeting,” Herring said. 

A current inspection and evaluation of the boat’s environmental condition and contents, by an authorized entity, is crucial for any progress toward removing the Donny S., according to Tressie Kamp, assistant director at the Center for Water Policy at UW-Milwaukee.

The organization is an interdisciplinary research center housed in the School of Freshwater Sciences, and it works with scientists, academics and technical experts inside and outside the UW system to review policy related to state waterways. 

The center published a policy brief in September regarding abandoned vessels in Wisconsin waters. 

“Government actors need to go on the boat and understand what the conditions are years after the last Coast Guard inspection,” Kamp said. Anyone who wants to do something about the tug, whether government or private actors, cannot know what efforts will consist of, or how much it will cost, until that happens, she added. 

Hazard, eyesore or curiosity?

The Donny S. has been drawing interest, and ire, ever since it’s been grounded. 

Mike Kahr is not the only one worried about the potential environmental fallout of the tug. Baileys Harbor Fish Company owner Todd Stuth has also been concerned about the Donny S. since it arrived in Baileys Harbor. It’s easy to keep it in mind, he said, because the tug is right in front of his business. 

“We get questions (from customers) every day,” Stuth said. 

As a commercial fisherman, Stuth has years of experience in the boating world, and he speculated that there is lead paint on the hull of the Donny S. Red lead paint was widely used as hull coating in the 1950s, when the tug was built, he said, which means specific abatement processes need to be followed in order to cut the boat apart for salvage.

Stuth is also certain that the Donny S. will leak at some point, spilling the contents of the bilge into Baileys Harbor waters, which would be a disaster for the watershed, he said. Toft Point State Natural Area and the Ridges Sanctuary are nearby. 

“I’m a little miffed that the state and county haven’t made a stronger push to have it removed,” he said. “We can put a man on the moon … but we can’t get a tugboat out of a harbor.”

Cole with Ironworks Construction asserted there are no contaminants on board the vessel, and everything potentially harmful has been removed, during a phone conversation on Dec. 8. In order to move it from Sturgeon Bay to Baileys Harbor, a float plan and inspection needed to be approved by the Coast Guard, he said. That was done and all potential hazards were removed at the time, he added. 

Captain Lynn Brunsen does not think the Donny S. is an imminent environmental threat either, he said. He works for Shoreline Boat Tours, operating out of Baileys Harbor, and said tourists are always intrigued by the tugboat. 

“I get within one hundred feet of it every time we do a tour,” Brunsen said. “There’s no evidence of oil, no slick or sheen in the water, no smell.” He does agree that eventually a hole will rust or break through the hull and whatever is in the bilge could spill out, he said. 

Brunsen also does not consider the tug a navigational hazard, he said, as it is sitting in about two feet of water. Nothing much bigger than a kayak can get next to it, he added. 

He is concerned about the tug as a safety hazard however, and has observed people climbing aboard the vessel via knotted ropes hanging down the side,“like something you would see on a pirate ship,” Brunsen said. 

Earlier this summer, someone lit what appeared to be smoke bombs or fireworks on board as well, he added. 

Whether a hazard or not, Stuth said, the Donny S. needs to go.

“The entire shoreline community in Baileys Harbor is pretty perturbed and wants it gone,” he said. 

Accountability in limbo

Whose responsibility is it to remove the Donny S.? The tug’s owner, Jeremy Schultz, is the obvious answer, according to municipal, county, state and federal agencies. The DNR has issued over a dozen citations for “unlawful obstruction of navigable waters” to Schultz from October 2022 to February 2024. Fines levied were upwards of $20,000. 

According to court records, Schultz’s fines were paid in June 2025. No fines or citations have been issued since. Notes obtained from the DNR’s working group meetings this fall stated that the owner does not have the means to remove the vessel. 

Schultz could not be reached for comment. 

“What people want to see happen is it is boarded and inspected by an official authority. We want to understand what’s on the boat and for someone to take responsibility for it,” Baileys Harbor town chairman David Eliot said in a phone call Dec. 3. (Disclosure: Knock editor-in-chief Andrew Phillips previously worked for a company owned in part by Eliot. Phillips was not involved in editing this story.)

The town sent a letter to the DNR in March 2025, and will be sending another, Eliot said. According to the letter, the town has received “many inquiries and complaints” from the community and considers the tug an eyesore and a hazard. 

Baileys Harbor was informed by the DNR that the Donny S. is not under the town’s jurisdiction, according to Eliot.

The Door County government has a similar position, Corporation Counsel Sean Donohue said. They would like to see the tug removed, but do not have jurisdiction or funds to do it themselves. Both town and county representatives have attended DNR working group meetings. 

The state authority is the DNR, and they have fined the owner and convened four stakeholder meetings since August to try to address the problem, but have taken no other action. The agency did not respond to inquiries in time for publication. 

From a federal standpoint, the Coast Guard’s involvement is only triggered if there is active pollution or a navigational hazard posed by the vessel, according to Lt. Herring. The Coast Guard does not deem either of those things a concern at this time, with the Donny S. 

“The first step in taking action would be if there’s an active pollutant coming from the vessel into a waterway,” Herring said. “We would be able to federalize that case, or that vessel, to where we can remove those contaminants from it. But as far as removing the vessel itself, there’s nothing that the Coast Guard would do at the onset.” 

Any costs incurred by Coast Guard removal or pollution cleanup would be forwarded to the owner of the tug, he added, and additional civil penalties and fines would be levied. 

One of the reasons cited by municipal, county and state authorities for abdicating responsibility for the tug is that the Donny S. is privately owned. There is no explicit definition of an abandoned vessel under Wisconsin law, according to the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration. The state statute regarding abandoned property may suffice, but there is also no formal process for dealing with abandoned vessels, according to an administrative policy review in 2015 by NOAA’s Marine Debris Program. 

“The state is still wrestling with the Baileys Harbor case,” Kamp at the Center for Water Policy said, but the courts can make a determination as to whether the Donny S. is abandoned. Even if it is not abandoned, a government entity could seek an inspection warrant to board the vessel, she said. 

A lack of any clear mandate for government action further complicates the problem of removal, Kamp said. A number of government entities have authority to remove the tug, including municipal, county, state and federal agencies, she explained, but nothing that compels them to do so.

The situation is “a perfect storm” for creating confusion and questions on the part of government entities, she added, as indicated by the town and county government believing the situation is outside of their jurisdiction.

An expensive problem

Even if the jurisdictional and enforcement waters were not murky, removing the tug is no small undertaking, according to those who have already tried and members of the DNR working group. Notes from the group indicate initial estimates from salvage companies are upwards of $1 million. 

Those estimates are ridiculous, according to dock and Ironworks’ owner Cole, and he said he thinks he would be able to remove the tug for much less. 

“No one has asked me though,” he said. 

If the Donny S. does indeed contain lead paint, tanks with residual fuel, and contaminants in the bilge, that makes for a complicated removal, according to commercial fisherman Stuth. In order to scrap it properly in that case, it would need to be cut up on the water, requiring a crane, a barge and mitigation around the vessel to block anything leaching into the water, he speculated. 

Unclear authority over the tug, as well as its uncertain abandonment and hazard status means “no salvage company wants to touch it,” he added. 

Door County Corporation Counsel Donohue also indicated that even if it turns out various authorities have jurisdiction over the tug, or are found legally allowed to remove it, the funding to do so is simply not there. 

There are grants available for marine debris and abandoned or derelict vessel removal. The DNR provided information to Schultz about available grants and indicated he would need municipal or county government cooperation in applying for them, according to notes from the working group meetings. Neither town nor county officials have been contacted by Schultz regarding grant funding at this time. 

Removing stranded vessels should be covered by a statute requiring penalties of the vessel’s owner and compelling them to act, according to Kamp. If the owner is insolvent or there is no appetite for government enforcement, she said, there are other potential funding sources. 

Existing environmental funding streams, like grants, are used up very quickly in Wisconsin, she said. The Center’s policy brief advises giving the legislature authority to create a designated funding program for abandoned vessels, based on what some other states have done. 

However, the Center advises Wisconsin “emphasize ways to not put the taxpayers on the hook for addressing these things,” Kamp said. “Keep the responsible entities (the owners) on the hook.” 

Abandoned vessels statewide

The Donny S. is not the only recently grounded vessel in Wisconsin, but it is by far the largest. The Deep Thought, a Chris-Craft Roamer, became grounded near Bradford Beach in Milwaukee in 2024, after the owners ran out of fuel. The boat was beached for several months, becoming a popular local attraction. In May 2025, Milwaukee County ended up paying for its removal.

In the summer of 2024 another boat, this time a motor yacht named the Sweet Destiny, beached in the St. Croix River, near Hudson, Wis. After months of complaints and fines, the boat was removed through volunteer efforts and donations.  

The 33-foot and the 54-foot pleasure boats were newer and much smaller than the Donny S., with fewer potential environmental issues. 

These cases illustrate gaps in Wisconsin law when it comes to abandoned vessels. The DNR is the lead agency responsible for administering the patchwork of laws that address abandoned vessels, public nuisances and waterway obstruction, according to information from NOAA’s Marine Debris Program. 

Though the Center for Water Policy did not do a broad survey or count of abandoned vessels in the Great Lakes, Kamp said, “the fact we have these examples, and mechanisms to deal with them in other states indicates this is not a one-off problem.” 

Fourteen other states have state-level programs concerning abandoned vessels, including designated funds. Wisconsin lawmakers introduced a bipartisan bill earlier this year that would clearly define abandonment of a vessel, and threaten owners of such vessels with up to nine months of jail time and a fine of $10,000 if they do not remove it within 30 days.  

An anonymous letter sent to local media and the DNR called out State Sen. Andre Jacque and Rep. Joel Kitchens for their perceived lack of response to the Donny S. A hand-painted banner reading  “Jacque and Kitchens are fine with this” hung on the tugboat at one point this fall.

According to local legislators themselves, they are aware of the issue and have had some involvement. Jacque sent a staffer to the first DNR working group meeting, and his office has researched options for removal and funding.

Kitchens was invited to the first meeting in August, but did not attend, as it conflicted with a hearing for Northern Sky Theater’s tax status, he said. 

“We write laws but have no enforcement,” Kitchens said in a phone call on Dec. 3, “We have the least ability to do anything.” 

If there are contaminants on board, Kitchens said it is “certainly up to the DNR to take steps.” 

Ultimately, it is the owner’s responsibility though, he added.   

Sen. Tammy Baldwin is also aware of the situation, according to Alanna Conley, Baldwin’s deputy communications director.

“At this point, according to public statements from the Coast Guard and folks on the ground, this feels like an issue we would support funding for,” Conley said. “The Town of Baileys Harbor could apply for a debris removal grant. Baldwin’s office supports funding.”

While legislators legislate, officials meet and discuss, shoreline property owners complain, tourists take photos, and everyone waits for someone else to act, the Donny S. remains mired in the lakebed and a gray area of accountability. 

The DNR and Coast Guard did not respond to open record requests in time for publication.

‘We can put a man on the moon … but we can’t get a tugboat out of a harbor’: Who will move the abandoned Donny S.? is a post from Wisconsin Watch, a non-profit investigative news site covering Wisconsin since 2009. Please consider making a contribution to support our journalism.

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This story was originally published by Bridge Michigan, a nonprofit and nonpartisan news organization. To get regular coverage from Bridge Michigan, sign up for a free Bridge Michigan newsletter here.

Western religions say it worked once. Now, some are exploring a Noah’s Ark strategy to save whitefish from collapse in lakes Michigan and Huron.

Once abundant in these lakes, stocks have plunged so sharply that scientists fear entire bloodlines could vanish within years. With no cure in sight for the mussel invasion that has made the big lakes so unlivable, some want to move whitefish to inland lakes or ponds, where they would live as refugees until conditions improve.

“We need to make sure that, 20 years from now, if the lake is ready again, we can return the descendants of fish that came from here,” said Jason Smith, a scientist with the Bay Mills Indian Community who is winning some early interest in his “genetic rescue” strategy.

Modeled in part on a successful pond stocking program in the Upper Peninsula, the idea echoes a global trend. As human-caused harms push millions of Earth’s species to the brink, interventions that once may have seemed far-fetched are becoming routine.

“We’re going to see more of this,” said Gregory Kaebick, a senior research scholar at the Hastings Center for Bioethics, a nonprofit think tank based in Garrison, New York.

“The extinctions right now are almost entirely due to human intervention in the first place. So there’s a sense that if we’ve caused the problem, then we ought to be contributing to trying to fix it.”

The pond rescue idea is just one among many to save whitefish, none of which are sure bets. But there’s evidence it could work: For several years, the Sault Ste. Marie Tribe of Chippewa Indians has reported success raising small numbers of whitefish in ponds, then releasing them into lakes when they are larger.

“It’s more hands-off and the fish are exposed to the environment,” said Rusty Aikens, the tribe’s fisheries enhancement coordinator.

Expanding upon that methodology to keep the fish in ponds indefinitely would require millions of dollars and coordination among the tribal, state and federal agencies that co-manage the Great Lakes fishery.

But the idea speaks to desperation to prevent a loss that would not only corrode a key piece of Great Lakes culture but ripple through the food web and regional fishing economy.

“We think of Atikameg as the canary in the coal mine,” said Smith, using the Anishinaabe word for whitefish. “They’re the ones struggling first, but we would be foolish to think they’re the only ones.”

Whitefish in exile

Whitefish are endangered by tiny quagga and zebra mussels, natives of Eastern Europe that came to the Great Lakes in freighters and were first spotted here in 1989. They now blanket the bottom of four out of five Great Lakes, siphoning nutrients and plankton and leaving behind crystal-clear water with barely anything for whitefish to eat.

Scientists are searching for a solution, but a breakthrough could be decades away, and the effort is poorly funded compared to other Great Lakes threats.

Though whitefish remain stable in Saginaw Bay, lower Green Bay and Lake Superior, scientists fear the mussels could eventually harm those fish, too. Even if not, shrinking a deep gene pool down to a few smaller populations creates a risk of lost fitness and inbreeding. And tribes leading the whitefish rescue effort say it’s about more than ecology.

The fish are kin, deserving protection in exchange for the millenia they have spent sustaining human diets.

“If they’re extirpated, or if they’re diminished such that we don’t have access to them, we’d be lesser as a community,” said Doug Craven, natural resources director for the Little Traverse Bay Band of Odawa Indians.

Advocates of pond-rearing view it as a cheaper, more humane and more promising alternative to raising fish in hatcheries, where they are often packed into concrete raceways or plastic tanks that require lots of electricity and constant monitoring.

Studies also show that fish raised in these tightly controlled environments have less knack for surviving in the wild.

For the past five years, the Sault Tribe has been raising small numbers of whitefish in ponds near Sault Ste. Marie (225,000 this year) until they are several months old, at which point they’re trucked to the north shore of lakes Huron and Michigan. It’s a workaround, meant to protect them from the zooplankton shortage that kills hatchlings in the Great Lakes.

Unlike hatchery-raised fish, these fish must learn to feed themselves, steer clear of predators and deal with changing weather and other variables. The mortality rate in ponds is higher than in hatcheries. But Aikens said that’s not necessarily a bad thing:

“The ones that do make it to this point? They’re fitter,” he said as Sault Tribe scientists netted the 3-inch fingerlings in preparation for transport to Lake Huron.

The trouble is, the stocking program is tiny. And it will take years to know if it’s working. Young whitefish disappear into the deep water and typically aren’t seen again until they return ashore to spawn years later.

“There’s a lot of hurdles they need to overcome between now and then,” Aikens said.

So from Smith’s perspective, there’s a need for a backup plan.

Encouraged by the promise of pond-rearing, he began talking with U.S. Forest Service officials last year about finding some ponds in the Hiawatha National Forest where whitefish could hunker down indefinitely, perhaps for multiple generations, until the mussel invasion subsides.

“Time is of the essence to see if there’s consensus that we should do this or some other preservation measure,” Smith said. “It’s not simple, it’s not inexpensive, but it might be really important.”

Officials with the Little Traverse Bay Band are open to partnering on such a project, while state regulators and The Nature Conservancy have also shown some interest.

One barrier to more coordinated action: There is no comprehensive rehabilitation plan for whitefish, unlike lake trout and sturgeon. Tribal, state and federal experts have begun discussing whether it’s time to write one, said Steve Lenart, a fish biologist with the Michigan Department of Natural Resources.

“I don’t think anybody’s thinking that it’s not a pretty urgent topic,” Lenart said, but “coordination and collaboration — those things take time.”

Get used to it

If circumventing species loss by moving fish to a whole new environment sounds radical, get used to it.

Human forces including habitat loss, climate change and the spread of invasive species are pushing nature to the brink, forcing emergency rescues and heartbreaking decisions about what not to save.

Life on Earth is vanishing at a rate unmatched in human history, with some 28% of species assessed by the International Union for Conservation of Nature at risk. In Michigan, state officials have designated 407 species as threatened or endangered.

“We are in an extinction crisis, no question about it,” said Budhan Pukazhenthi, a scientist with the Smithsonian’s National Zoo and Conservation Biology Institute. “But the challenge is also, what can we do to either slow it down or to completely stop it?”

Groups like his have cloned endangered animals. Governments are freezing animals’ tissue samples “just in case” and establishing massive seed libraries like the “doomsday vault” on the island of Spitsbergen, Norway. Zoos around the globe — including in Michigan — are breeding and releasing rare animals into the wild.

Still, it won’t be feasible to save everything. Some officials have begun using a framework known as Resist, Accept Direct to help them decide when and how to intervene.

“We know these systems are changing,” said Abigail Lynch, a scientist with the USGS National Climate Adaptation Science Center. “We can either acknowledge these difficult issues now and make more informed decisions, or we can ignore them and let those decisions be made for us.”

Time is running short for many of the lower lakes’ whitefish. In some areas, almost no hatchlings have survived to adulthood for nearly two decades. Most whitefish left in those waters are grandparents that will soon die of old age.

In Little Traverse Bay, the average whitefish caught in fishing nets is more than 20 years old. It’s growing difficult to even catch enough fish for experiments that aim to save this genetically distinct population.

Smith knows some might see the pond rescue idea as extreme. But to him, risking the fish’s disappearance from the lower lakes is far moreso. Money, time, uncertainty about whether it will work — he sees those all as worthwhile sacrifices to save an icon of the Great Lakes.

With one caveat:

“If we do it, does that absolutely obligate us to bust our ass to fix the lakes?” he said. “One-hundred percent.”

Time running out for Great Lakes whitefish. Can ponds become their Noah’s Ark? is a post from Wisconsin Watch, a non-profit investigative news site covering Wisconsin since 2009. Please consider making a contribution to support our journalism.