(This article appeared in Home Chat on the 29th of August, 1953.

It is reproduced by the courtesy of the editor.) THREE or four years ago, in the course of a television programme transmitted one summer's evening from Southend- on-Sea, I had the chance of meeting some of those stalwart characters who form part of Britain's life-boat service.

Not only was I "launched" with the Southend life-boat, down the steep slip- way at the end of the pier, but later I was "rescued " from a fishing smack.

During this part of the evening's programme, I put plenty of faith into the skill of the life-boat crew, for I had to climb to the top of the mast of the smack as it rolled on the evening tide, jump down into a breeches-buoy (with a thirty foot drop to the deck if I missed it) and be hauled across the open waste of water to the rescue vessel.

The breeches-buoy was hanging from a life-line that had been fired to the smack by rocket gun. A slim, delicate line it seemed, as I put all my weight on it and clung to the sides of the breeches-buoy. Whether by design or accident (I suspect the former) the life-boat crew gave me one ducking on the way across, when the line slack- ened and I dipped into the waves. At that moment, emerging cold and saturated in the gathering darkness, I thought how horrible it would be to be shipwrecked and have to trust one- self to a single line like this in a gale.

Out to the Goodwins Something of the same feeling came over me the other day when I made a second trip by life-boat. This time, I was aboard the boat stationed at Walmer, which serves the dreaded Goodwin Sands and is, therefore, kept pretty busy all the year round. It has, in fact, been responsible for saving hundreds of lives in recent years.

The Walmer boat is kept on a steel cradle well up on the steep shingle beach and, when launched, simply slides at speed down a path of wooden sleepers laid over the stones.

The angle of descent, and the liberal amount of grease spread over the sleepers, guarantee an entry into the sea, reminiscent of the water chutes of the fun-fairs. With its engines already running, the life-boat fairly shoots down the beach and plunges into the waves. Its twin propellers bite, and it forges through the breakers away from the danger-line of the beach and into the comparative security of the open sea.

A Face for a Poster It was a fine, sunny, sparkling day when we hit the sea. There were a few white-capped waves but, around us, people were bathing. Certainly, at first glance, no one would have called it at all rough and, though as a yachts- man I should have known better, I felt irked by the yellow oilskin which I had put on at the insistence of the coxswain, Fred Upton. Apart from this outer covering, I wore my ordinary clothes and walking shoes—another mistake, as I was to find later.

As we headed out from the land, I looked at the faces of the life-boat crew as they stood at their stations.

Fred Upton, sitting astride the leather saddle mounted on the steering column, had the wheel comfortably between his hands. Assured, but very alert, he looked every inch a life-boat coxswain in his blue Royal National Life-boat Institution cap. If he should read this he will probably be very indignant, but if ever the Institution is looking for a face to put on their posters here it is, lined and weather-beaten, slow to smile but quite transformed when a grin spreads across it.

The rest of the crew, balancing easily in the gentle swell, were all of the "fisherman" type, agile in movement and perfectly at home at sea. Most of them were skippers or hands of the motor pleasure boats that ply from Deal, and knew the treacherous waters of the Channel intimately. I could not help thinking what a source of strength and comfort they must be to the shipwrecked sailor hauled aboard to safety. Small as the life-boat was, surprisingly small, it had an air of absolute security about it.

Gradually the land receded, and we began to leave the shelter of the South Foreland and reach the more open waters of the Channel. At once the motion increased, and within ten minutes we were rolling. There is no half-measure about the rolling of a life-boat, for its very buoyancy makes it light upon the water. The Walmer boat rolled until it was impossible to stand without hanging on to the guard rails or the mast; rolled until, at one moment, I was looking straight down into the face of the man standing opposite me on the starboard side, and at the next, with my own rail almost in the green sea, straight up at him as he seemed to swing into the sky over me.

Feet over the Channel We were now several miles from the shore, sliding about on what might be called a considerable swell. Now and then, a wave bigger than the rest tipped us up until the solid green sea broke into the boat, and once, as the port side swung down, my feet and legs disappeared into the Channel. I knew now why, even on such a harm- less-looking day, the crew were wearing their sea-boots.

Ahead of us lay the Goodwin Sands, covered by the tide, but marked all too clearly by the bones of a dozen sea tragedies, the masts of sunken ships.

It is there that the regular steep swell coming up Channel, with waves per- haps fifteen feet high, meets another swell just as large coming in from the open sea. They collide in and around the wrecks, until the waste of turbulent water is like a huge boiling kettle.

Knowing that the Walmer life-boat was accustomed to seas far worse than these, I was not unduly alarmed, although I would not have had my own vacht in such waters for anything in the world. Indeed, I saw the cox- swain watching the waves intently, and twisting the boat to meet the worst of them head on. The motion of the little vessel was quite extraordinary, though, as my neighbour on the port side observed, "you should try it in a gale, at night." We reared up until only our propellers were in the water, then plunged down at the angle at which we had descended the beach.

We rolled our rails under the sea. cork- screwed and wallowed. I held on for dear life: the crew held on casually with one hand, discussing the wrecks around us.

Each Wreck a Memory For them, each pathetic remnant of a ship meant a different memory.

One had been a French merchant- man, whose captain had refused to leave. They had made three hazard- ous trips out to the wreck before finally taking him off.

Nearby, with the waves crashing about it, was the bow of another ship, whose captain, ruined by the loss of the vessel, had sat crying in the cockpit of the life-boat all the way to the shore.

Over there, and the coxswain calmly took us through the narrow gap between the two wrecks, was another foreign cargo vessel whose coloured crew had jumped one by one on to the life-boat as he held it right alongside in a raging sea. They had returned to Walmer with sixty survivors aboard.

There were many such stories, and I could picture, as they told them, just how frightening it must be to handle a small craft in these most dangerous waters, often in weather so bad that no sane man would leave the shore. But it is all part of the life-boat service, a national, but not nationalised, service of which we should all be proud. True, the life-boat crews are rewarded for their work, but the amouut is small and never does more than cover what they lose by missing their normal occupations.

Money cannot be the attraction in this vital, perilous undertaking, yet there is no life-boatman who will openly admit that love for the sea and a deep spirit of service take him out to the succour of his fellow-men. I am glad to say it for him..