Mike Floyd continues his look at the training of today's lifeboatmen and joins a new Mersey class lifeboat on passage from Poole to her new station There was an air of anticipation, excitement even, when the engine note of our Mersey class lifeboat changed from a gentle burble to a harder, more insistent tone. The low, shrill whistle from the turbochargers overlaid the powerful throb of the engines as The Princess Royal's bow lifted and she accelerated to her 17-knot operational speed.

There is always a tingle in the air when starting any passage, but as the ferry across the entrance to Poole Harbour faded astern in the last glimmers of an October Friday there was a very special feeling aboard this lifeboat. Now at last, after a week spent ashore in the RNLI's training centre and exercising in and around Poole Bay, this was the beginning of the real thing - the St Ives' crew were on the way home with their new lifeboat.

She was becoming more their lifeboat with every mile that slipped by, the crew beginning to fall into that special relationship which comes with confidence and familiarity with the boat, and with others in the crew. Friendly banter and harmless insults began to fly as the team settled down.

They had learned much about the boat, and become familiar with her capabilities and personality, during a week of tuition, exercises and simulated emergencies at Poole, and although only a real-life 'shout' in bad weather would cement the relationship the next four day s at sea would be a good start.

John Unwin, Divisional Inspector of Lifeboats for the South West, is in charge for the passage and District Engineer Barry Wagstaff is also aboard to help the St Ives' Mechanic Tommy Cocking keep an eye on those two big Caterpillar diesels. The rest of the crew are the same as for the week of training - Coxswain Eric Ward and crew members Tommy Bassett, Charlie Hodson and Alan Woods.

The object of this passage is to continue the training and to familiarise all of us with the lifeboat at sea, as well as taking her to the station. This is not going to be just a flat-out blast of a delivery trip, so our first stop is just around the corner, a passage of about 30 miles to Weymouth.

We navigate from Decca waypoint to Decca waypoint around the bulk of St Aldhelm' s Head and its tidal race, and then move on into Weymouth Bay. The chalk cliffs of the Dorset coast are invisible in the darkness to starboard and the rocky bulk of Portland is ahead, visible only from its lights and distinctive profile on the glowing radar screen.

We move around the boat, taking turns to push buttons on the magic box which converts the Decca transmissions into navigational info and to peer at the colour screen of the daylight- viewing radar. Here we plot the course and speed of other ships, turn the display around to show 'north up' and then put it back to show 'ship's head' up.

The week of tuition is coming to life in our hands.

Almost too soon we are slipping into Weymouth on a warm, quiet October night and securing alongside the station's Arun.

I'm soon aware of the camaraderie which thrives in the lifeboat service. The honorary secretary, coxswain/ mechanic and others from the crew are there to take our lines, despite the lateness of the hour, and before many minutes have passed the fuel line is run out and Princess Royal has been refueled.

Golden rule of passage-making number one, refuel the boat whenever there is an opportunity, has been observed. Now it's time to apply the second golden rule: refuel the crew with the same frequency.

If the harbourside chippie is surprised by an order for eleven enormous meals late on a winter's night the staff doesn't show it, and much too soon we troop back along the deserted quayside and the diesels rumble into life again. Rule three, get some kip whenever there's half a chance, will have to wait as John has decided that we should spend most of this night at sea as our mandatory night passage.

Our next hop takes us round Portland Bill, with its often vicious 'race', and out across Lyme Bay to Brixham. Taking it in turns at various tasks around the boat the time flies by and the 50-odd miles disappear in our slightly phosphorescent wake. There's time for a few contemplative moments at the upper steering position, watching the wake hiss by, feeling the surge of the boat and listening to the comforting throb of the engines. Red glows in the dark give away the presence of others who are 'off-watch' and have come on deck to have a 'puff and savour being at sea on such a beautiful night. The Princess Royal hurries along beneath us. The sea is as calm as Lyme Bay can ever be, with just a long swell running under the almost glassy surface to give the boat life and induce a long, easy pitching motion. The crew grow used to her motion, the way she behaves at speed and reflect on other, very different, weather conditions which they have experienced, and will be experiencing again - and I note that it's never as smooth as this when I sail across in a small boat...

Berry Head guards the entrance to Brixham and its distinctive shape is picked up by the radar at a distance. It soon looms large on the screen on the shorter ranges — the landfall is spot-on, as well it should be after our stints with Decca, radar, charts and pencil - and soon the powerful searchlight is rigged so that we can see to ease our way through the moorings and into a vacant berth in the marina.

It's about 0300, but there waiting for us on the pontoon is the mechanic of the Torbay lifeboat... Rule one can wait till Salcombe, our next stop, where there's a convenient fuel barge and rule two is hardly relevant so soon after its last observance, but the coffee in the boathouse is very welcome.

Rule three however is embraced wholeheartedly, and soon the crew room resounds to some serious snoring. Sleeping on the floor in damp oilskins, surrounded by men who could snore for England and who periodically kick a pile of magazines off a bench on to your legs may not sound idyllic, but everything is relative and the chance of a rest is more than welcome.

We don't need an alarm and just before 0600 on a very chilly morning the tea urn is coaxed into life and then we grope our way along a dark, cold and damp pontoon to fire up those diesels again for another short hop of around 25 miles.

More Decca waypoints and more radar work and we soon find ourselves groping our way over Salcombe Bar in poor visibility and just before first light. We're thankful for the electronic aids which pinpoint our position and the practice which has made their operation almost second nature. The engine note rumbles back at us from the high ground around the still-sleeping estuary as daylight creeps in to sweep away the night. The pale light reveals figures on the pontoon - Salcombe lifeboat's coxswain Frank Smith and other members of the crew - wrapped up against the chill of winter dawn and ready to look after us during our stay.

Rule number one is applied at the nearby fuel barge and soon we are tumbling into tiny quayside cafe for the biggest breakfast we can decently order. The cafe has opened doors as we approach, and I have a strong suspicion that our arrival time was carefully arranged to coincide with this happy event. Or perhaps the proprietor recognised the shuffling gait of ravenous lifeboatmen, we need never know.

More members of Salcombe lifeboat crew join us as we apply rule two with a vengeance and pack away eggs, bacon and beans in large quantities.

Rule three of passage-making can now be applied properly, and as our baggage has already been whisked magically away by car to a convenient little hotel we toil up the short, steep slope to join it and switch off like lights… The next day is disjointed. Going to bed at 1000, waking in time for lunch at the Salcombe crew's local, taking a short stroll and then dozing again sees us through to the evening. Then it's back to the local for a good meal and jar or two. Or three perhaps. The talk is of lifeboats. Other lifeboat people join us, and we talk about lifeboat stations, lifeboat coxswains, our new Mersey, Salcombe's stillnew Tyne - the RNLI family atmosphere is very evident.

'Whateverhappened to, er, Saturday wasn't it?' someone says as we make our weary, and late, way back up the hill and the Salcombe lads melt into the darkness of their own town.

The alarm is raucous, but serves its purpose.

The tired brain staggers reluctantly into life and I stumble into action, knowing that today is scheduled for an exercise with Salcombe's Tyne.

Conditions are only moderate as we head out over Salcombe's infamous bar, but the ebb running over it kicks up enough sea for us to try out the Mersey in steep head seas and breaking following ones. Part of the exercise is to pass a line to the Tyne and tow her for a short distance, a task performed with skill and no hitches, bar the starboard water inlet strainer blockage which was a nice 1 ittle touch thought up by DI John Unwin to keep the mechanic on his toes.

The mythical blockage removed we head back and plot a little mischief. We persuade Coxswain Frank Smith that my pictures of his Tyne being towed are part of a feature on disabled lifeboats and will be splashed all over the front cover of The Lifeboat. Such is a lifeboat station's pride that he's not at all keen on his lifeboat being the disabled one, and buys us all a pint when we admit to the wind-up. A nice ploy which is worth remembering...

The evening is a replay of the previous one, except that our numbers are swelled by half of District Engineer Barry Wagstaff s family, who have come from a Christening still in their finery, and a rousing performance by the local rugby club's choir which seems to have become part of our group. The lifeboat 'family' seems not only to encompass those directly involved but to take in almost everyone in a 'lifeboat town' like Salcombe.

It's a shame to leave, but early next morning we're at sea again surging westward towards The Lizard in a freshening breeze and a steadily building sea. More navigational practice, more experience of the boat in a seaway, and more experience with the VHP radio when a naval vessel wants us to alter course to avoid a firing exercise.

Off The Lizard there's an interesting sea running and we begin to appreciate the seakindly hull form of the Mersey. Even at speed she doesn't slam, in this size of sea at least, but she's certainly lively. We climb sea after sea, lifting gracefully up its face, feeling weightless for a split second as we crest it in a scatter of spray and she begins to fall, and then bracing against the higher G force as she drops into the trough. Once or twice we encounter a'big one'. The climb is faster, but the give-away is the long, long drop on the other side. Still she doesn't slam, but it's best to hold on tight and have your knees bent when she does finally reach the bottom of the trough...

Spray splatters across the windscreen in a continual stream as The Princess Royal slices off the crests and shoulders them aside and the wipers and washers are busy adding their hypnotic rhythm to the pulsing roar of the engines and the sounds of the sea outside. In the wheelhouse we brace ourselves against the constant movement and grow accustomed to the noise, the faint smell of diesel fuel, lubricating oil and the other indefinable and unique aromas of a boat at sea. Unlike the older types of lifeboat the Mersey has kept us bone-dry for more than 50 miles in indifferent weather, and the crew are threatening to buy the coxswain a pair of carpet slippers. We give The Lizard a reasonable berth to starboard and as we shape a course for Newlyn the seas come further astern. Eventually we're almost running before them and I surface for some fresh air on the aft deck.

Charlie joins me and as we chat whoever is at the helm picks up a nice sea. The engine note changes and The Princess Royal starts to surf merrily down it while we enjoy the sensation of speed and controlled power. Then she takes a slight sheer to starboard, one of the stanchion bases dips into the sea and a jet of water streams aft like a fire-hose. It hits Charlie fair and square and he deflects a good part of it onto me - dry for 50-odd miles and now we' re soaking wet within sight of our destination! Newlyn, with its busy fishing atmosphere may not be the most picturesque of Cornish harbours, but it's a welcome sight to our crew.

Although still about 30 miles by sea from St Ives it is only some 10 miles by road across the narrow Cornish peninsula and is very much home territory.

It's our first port in Cornwall and wives, families and cars are waiting nearby. We fuel up again, rule one, and are whisked back across to St Ives for some food, rule two, and then make our way down to the pub run by one of the crew. Rule three is postponed for a while, the crew is home, the boat is nearly home and there's some celebrating to do...

H©nn© at last,,,,,, It's chilly in the small hotel the next morning but it's a great day nonetheless. Today at around 1200 The Princess Royal will make a triumphant entry into her home port for the first time and there's already an air of expectancy.

This is a very special day for the crew, so I decide to stay ashore and meet them on their arrival. I take them back to the boat in the District Engineer's car, which has been delivered by a plan so complicated that I don't pretend to understand it, and then go back to St Ives where the excitement can already be felt. The boathouse is already a hive of activ-ity as souvenirs are laid out for sale and refreshments made ready. No-one knows how many people will come to see the arrival, but everyone seems to know about it. Even the waitress in a small cafe had quizzed us about it the previous night...

The station's Oakley is launched to escort the new lifeboat home in traditional style and the crowds begin to gather. By 1200 there is precious little space left with a view of the bay and harbour and when The Princess Royal makes her spectacular arrival around the headland, escorted by a helicopter and chased by the Oakley, there is a spontaneous cheer.

Before The Princess Royal comes alongside for the first time the West Pier outside the lifeboat station is a solid mass of humanity.

The rest of the day flies by. The crew are mobbed by the local press, we talk to everyone in the town who is interested in lifeboats, and then eat some of the delicious titbits prepared by the local ladies. But the day is far from over - when the celebrations are finished the Mersey has to be recovered and then launched again to double-check that all is well with the launching carriage, which has been brought down by road, assembled and trundled through the streets of the town.

A sequence of events dictates the timing.

The Princess Royal's arrival was timed for high water so that she could enter the harbour and lie alongside to meet her public. Although the lifeboat can be launched at any time recovery is tricky near high water, so we must wait for the tide to fall. Before the Mersey can be recovered the Oakley must be brought ashore and housed, and this is the process which begins at 1900 in pitch darkness and a steady drizzle.

With the Oakley safely put to bed the Mersey can then be recovered, and being the first time for the shorehelpers it is undertaken cautiously and particularly carefully. Once safely ashore it is time to practice the launching procedure...

it's even darker now and the drizzle is a little more penetrating.

The Princess Royal is trundled seaward in pursuit of the retreating tide and just outside the harbour walls we find enough water to launch her into the darkness.

All that remains now is to recover her again...

The tide has retreated still further and we are some hundreds of yards outside the harbour mouth and in total darkness when the Mersey' s navigation lights come in to view and she beaches in the small surf. Now we just have to drag her clear of the water, winch all 17 tons of her on to the carriage, collect all the equipment, trundle her back inside the harbour walls, across the sandy harbour bed and up to the top of the slipway. The job is over, except of course for tidying up, washing down and stowing away...

It is a tired but contented gathering that squelches back to the boathouse just before midnight, and it's obvious that they are all proud and pleased with their new station lifeboat.

Of course she isn't quite their station lifeboat yet. There's a few more days of trials, practice and training before John Unwin officially hands her over to the station and the faithful Oakley finally steams away to the north for a stint of relief work, leaving her modern successor in sole charge at St Ives..