I WAS just finishing my tea and con- gratulating myself that we had no calls for a fortnight, although it was winter and a stormy one at that, when the news came. There was a loud, sharp knock at the door. Bess (my wife) looked up from mending the children's socks.

"Now whoever can that be at this time of night?" I pushed back my chair, forebod- ings already present in my mind.

"I'll go, Bess. Let's hope it's not a call, that's all." I opened the door. Captain Tre- mayne (our local secretary) stood out- side, his oilskin streaming with water.

A raging wind shrieked in through the door, nearly pushing me backwards.

Tremayne shouted over the storm, but his voice was carried away by the wind and I pulled him inside so that I could find out what he was saying.

"Ship wrecked on the Mermaid Point," he said breathlessly as I closed the door. "Swedish. TheNibingrad.

We'll have to hurry; there's terrible seas tonight." A Man of Few Words The Captain's a man of few words, and this was quite a long speech for him. I was already pulling on my cape; I shouted to Bess, who had just called to know "who it was and what the matter was, that there was a ship wrecked on the Mermaid, and that I'd got to go and see to the launching of the life-boat. I kissed her good-bye, she pushed some sandwiches left over from tea into my hands, and then we were off in the Captain's car towards the harbour, breaking all speed limits, I should think, and the Captain's a J.P. too—but still, it was urgent—a few minutes delay might have meant death for the crew of the Nibingrad.

When we arrived at the life-boat- house we found that Jed Tooley, the second coxswain, had already given orders for the boat to be made ready for launching. We hurriedly climbed in, found that we had distress flares and drogue lines and the other things we would need, and then we were down the slipway and into the boiling sea. I looked back and saw the Captain was shouting something, prob- ably "Good luck," but the wind screamed round us like a thousand furies, and I could not hear his words.

The sea was bad enough just inside the harbour, threshing at the boat and thundering down on to the break- waters, but when, after battling for a good while with the storm, we man- aged to reach open sea, we found that there the conditions were far worse.

One minute we would be in a valley, with the black, foam-lashed water towering above us, and then we would be tossed up into the night on to the peak of another mountainous wave.

The sky was black as pitch above us, the moon and stars obscured by angry growling clouds, but now and again lightning would flash in jagged fire above us and thunder would boom and crash as though to crush us.

In Sight at Last At last the Mermaid Point came into sight. To one side was a darker mass against the blackness of the night—the Nibingrad. We battled desperately with the furious sea; we could not communicate with the ship by wireless, for hers was out of action.

There was nobody else to help her— nobody but our Mary Jane, looking pitifully small and helpless in the vast ocean. Twice we got nearly close enough to hail one of the two small figures we saw upon the bridge, but each time the waves swept us away again. We realised that the crew, being Swedish, would not be able to understand our instructions; we could only hope that one of the crew could speak English.

The third time that the boat was swept in towards the rocks, almost on top of the Nibingrad, I gripped the side and shouted up with the full strength of my lungs: "We're sending a line!" and then the Mary Jane was borne away again. When we man- aged to battle our way towards the ship again, one of the figures leant over the rail and called down in broken, but recognisable, English, his voice faint by the time it reached us over the wind: "We break up quick.

Come quick. One man he " Flung Against Cockpit We were not able to hear any more, as a great sea struck us, side on.

showering us with spray and tempor- arily interrupting the comforting throb of the engine. I was knocked over and flung against the cockpit; when I regained my feet, the Nibingrad was some distance to port. But we had heard enough from the Swedish sailor to know that the plight of the Nibin- grad's crew was even worse than we had thought. I worked my way over to Jim Fairbarn, our motor-mechanic.

"Engine all right?" " Seems so. Worried me when that sea struck us. Working pretty now, though." I left him and supervised the send- ing of the life-line. When we were carried by the waves near to the Nibingrad again, we threw it out, signalling to the little group of men clustered by the rail to catch it if they could. It fell into the sea, near the side of the ship. We were swept away, and tacked our way back again.

This time the line was grabbed by eager hands, and fastened to some object hidden from us by the spray.

Our little boat groaned as the waves tried to sweep us away, and failed.

The Nibingrad was in a bad state.

Water poured in through the huge gashes by the stern. Part of the cabin was completely broken off. The ship's back was broken, and she was in her death-throes.

Captain Rescued One by one, the men swung across the line to safety, our boat chafing on the other end. They were seized by willing hands and taken to compara- tive shelter in the stern, wrapped in blankets and given brandy if necessary.

"Hurry!" Harry Ross called across through cupped hands. Jed Tooley joined in. "Hurry! The rope's fraying!" There were still two men left on the Nibingrad—the captain and another man, leaning against him, his arm in a make-shift sling. By signs, the cap- tain indicated that the other man could not come, and he would not leave him. I decided quickly, and swung across myself, a lifebelt fastened round my waist for the wounded man.

Once there, the captain and I pulled the life-belt over his head and under his arms, taking care not to hurt the broken arm, if possible. The captain (the man who had spoken to us in English) explained quickly while we did so that one man had already died, jumping off the ship when it struck and, after being crushed against the side, drowning in spite of their efforts to save him. He explained to the wounded man in Swedish that he would have to jump—there was no other way. I was to jump with him, while the captain reached the life-boat by way of the life-line. The man, who was very weak from loss of blood, was at last persuaded to jump. I followed, seizing him when we reached the water and helping him across the narrow stretch of water to the life- boat. He swallowed a lot of water, and panicked at first, but we managed to reach safety, just after the captain stepped on board and collapsed from exhaustion. I clung, gasping, to the side of the Mary Jane, supporting the wounded man with my other arm. He was completely exhausted. Harry reached down and lifted him to safety; he moaned a little and was violently sick. I could hardly feel anything as several pairs of hands seized me and laid me in the bottom of the boat.

I was too tired even to feel relieved.

Dimly I realised that they were carrying me into the cockpit. There was a murmur of voices all around me.

Then the comforting walls spun blackly and I passed out.

Lights Appearing When I came to again we were still battling our way back to shore. I struggled to sit up, and asked Harry how things were going.

"Not too good," he said. "They think that man you saved's dying, too." I swung my legs down and struggled into my boots and oilskin.

"Here," protested Harry half- heartedly. Then one of the crew stuck his head round the door and shouted something about the engine.

Harry plunged out into the storm again, I following.

In the distance I could just see the appearing and then vanishing lights of Tomolly. Quickly I looked away and went a little unsteadily, my stomach not feeling too good and my head whirling dizzily, to where Jed Tooley was shouting instructions aft. I won- dered briefly about the dying seaman in the cockpit behind me, and then another sea struck us, side on, and there was no time to think of him or anything.

Ambulance for Wounded Gradually we battled our way in, the great seas sweeping us here and there at their will. The sea gives you a feeling of helplessness and infinite un- importance when you know her like I do; she's too big and cruel to under- stand or love, but she makes you fear her with all your heart. At four o'clock that morning she swept us past the breakwaters, and we were home. Too tired to think, I super- vised the sending for an ambulance for the wounded man, the beaching and fastening of the life-boat, saw that the sailors from the Nibingrad were safe for the night, and then returned home, stumbling up the sandy path to our cottage with the captain of the Nibin- grad and the first mate of his ship silent behind me. We made them comfortable in the spare room, after hot drinks and baths and a change of clothing, and then I slept. How I slept! I didn't wake until twelve- thirty in the morning.

Days passed after that, uneventful days. We weren't called out any more, except once to the Kincally lighthouse when one of the lights failed. Then, a few months after the terrible night, I received the letter telling me I'd won the Silver Medal. Harry and Jed had Bronze ones. My, how proud Bess was! I shouldn't think there was a person within five miles who didn't know about me and my medal.

That summer, I travelled up to London one blazing, sunny day, hot and uncomfortable in a stiff white collar and my best suit, with Bess resplendent in her purple silk and hat with feathers, straight and self-con- scious beside me. It was a bit awe- inspiring, and I was glad when it was over and we were on our way home again, the white collar not so stiff now. It's three years since it hap- pened, now. I suppose it's become a bit exaggerated with the passing of time. To hear Bess talk you'd think I'd deserved the V.C. at least! It was sad that the seaman died; I often think of the poor fellow in the evenings. But the sea's like that; if you respect her enough you're ready to die for her. And it will make a grand tale to tell my grand-children.

Other Prizes Prizes for the best essay in Scotland, Ireland, Wales and six districts of England were awarded to the following: Scotland: GEORGE NORMAN BISSETT, Central Senior Secondary School, Aberdeen.

Ireland: STELLA TYRRELL, The Collegiate School, Celbridge, Co. Kildare.

Wales: David Glyn Jones, Ysgol Dyffryn Nantille, Penygroes, Caernarvon.

England— | South-East: LESLEY PERRY, West Norfolk and King's Lynn High School for Girls.

North-East: FREDERICK KNOWLES, St.

Joseph's Boys School, Lovaine Place, North Shields.

Midlands: ANNE VERONICA OWEN, The Grammar School, Daventry, Northants.

South-West: PAMELA BLACKWOOD, St.

John's School, Jersey.

North-West: STANLEY HEATH, Stockport School, Mile End, Stockport.

London: LEONARD GOLDSTEIN, Tylers Croft Secondary Modern School (B), Kingsbury, N.W.9.

The national and district prize winners each received book tokens. Challenge shields presented by the seventh Duke of Northum- berland are held for a year by the schools which the district prize winners are attending.

Copies of Storm on the Waters by Charles Vince were also sent to the writers of the 35 best essavs in each district..