THE following description of a service in the Longhope life-boat appeared in the mid-December 1962 number of "Motor Boat and Yachting." This is reproduced by kind permission of the editor, Commander Erroll Bruce, R.N., who is himself the author of the article and was at one time a member of the Longhope crew: All that winter day I felt vaguely uneasy. Radio warnings of severe gales in area Fair Isle are common enough in any winter, and that particular winter there had been more warnings than usual—and more gales too. Yet some- how during that February afternoon there was an increasing sense of appre- hension.

At midday I had heard that the ocean- going steamer which ran a regular service across to the mainland of Scot- land had turned back a mile or two outside Stromness: she had run into the seas stirred up by the 60-mile-an-hour gale, and her master realized that the maelstrom in the Pentland Firth would be really dangerous. As the short day faded well before 3 p.m., several trawlers crept storm-battered into the shelter of our bay within Scapa Flow, smoke trailing from the funnel tops in hori- zontal lines.

Services Paralysed The evening radio news reported that shipping and air services were paralysed around the north coast of Scotland.

Soon after that there was a telephone call from Fred Johnston, the coxswain of our life-boat.

"Dirty night," he said slowly. "You'll be at home?" "Yes, Fred," I answered, "I took a boat over to Flotta yesterday as no doubt you know. Your wife was at the concert too." "It's bad tonight. Very bad. You'll be at home then." In an isolated gale-swept island, the senses are closely tuned to nature.

Somehow we all felt that something was about to happen, and in our little island community that something would likely be connected with the sea. There had been previous crises that winter: lives had been lost. In some peculiar way that day, the wavelengths of danger vibrated their insistent tune.

Seven Miles to Station In winter it was my routine before going to bed to lay out seagoing clothes, and warm up the car; it was seven miles to the life-boat station, but so long as no waves were washing over the road I could reckon on getting there dressed for sea within eleven minutes of a call; this was as quick as anyone who had to go half a mile on foot.

Perhaps it was 4 a.m. when the tele- phone rang; certainly a time when the wish to jump out of bed and rush forth to sea was at its least.

"It's a trawler on Dunnet Head," spoke Fred, "it's a dirty night for 'em there." Driving alongside Long Hope Ness, sheltered waters by normal reckoning, I had to pull the car speed right down from seventy as the spray drove across the road. "The gale has backed to the south," I thought, "blowing right into the life-boat slip." Launch Into That? There was little more than a mile to go when ahead a green fireball burst high in the air. I could feel more than hear the deep rumble of the maroon as it met the car three or four seconds later.

This was the first life-boat call, so I was in good time.

The second maroon followed as I turned into the muddy track along Brims Ness. The brilliant light showed up a trio of figures ahead, bent low as they struggled against the gale. Behind them was the box-like life-boat house, perched above jagged rocks on stilts of steel, with its ramp running steeply down into the sea. Suddenly, in the green light of the signal even the life- boat house seemed dwarfed by an explosive plume of spray, as a giant Atlantic roller crashed into the ramp below. "My God," I gasped. "We can't launch into that, and survive." The next few minutes were too busy for thoughts or worries. Into the life-boat station we hurried, a group of four or five, some crew, some launchers. Just ahead of me was Steve McFayden, whose wife in her croft nearby had recently shown me prized mementoes of the service her father gave to the life- boat as coxswain 20 years before.

Almost together Steve and I climbed up the ladder to the boat, and began to don oilskins taken off a rack slung from the station roof to be within easy reach from the deck.

"Stay in the Cockpit" There was Fred, the coxswain, already strapping on his life-belt, and his brother, "Engineer" Bob, starting up the engines; he was soon joined at the engine controls by "Soldier" Bob, another Johnston, and there were Jimmie and Robbie Johnston in the crew, both sons of "Soldier" Bob.

"Stay in the cockpit shelter for the launch," I was instructed by Dan Kirk- patrick, the second coxswain. "No one could keep with her on deck." Orders were few, as each man knew just what to do after many a launch on service and for practice.

The launchers were in position, and their winch engine joined its hum to those of the powerful diesels in the boat.

The engine noise gave an impression of steadiness, as counter to the turbulent shriek of the wind which hammered at the walls of the shed, and battered its way through the opened twin doors over the launching ramp.

Boat Crept Forward Fred raised a commanding hand of readiness. The winch driver eased in his lever to take the weight of the boat, a slight circling movement of the hand, and the boat crept forward, then stopped.

The hand was stilled, and a reverse circling brought the boat up again.

Something was wrong with the launch- ing gear.

Fred beckoned for a ladder and climbed down to look beneath the boat.

It was a minute or so of delay perhaps; but to me each second seemed a century.

With nothing to do but wait, I had time to think, and the thoughts were terrifying. Oh that I was back in a com- fortable warm bed. I looked at my watch; it was 4.34 a.m.

The trouble had been cleared, and Fred climbed back to the cockpit; un- hurriedly he secured the lashing that would keep him fast to his tubular steel guard. Dead or alive, he was tied to his post.

Battle Was On Next time there was no hitch with the launching gear; she lowered slowly on the winch, then gave a sudden lurch as the whole carriage pivoted to bring her head down into the slope of the slipway.

Launchers jumped beneath her to cast off the securing chains.

All eyes peered from the dimly lit station, out through the open doors into black night. Blank images gave no hint of when a roller was racing up to pound across the slipway.

Again the raised hand drew attention.

There was no need for spoken orders, no call for a warning "Hold tight". Fred waited for the next thump as a wave struck home; then his hand dipped. A slight jolt and the boat began her skid towards the sea, accelerating down the steep runway.

The sea met her with a wave that raked from bow to stern. The battle was on.

Engines full speed ahead. Wheel hard over to starboard to bring her head straight into the seas on course out of the narrow inlet of Aith Hope. She bucked and plunged, half bronco and half porpoise.

Devil-black obscurity The night was black; not just that velvety blackness that seems mere lack of light; this was a devil-black obscurity that shocked the mind as rudely as the spray-laden gusts bit into the cheeks. No suspicion of land could be seen, although the cliffs were close each side; nor were the waves visible, but each drenching punch jarred the boat like a body blow from a heavyweight boxer.

Soon the flashing light of Dunnet Head peeped clear of Brims cliff to star- board; slowly the boat swung round towards it. Fred was skirting the Brims eddy; by the feel of the tide rip he kept the ebb surging the boat ahead at best speed. Along a narrow belt the water ran faster than a mountain rapid in full spate; this belt lay close to where a contrary eddy swirled against the parent stream and caused a family brawl of amazing ferocity. Breaking waves snarled and struck, but not even a grey smear lightened the darkness. They were black demons—not white horses.

Feeling of Reassurance We rigged the radio antennae after the launch. Words came through as she neared upright, while the message blurred when the boat rolled her whipping aerial nearly down to the water, or a wave drove right over her.

"Wick. This is Longhope life-boat calling. Over." "Longhope life-boat; this is Wick. I can hear you weak and intermittent.

Over." It gave me a warm feeling of reassur- ance to hear the words from ashore. Let there be no doubt about it, for me at first fear had been so acute that it might have been a sharp needle jabbing into my head. There were many more hours of darkness before the short winter day of such northern waters would break; a secondary depression was following the main one, meaning no let up in the gale; the problems seemed nigh impossible for an approach to the wreck lying somewhere unknown at the foot of the 300-foot-high cliffs.

Dunnet Head is the northernmost point on the mainland of Scotland; it is fully exposed to the wrath of the At- lantic Ocean, it is a gatepost to Pent- land Firth, through which the spring tides race with extraordinary violence.

Here is an extract from the Admiralty Sailing Directions which describe the Pentland Firth when only a moderate gale blows against the tidal stream: "Only personal experience can make anyone realize what a seething cauldron of tide rips, whirlpools and short choppy seas the Firth can become." Most prob- ably a small steamer of slow speed, or a sailing vessel, would never have been heard of again. We were setting out in a full gale, with a severe gale expected.

"Have you news?" "Wick, this is Longhope life-boat" was our next message. "Am past Brims and carrying the ebb for Dunnet. Have you news? Over." We stood on for the middle of the firth. Past the Brims eddy the seas steadied perceptibly, but it was still no joy-ride even for the most seasoned boatmen. Up forward two lights, one red and one green, on each side lit up an iron staunchion with its lifeline chains.

Framed in the gap between a double- coloured plume of water rose like a shell burst, then hurtled away green-tinted to starboard. Plume followed plume like rapid-fire salvoes.

Those in the cockpit tensed as a heavy sea struck. Dim lights from the engine gauges reflected on four thigh-high sea- boots, firm footed while the water swirled around them; dimmer still were the shapes of "Soldier" Bob and "Engineer" Bob, above the seaboots; each sat fixed at his engine control as though part of the boat itself.

"This is Wick. I have your message, Longhope life-boat. Thurso life-boat has launched. Coastguards will fire a flare from cliff-top when casualty is located.

Koorah is preparing to abandon ship.

Over." Honorary Secretary Decides Dunnet Head was the normal boundary between the areas of the two life-boats, ours based on an island of Orkney and the other on the mainland of Scotland. As the trawler was reported somewhere to the west of the lighthouse, she was strictly a Thurso boat casualty, but as she had not been located and she might be expected to break up very quickly on the rocks, the coastguards had asked both life-boats to launch, as for either it would be difficult enough to reach the area of the wreck. Life-boat crews are volunteers, and no one can order their boat out on service except the committee of local people that administers her. As professional officers the coastguards advise, but it is the honorary secretary who decides. For us this was Minnie Sutherland, whose father had held the same responsibility for many years before. The life-boat coxswain works closely with the hon- orary secretary in such decisions, but it was still she, living among the families of those who man the boat, who would have to shoulder the responsibility for some tragedy to their menfolk.

The quadruple flash of Dunnet Head light was much closer. Already the motion was more violent again on the fringes of the Dunnet race. The Koorah could not be far ahead under that grim unseen cliff. Where did she lie? How was she pointing? Were the crew still on board? Would the cliff provide any lee ? What approach could be used ? Could I remember every detail of my job for laying out a kedge anchor? For the time a hundred such thoughts drove away any fear.

Lull of Silence Again the radio spoke after a lull of silence. "Crew of Koorah has been picked up. All safe. Life-saving emer- gency over. Out." Slowly Fred eased her round to star- board, and the urgency of the engine tone eased. In those seas we could not get back into Aith Hope, so we would make for Scapa Flow. The stream had reached its fourth hour of ebb, when a notorious tide race called the Merry Men of Mey reaches out across the forth, closing the gap to Brims Head.

Returning, the boat would need to fight through this, as well as competing against the flood tide.

"Poor devils," spoke Dan Kirkpat- rick of the Koorah's men. "Thank God they are safe." He said it with deep feeling. Yet my mind was more on the men around me —five Johnstons, Steve McFayden, and Dan himself. I realized by then that they too had known fear—life-boat men had lost their lives on service that very winter. The brave man is not only he who knows no fear, it is also the man who knows it well, and fully aware of the risks, volunteers his service again and again to rescue others in trouble.

A belated dawn had broken, as at last we turned from the Pentland to safe waters inside Cantick Head. Snowflakes swept by from astern, green-tinted from the light of the flare held aloft to signal that we had no casualties on board. Our boat had made no rescue, but it was a night to remember..