For the second year in succession David Glyn Jones of the Ysgol Dyffryn Nantlle School, Penygroes, won the first prize in a competition for the best essay on the Lifeboat Service organised by the Institution. The competition -was open to boys and girls up to the age of sixteen attending secondary schools in the United Kingdom and the Irish Republic. The subjects chosen for the essay in the past two years were wholly different, on one occasion competitors being asked to write an essay on the general need for a Life-boat Service and on the other to describe an imaginary rescue.

Two years ago David Glyn Jones won the prize for the best essay submitted from Wales. His description of an imaginary rescue is reproduced below: WE were a couple of fine sailormen, Nelson Jones and I—damp, cold and miserable in an open boat somewhere between our own coast and the great unknown. We had hired the boat at the resort where we stayed and set out, two gallant and dauntless explorers, in search of adventure and discovery. The first discovery we made was that we were in trouble, if not in danger; adventure, very real and frightening soon followed.

Nelson, in spite of his seaman's name could only row: he did that quite well. I, on the other hand, when holding the oars, could not make the boat budge an inch, but I could steer, although with little skill. However, we managed to travel a good distance up the coast; how much, exactly, we still do not know. The coast on our right was lonely, dull and uninviting and seemed to offer no adventure, so we turned out to sea and moved forward and forward. We were in the fog almost before we had noticed it.

We were not frightened at first; this was a change from the monotonous sea and sky and birds. We could neither see nor hear the birds now; it was very quiet. Nelson stopped rowing for a moment and the boat rocked to a gentle halt. He looked at me.

"This is something new," I said.

'Yes," he answered.

'Doesn't look very exciting though." 'No." 'What shall we do?" I asked, sensing that Nelson did not feel very happy.

'What d'you mean—'What shall we do?'" 'Well, stay here or move away?" 'Get out. I don't like it. I've always been told to keep clear of fog. Anyway, it's starting to get wet and cold." It was. I felt it now, and I did not like it very much either.

"Let's go then," I said.

" Yes, try to get out as quickly as you came in," Nelson answered, a bit peevishly.

"I couldn't help it. It came sudden like.

You should have stopped rowing if . . ." "All right. Come on," he said sharply.

He pulled at the oars and I turned the tiller.

The boat swung round and proceeded in an unknown direction. He rowed steadily and I kept a straight course, hoping to emerge from the bank soon. But to our dismay, the fog grew thicker with every pull of the oars, and we could scarcely see each other. However, we kept straight on for five to ten minutes, plunging deeper and deeper into the fog. Things were now beginning to be serious and we decided to stop again.

"Now we've torn it!" said the cloudy figure near me.

"Perhaps it will clear," I answered with my voice full of artificial hope.

""Of course it will clear, silly!" he rapped, "but when?" Nelson pulled suddenly and the boat lurched forward, throwing me off balance. I grabbed hold of the tiller as quickly as I could and we were off again.

We found no difficulty in travelling. The sea was calm and clear of rocks, and Nelson rowed with doubled energy and determination.

I knew that he was afraid. I was afraid myself—a little. There was fog—fog everywhere. It encased us like a nutshell, I could almost feel it between my shirt and my back. It moved past in ceaseless wisps, stroking our faces mockingly. There was something phantom about it all—so quiet and lonely. I began to miss the company of the sea birds. Only me, and Nelson there before me like a ghost.

I thought of my home, my relations, my friends, my possessions. Then my thoughts became very muddled. Then I thought of nothing but the fog. The fog—the word gave me a choking feeling. It seemed like it would never end. Fog . . . never end . . . fog . . . never end. I felt sick and I probably passed completely out for a moment or so; everything went blank. However it was not for long, I felt the fog again, and saw the fog, and Nelson swaying steadily before my eyes, while the boat went on and on.

"What's the time?" the words came upon my ears unexpectedly from the fog. They rather startled me, and I did not answer.

"What's the time?" "Eh?" "What is the time?" 'Er . . . my watch has stopped." ' When?" 'When what?" 'When did it stop?" 'Er . . . twenty past." 'Past what?" 'Four." The damp silence came down again, and I was left with my miserable thoughts. It was twenty past four. We had been sailing— rowing rather—for two—three—five hours and . . . about forty-five minutes. How much longer? Then came the sweet shock. We were near something—this something was neither living nor very suggestive of life, but it told us that •we were not very far from people and things.

"Hello!" Nelson exclaimed.

"A rock!" I added.

"A cliff," he corrected. Then, to make sure, he took an oar from the rowlock and reached out to hit the great wall. We were right by it. Wood chocked against stone.

It was real, and I was glad. It seemed that our troubles were pretty well over; we could follow this coast, for that it probably was, and arrive somewhere. We were too glad to speak much, and we automatically turned and followed the wall. The fog was still with us, but not everywhere; the cliff was one side.

Follow the cliff we did, and we got along quite well. We must have travelled about two knots before we made our second discovery of the day. This was far more interesting than the first, and it cheered us up a good deal. We had come across a large cave in the cliffside.

The entrance was clear, and with no consultation or discussion, we turned in. We were six or seven yards from the opening when Nelson first spoke.

"What are we going to do here?" he asked.

I really did not know, but I had to think of an answer quickly. Nelson expected an answer to every question he asked.

"We'll explore." "We can't. It's dark; we've no light either." "No. Hard luck. We'll stay in here anyway; we can shelter from the fog." "Don't be silly. There's as much fog in here as there is outside." "Oh, yes, I suppose," I had to admit.

"But we'll stay in. It'll be a change, and a rest." The awful silence came down again. Before long, I felt that I should prefer to go out again; there was something about the cave which made me uncomfortable—not afraid— just uncomfortable. But I did not say anything, and the first thing to break the silence was a foghorn, mournfully delivering its message to the lonely sea.

I became more and more depressed—and oppressed—by what I did not know, but I was sure that something—something undesirable —was going to happen.

Had I but known it, it was already happening.

We were not aware of the peril we were in until—well, until I hit my head against the roof of the cave. I cried out in surprise and some pain.

"What's the matter?" asked Nelson, startled.

"Hit my head!" " Hit your head ? Where ? " Then he did the same thing.

We realized the terrible truth at one. The tide was coming in. It was filling the cave.

Our boat was being lifted by the water, nearer and nearer to the roof. We would be crushed between the rock and the boat if we did not lie flat on the bottom. But then, if we lay down flat in the boat, we would suffocate if it remained close to the roof for long. Or else, the water might enter the boat, sink it, and drown us. Nelson could swim, but not I.

Very serious, if we could not get out of the cave in time.

So the obvious—and the only—thing to do was to get out. Quite easily done, we thought —just keep our heads down; the water was rising quickly. Nelson clutched the oars and gave another of his strong, sudden pulls.

Alas, it was too strong and sudden. The end of one of the oars hit something hard, probably a rock, under the water. I could just see it bending like a bow. I was afraid that it would break.

"Stop pulling so hard!" I exclaimed.

This was a mistake, a very grave mistake.

Nelson, startled by the impact and my sudden cry, let go of the bent oar. It sprung back, kicked itself out of the rowlock, and plunged into the water. A moment later, it reappeared, but we were too stunned to lean over and catch hold of it immediately. It drifted with the water to the dark interior of the cave.

Now we were in the soup—well and truly, and I had no idea how to get out of it.

Nelson, fair play to him, acted quickly—or tried to act. He made a fair effort to scull the boat out with one oar, but the oar was too short. The boat swung round in the same place, and rocked from side to side. We were now bent almost double.

We just managed to make one other effort.

We took the other oar out of the lock and rammed it against the wall, holding it tightly.

Thus we hoped to drive the boat backwards, but the wash of the sea coming in against us was too strong. We lurched back again, sickeningly.

No, there was no hope of escape. We could only lie flat in the boat and hope that the tide would not reach the danger level. That we did, and in about five minutes' time, we could only just see the dull sky between the roof of the cave and the side of the boat.

One last bid.

"Let's shout," I said.

"They won't hear us. Fog deadens sound." "We heard the foghorn. Why can't the foghorn hear us ? " "Don't be silly." However, we did shout, but there was little hope that anyone would hear us. Our voices would be muffled by both the fog and the sides of the boat.

"Help!" was the only word we heard for around ten minutes, and we were scarcely aware of the fact that it was we ourselves who uttered it so steadily and despairingly.

I often wonder how we kept it up, but we did.

We still shouted even after we had heard the low whine that could have been nothing but a motor-boat, outside. To the accompaniment of our own cries, we heard it purring around, searching, like a bee in September. The volume of the whine increased . . . decreased . . . increased again. It came, went, came, went; then we suddenly heard it very close, and coming closer. Then it stopped. But we still shouted, until we heard—to our surprise, relief and joy—another live, human "voice.

"Hey, Coxswain!" A chorus of men's voices soon joined in.

We were now very weak, and the water was trickling into the boat; I felt it cold upon my face. There was a thud on the wood near my head. The boat rocked and I caught a glimpse of the sky. Not quite knowing what I was doing, I clutched at that bit of sky. In so doing, my hand came to rest on the edge of the boat and I felt an iron hook.

Nelson suddenly spoke: "We're moving." We were. Then—oblivion.

We came round with the smell of oil and seaweed in our nostrils. We looked around, and the first thing we noticed—we could not have missed it—was a modern and gleaming motor-boat, of some size, mounted on blocks.

There were six or seven rough men in jerseys or oilskins standing around. One of them turned a couple of big eyes upon us and said.

"Cox'n, they've come to." The men stirred, and one of them, brawny and bearded, came towards us. I caught few of his words, for my head was in a spin.

"Stay 'ere for now . . . We'll see . . . can take you 'till. . . Have to get a doctor . . .

I next found myself alone in a warm bed, in a strange room—in the house, as I later understood, of one of the life-boat crew. I also learnt that Nelson had been accommodated in the same way by another member. I saw two important people that day. One was a doctor, probably the local practitioner, who informed me that I was to be confined to bed for two or three days, to keep my chill company. The other was a newspaper reporter with a huge camera and miles of notepaper.

I let him photograph me, but I could tell him very little about our rescue. I learnt the details when I began to get out and about, and no sooner.

Having completed our term in bed, we visited all the interesting places of the district, with one or more of the life-boatmen as our guides. We had an opportunity to examine the boat all over. I can only say that it was a magnificent craft; I cannot go into the details of its construction, for my knowledge of such a subject is confined to that of a rowing boat with room for two. That gallant galleon of ours, by the way, was stowed away, upside down, in a corner of the life-boat hut. There was one oar by its side.

While we were seeing things in this way, efforts were being made to contact our parents and the owner of the boat. The car came to fetch us on the fifth day after the adventure.

We were ready to depart when the coxswain suggested that, before we left, we should see the cave—our cave—at high tide. He added that the tide was actually higher on the night when we were there, but we could have some idea of what could have been our lot. We walked down, with our parents, the crew and half the village, to a spot by the sea from where we could see across the bay the cliff which we followed. We did see it—a massive, solid rock wall—with not a trace of a cave. The coxswain told us to wait a while; the tide was ebbing. We waited, until we saw the top of the opening just appearing above the surface of the receding water. The only thing we could do was to stare. We stared; and caught sight of something floating out of the cave. It was not big, it was quickly borne out to sea and out of sight. We could have sworn it was an oar.

Then we turned back to the car, went in, and drove away. There was a white fog creeping in from the sea. As soon as the parting greetings of the villagers had died away, we heard a sad hoot from the direction of the sea—the farewell of the foghorn. The old horn was only doing its duty; there are always clots like us who insist on getting into trouble, trouble we could not get out of but for the life-boat.

OTHER PRIZES Prizes for the best essays in Scotland, Ireland, Wales and six districts of England have been awarded to the foil owing: Scotland: ALAN F. MACKINTOSH, Sir E, Scott Junior Secondary School, Tarbert.

Isle of Harris.

Ireland: ADRIENNE LISTER, Alexandra College, Earlsfort Terrace, Dublin.

Wales: DAVID GLYN JONES, Ysgol Dyffryn Nantlle School, Penygroes.

England— South-East: M. HADFIELD, The King's School, Canterbury.

North-East: JEAN KIRKPATRICK, Falsgrave County Modern School, Scarborough.

Midlands: PATRICIA ANN BUSK, The County High School, Stourbridge Road, Bromsgrove.

South-West: LINDA CORHIE, Summerleaze Park Secondary Modern School, Yeovil.

North-West: JEFFREY SALLISS, Greaves County Secondary School, Lancaster.

London Area: JANET DEAN, Greenway County School, Uxbridge.

The school which submits the best essay in each district holds a shield for the next year. The Ysgol Dyffryn Nantlle school, by submitting the best essay from Wales for three years in succession, has now won its shield outright..