Capt. Francesco Schettino, the Costa Concordia's master, violated one of the noblest and most sacred traditions of the sea when he did not direct the evacuation of passengers and crew.
But plenty of other masters have stayed with their stricken vessels until the safety of all passengers and crew had been seen to.
Capt. Edward J. Smith, master of the Titanic, was last seen standing in his wheelhouse, waiting for the end.
When he finally released his officers and crew, he exhorted them, "Be British!" Of course, this could just be some wonderfully dramatic Edwardian hyperbole.
Other reports said Smith shot himself. Some claimed that he jumped into the frigid Atlantic to save a baby whom he placed in a lifeboat before vanishing beneath the waves.
His body, like those of many of the others who died, was never recovered.
In December 1951, the freighter SS Flying Enterprise, bound for New York and Baltimore, cracked its hull in the stormy North Atlantic and listed 45 degrees.
The vessel's captain, Henrik Kurt Carlsen, remained alone aboard his stricken ship for 13 days trying to save it. He captured the attention of the world as the drama unfolded.
Finally under tow on Jan. 10, 1952, the Flying Enterprise, some 40 miles from Falmouth, England, looked as though it might make it when the line parted.
Carlsen, who had been joined by the rescue tug's chief mate, decided to jump. They were soon picked up after the freighter went under in 240 feet of water.
When the Italian Line's Andrea Doria collided with the Swedish American Line's Stockholm late in the evening of July 25, 1956, off Nantucket, Mass., Capt. Piero Calamai refused to leave his vessel even after its 1,660 passengers and crew had been safely removed from the doomed liner.
Fifty-two people lost their lives, most of themk in the initial collision.
When Calamai's deck officers refused to abandon their captain, he finally agreed to step off his ship. The captain, who never spoke again of what happened that night, is reported to have asked repeatedly on his deathbed in 1972, "Are the passengers safe? Are the passengers off?"
One of the most notorious examples of cowardice on the high seas occurred in 1991 when the Greek cruise liner Oceanos went down off the coast of South Africa.
The captain, Yiannis Avranas, and his crew left the ship, still filled with passengers and wallowing in mountainous 24-foot seas driven by 88-mph winds. He later told officials that it was necessary for him to direct the rescue effort from land. (This is similar to the explanation given by the Costa Concordia's master, who also said he landed in a lifeboat after "tripping and falling.")
An entertainer aboard the Oceanos — a comedian — went to the bridge to man the vessel's radio after the captain and officers vanished. Eventually, all 571 people left aboard were safely plucked from the Durban-bound ship by helicopter or rescue craft.
This was a far cry from what happened on Feb. 26, 1852, when the HMS Birkenhead, a British paddle steamer and troop transport, struck a reef off the West African coast.