Fiona Conway: My ‘Titanic Panic’ story

Expedition leader Robert Ballard and his team discover the wreckage of the Titanic on Sept. 1, 1985.

Fiona Conway is an award-winning producer and news executive who has held senior and executive roles at CTV, CBC and ABC News. She is currently a media consultant and coach working with networks in Canada and the U.S.

Forty years ago, in September 1985, the wreck of the Titanic was discovered on the floor of the North Atlantic Ocean. On April 14,1912, during her maiden voyage, the gleaming, state-of-the-art, “unsinkable” ocean liner struck an iceberg and sank into the icy darkness.

Finding her 73 years later was a technical triumph for oceanographic scientists. For a small team of broadcast journalists, confirming the discovery — and “owning” the scoop from the worldwide media — was another challenge altogether.

“Titanic” is one of the most recognized words on Earth — right up there with “Jesus” and “Coke.”

The ship isn’t just a historical event; it’s a cultural icon. Its story has been interpreted as a cautionary tale of human hubris, a classic disaster narrative, and a symbol of early 20th-century class divisions. For over a century, it has been woven into our collective consciousness.

A ship like no other

The Titanic ushered in a new era of luxury ocean travel. Fast. Safe. Exquisite. Unsinkable. It captured imaginations worldwide, attracting the titans of American and British industry.

A transatlantic ticket cost between $3,000 and $5,000. First-class fares were closer to $15,000, and the most luxurious suites would cost the equivalent of $100,000 in today’s U.S. dollars.

Perhaps the captain of the ship, Edward John Smith, wanted to break a crossing time record. Four days after departing Southampton, England, on her maiden voyage to New York City, the mighty ship sent SOS distress signals from its wireless room: She was sinking — far off the coast of Eastern Canada.

The jewel of the White Star Line had gone from “unsinkable” to unthinkable. No person of privilege, power, or wealth would be guaranteed of survival. That week, newspaper readers around the globe became acutely familiar with a single, chilling word: “iceberg.”

The enduring allure of the Titanic

Few historical events have captivated the world like the Titanic disaster. The mystery of her sinking, the haunting images, and the stories of both survivors and victims fuelled books, documentaries, and blockbuster films.

I grew up fascinated by the Titanic. Honestly, who wasn’t?

In the summer of 1985, a joint French-American expedition began mapping the ocean floor, hoping to find the ship’s resting place. Optimism ran high.

The French team, led by Jean-Louis Michel, used sonar equipment aboard the research vessel Le Suroît to narrow the search area. Then, the Americans took over.

Enter Bob Ballard — and CTV News

Dr. Robert Ballard and his oceanographic team, sponsored by National Geographic, prepared to continue the search using a camera-equipped submersible named Argo after the French finished their mapping grid.

Ballard’s ship, The Knorr, waited for its turn. Meanwhile, he began quietly pitching a deal to American TV networks: A partnership to obtain the exclusive worldwide rights to the first images of the wreck.

Most U.S. networks declined. Journalistic cooperation with outside partners in news gathering was frowned upon and against most of the networks’ standards and practices. Besides, skepticism amongst news organizations ran high — could this new technology really find what amounted to a needle in a haystack?

That’s when Ballard turned to CTV News in Canada and its visionary leader, Don Cameron. Don immediately saw the potential for an unprecedented global scoop, and he took the gamble. It would cost serious money and resources to get the pictures of the sunken ship out in the Atlantic, into the living rooms of the world. That’s when Cameron reached out to CBS. With his powers of persuasion, Don got them onboard to share the cost, and glory, of potentially the biggest news scoop in history.

“We’ll own it,” Cameron declared. That’s where my story begins.

The assignment of a lifetime

It was a warm July evening in 1985 when I got the call with a top secret assignment. At the time, I was the bureau field producer for CTV News in Halifax, Nova Scotia.

“There’s a French research vessel mapping the North Atlantic. In two weeks, an American ship takes over, and they’re confident they’ll find the Titanic. When they do, you’ll fly to Newfoundland immediately, produce the coverage, and CTV will have the world-exclusive first pictures. Information not to be shared.”

My first thought? “Yeah, right. They’re going to find the Titanic?”

I told the bureau team about this crazy plan and then promptly forgot about it. Big mistake.

In early September, right before Labor Day, I got the urgent call:

Ballard had actually found the Titanic!

Suddenly, I was scrambling — behind on research, preparation, and planning. We were sitting on the biggest scoop of my career, and I wasn’t ready.

Titanic panic

Our small Atlantic news bureau in Nova Scotia consisted of a field producer (me), reporter Marc Gage, video and sound editor Catherine Harrop and photographer Gord Danielson. We were soon joined by a support crew from Toronto headquarters, who were immediately dispatched to Newfoundland — known locally as “The Rock.” CBS was also assigning its veteran correspondent Terry Drinkwater, the network’s marine and shipping expert from Los Angeles, to head to the opposite coast.

I’d seen Titanic movies and read a book or two, but how much did I really know? Not enough. And remember — this was 1985. There was no Google, no smartphones, no Wikipedia. Research meant libraries, microfilm, and late-night digging through film and print archives.

One of our references was a crew member’s well worn copy of Walter Lord’s 1955 documentary style book, “A Night to Remember.”

Within hours, I was on a flight to St. John’s, Newfoundland. The moment I landed, I sent a runner — my future husband — to a local craft shop to buy a detailed model of the Titanic. We needed the plans inside the box for reference, to compare with the anticipated video.

Thus began what I now call “My Week to Remember.” Amongst our tiny crew we nicknamed it “Titanic Panic.” We even had sweatshirts and T-shirts made with the ship’s secret coordinates printed on the back — which my daughter still wears proudly today.

The plan

The fascination with the Titanic was timeless, global, and obsessive. Once news broke, the world’s media would descend on Newfoundland.

Thanks to Don Cameron’s deal with Ballard, CTV had exclusive rights to the first video. The question was: How would we get it? There was no video satellite link from The Knorr.

CTV News producers in Toronto had been working on a daring plan:

• Charter a Sealand Eurocopter Super Puma helicopter used to ferry oil rig workers
• Outfit it with extra fuel tanks, remove the seats, and prepare for a 12-hour round trip
• Fly 400 nautical miles into the North Atlantic, drop a basket with the crew to The Knorr’s deck, collect the video, shoot the scene aboard and fly back to St. John’s
• The crew would wear bright orange “poopy suits” — survival gear designed for freezing waters

It would be the longest helicopter trip ever attempted at that point — nearly two-thirds of the way to Ireland. The risks were immense.

Fear, fortune tellers and a dangerous flight

As the crew prepared to board the helicopter, Marc Gage pulled me aside.

“I have to tell you something,” he whispered. “I’m afraid of the ocean. A fortune teller once told me I drowned in a past life on a ship crossing to North America.”

My heart skipped a beat. Then I snapped:

“Marc, this is not the time to tell me that. If you don’t get on that chopper, Don Cameron will reassign you to Siberia — if you’re lucky.” I was feeling ill having to pressure Marc and Gord into this very dicey assignment. Marc was a gifted storyteller and a brave reporter. I feared if he refused, his career would be impacted going forward. Ultimately, it was his call.

News president Don Cameron was an industry legend. Creating groundbreaking programming, hiring the best anchor talent, inspiring journalists to do what he did as a young reporter. He once told Mike Nolan (my runner) the CTV cameraman on loan to CBS, a story about his time in the jungles of Vietnam. He was an NBC Radio reporter embedded with a search and destroy Green Beret unit. He was out of water, but still didn’t ask the soldiers for a sip from their dwindling canteens. He described nearly going insane from thirst. He was a tough guy, and a tough boss. Turning down dangerous assignments at CTV was never a solid career move.

Gage, to his credit, swallowed his fear and suited up. Crisis averted.

First Titanic visual — or was it?

CBS Los Angeles correspondent Terry Drinkwater and his producer had arrived. We introduced ourselves and now we all waited anxiously for the arrival of the tape. Nolan shot Drinkwater’s first on-camera, and we fed it to New York. He was a brilliant wordsmith. “Out there in the deep Atlantic, could it be possible for this massive ocean to finally give up its most sought after and long kept secret?”

As it turned out, dropping the CTV crew by basket onto the deck of the Knorr was out of the question. It was far too dangerous, with the ocean heaving below the chopper. Time was ticking, fuel aboard the Super Puma Helicopter was burning and daylight fading. Danielson captured footage of the research vessel against the vastness of the North Atlantic. The video tape was hoisted up, collected and they headed for home. When the helicopter returned with the Argo footage, we crowded around the monitor with great expectation in the tiny St. John’s newsroom.

The room fell silent.

Out of the darkness appeared… something. A shape. A shadow. Then a massive cylinder slowly came into view.

Dr. Ballard, on the radio from The Knorr, declared:

“That’s one of Titanic’s boilers.”

But looking at the grainy, murky images, I wasn’t so sure. None of us were. We were not fully convinced of Ballard’s convictions.

I was now on the phone with Don Cameron in Toronto:

“Don, I don’t know if this is the Titanic. What if this is like “The Hitler Diaries?” (the infamous Der Spiegel hoax) I warned.

He barked back:

“We’re putting it on the air. Shut up and feed it.”

So we went live.

The breaking news headline went out worldwide: “Titanic Found.”

Was it really the Titanic? At that moment, I wasn’t sure. It was apparent that we needed more proof. Clearer footage. We hoped the confirmation would come.

Omen on The Rock

By today’s television news standards, there would have been no hours to kill — we’d be live-streaming, filing instant updates, and breathlessly hyping every scrap of information while awaiting the pictures.

But in the 1980s, we did what most news crews did when the clock slowed: We went to the bar.

With hours to go before the helicopter returned, we wandered into The Inn of the Olde in Quidi Vidi Harbour — pronounced “Kitty Vitty” by the locals — a tiny fishing village tucked into a narrow inlet perfectly named Quiet Divide. If you know Newfoundland, you know Kitty Vitty was the perfect setting: Timeless, rugged, and weathered by storms.

The inn was a classic watering hole — cozy, charming, warmed by wood-burning stoves and alive with the low hum of laughter, storytelling, and the scent of the sea. Grizzled fishermen leaned on the bar swapping tales, while a determined and delightful bartender named Linda kept the place running with sharp wit and generous spirit.

She’d already heard whispers about us “outsiders” lurking around town, chasing the Titanic story, and welcomed us anyway with the kind of hospitality that only Newfoundlanders seem capable of. Before long, The Inn of the Olde became our “local,” the place we returned to night after night while we waited for history to unfold.

Not everyone, though, was as quick to trust us. Some locals watched us cautiously, their skepticism wrapped in dry humor and warning. One old sea dog, leaning against the bar, squinted at one of our crew and said, almost like a curse:

“I hear yous found the Titanic?”

It wasn’t a question. Before we could answer, he added, low and firm:

“Best be left ’lone. Oughta be a memorial… not a bloody tourist attraction.”

A wise seafarer’s omen, we thought later — one that would stay with us.

Despite our typical TV-news way of invading a news zone, the St. John’s community — salty, skeptical, and endlessly charming — embraced us in its own way.

One night, as we sat in the newsroom piecing together plans, there was a knock at the door. In walked someone from Kitty Vitty carrying a whole cooked salmon on a platter — sent from the tavern to keep us fed during our all-night command center coverage.

We crowded around it, tearing off pieces with our fingers, grateful for the warmth, the gesture, the connection. For a few moments, we weren’t frantic journalists chasing the scoop of a lifetime. We were just tired, hungry, and human.

The history beneath our feet

St. John’s is no ordinary place. Its ties to the Atlantic run deep, its past layered with both triumph and tragedy.

In 1901, 11 years before Titanic’s fateful voyage, Guglielmo Marconi sent the first intercontinental wireless message from Telegraph Hill, overlooking this same harbour. That moment would redefine global communication — and Titanic herself would later rely on wireless signals during her desperate final hours.

Immigrants from Ireland, England, and France had arrived here centuries before, shaping a culture unlike anywhere else in Canada — or North America. Newfoundland has always stood apart: Steeped in music, folklore, poetry, and legend. It’s a place of ghost stories and mermaids, of icebergs drifting like silent monuments, and whales breaching along black cliffs.

In the Second World War, Newfoundland became a vital strategic outpost for North Atlantic convoys — a staging ground for protecting shipping routes critical to the Allied war effort. And centuries earlier, the Vikings had landed on these shores, leaving faint echoes before vanishing again into history.

There’s something about The Rock — special, magical, but also harrowing. Its landscapes feel eternal, its history bone-deep. And now, we were here, on this ancient edge of the continent, waiting to witness the rediscovery of a shipwreck that had haunted the world for over seventy years.

The second trip — confirmed

The Networks needed more proof. Marc and Gord volunteered for a second helicopter mission to The Knorr to get the clearer footage. Another white knuckle flight for our crew, and the pilots. The North Atlantic was turning violent — storm season was approaching — and NATO had warned us that live military exercises were underway in the same airspace.

Don Cameron told me to “call NATO and tell them to postpone.” The Titanic should take priority over the exercises! Really? I didn’t make the call. But I did call Don back a few hours later to tell him NATO just could not cancel the exercise. And they sent their apologies. He accepted that.

There was even a chance of ice forming on the chopper rotor blades because of the deteriorating freezing weather. The second flight was tense, dangerous, and exhausting. When the crew finally returned, white-faced with stress, Gord quickly put the tape into the edit machine.

There they were:

• Empty davits where lifeboats once hung
• A scattered debris field of wine bottles and shoes
• Personal belongings resting undisturbed on the ocean floor

After a quick comparison of our model map, this was it. Undeniable proof.

It was the Titanic. We were silent. It was an eerie and emotional moment. Sometimes in the rush of breaking news, one does not fully appreciate the importance of the moment.

The world descends

And then… chaos.

Within 24 hours, St. John’s was overrun. The world’s media descended — dozens of networks, a lot of reporters. Crews banged on our hotel room doors, demanded the footage, stalked us and screamed at our crews in parking lots.

We were the ones with the exclusive, the first news organization to broadcast the remains of the Titanic to the world, and the pressure was intense.

Then came the bombshell: Ballard never had permission to give CTV and CBS the footage. It belonged exclusively to National Geographic. Suddenly, we were forced to duplicate tapes and hand them out to competing networks. Our scoop evaporated overnight. The whole deal imploded.

Aftermath — and reflection

Ballard returned to Washington, D.C., where he unveiled the incredible discovery at National Geographic headquarters. I was with him as he came to our D.C. studio for an interview on the CTV Morning show Canada AM. He was actually in somewhat of a state of shock over the world’s response to the discovery. He told me he wanted the wreck to remain a sacred site — not a tourist attraction, not plundered, not exploited. But how?

Standing there in Newfoundland, watching the world’s media descend, I realized how extraordinary this moment was. We had been privileged to witness history as it resurfaced.

Even now, four decades later, the memory of that week still grips me.

I can still hear the helicopter rotors. I can still see the grainy first image of the boiler. I can still feel the weight of knowing we were the first media to witness the lost Titanic’s return to the living world.

It was chaotic. It was thrilling. It was terrifying. It was unforgettable.

We found the Titanic.

Or maybe, just maybe, she let us find her.

And for me and the entire CTV crew, it will always be, quite literally, a week to remember.

Post script

As a young girl, my family immigrated to Canada and my father had this romantic idea we would do it by ship. Crossing from Liverpool to Halifax in February! I often thought of the Titanic while crossing. It was a terrifying. We were hit by a massive storm and we were sick all the way. Except for my little brother and father who loved every minute of the voyage.

The fascination has not passed, the Titanic still has her allure and her story still intrigues and enchants us all. For me, it was truly a week to remember.

Robert Ballard’s memory of finding the Titanic includes an initial burst of elation quickly turning into solemn reflection as the time of the sinking struck him, realizing the site was a grave and not just a technical discovery. He felt the tragedy’s emotion permeate him and vowed to treat the wreck with respect, refusing to allow looting despite the “Titanic mania” that followed. Ballard initially viewed the mission as a technical challenge but was deeply moved by the historical and emotional significance of the wreck after exploring its remains, an experience he later shared in his book, “Into the Deep”.