Lifeboat Heroes: Outstanding RNLI Rescues from Three Centuries

by Edward Wake-Walker

  Finally, at 7.20, Moreton agreed to a Pan broadcast and the tug, Noord Holland, announced she was on her way to the Union Star, ETA two hours, a suitable salvage agreement having been reached between the two vessels’ owners. Quicker on the scene would be the Royal Navy helicopter, R80, which had been asked to scramble with the primary task of taking off the skipper’s wife and her children. The Coastguard district controller, Robbie Roberts, still delayed calling out the lifeboat; a Mayday had not been issued and no one wanted to send the crew out on a night like that unless it was absolutely necessary.

  And it was a terrible night. Guy Buurman, captain of the Noord Holland, could make no more than 4 knots into 15-20ft seas which he later said, ‘for the combination of size and steepness were the worst I have ever seen’. At the controls of the rescue helicopter, Lt Cdr Russell Smith, an American on exchange from the US Navy, encountered 80-knot winds as he headed across Mounts Bay. Below him he could see waves up to 40ft and his aircraft was being hit by sea-spray despite its altitude of 400ft.

  It was only when the helicopter located the Union Star that everyone realised how little time there was left to save the ship, or, if not the ship, at least her five-man crew and three passengers. Learning her true position — just two miles off the shore opposite Tater Dhu light — District Controller Roberts quickly calculated that only about an hour and a quarter remained before she would be on the rocks. The tug was still a good hour away and, by the time she arrived, the chances of her passing a tow so close in to the shore were negligible. The people on board the Union Star probably only had two chances now: the helicopter or the lifeboat. But the lifeboat was still in her shed and her crew only aware that they might be needed and therefore still enjoying their Saturday night half a mile away in Mousehole. It was 7.50pm when Coxswain Trevelyan Richards received the call from the Coastguard, asking him to launch without delay.

  The boathouse was alive with activity in minutes. Trevelyan Richards, known to everyone locally as Charlie, was among the first to arrive. He was 56 and a bachelor, living with his elderly mother. He commanded a great deal of respect from his crew for his unrivalled experience and skill, both as a trawler skipper and as lifeboatman for more than 30 years. Six years earlier he had been awarded the RNLI Bronze Medal after a horrendous day at sea in a hurricane hoping to rescue a crew who had abandoned ship 24 miles out to sea. Sadly there had been only bodies to recover.

  Mechanic/Second Coxswain Stephen Madron had, like his coxswain, driven straight from home. He was 33, married, with a young son and daughter and had family connections with the lifeboat going back generations. His grandfather Edwin had been coxswain at Penlee and won the Silver Medal for bravery in 1947. As well as his mechanic’s job, Stephen worked as boatmen to the local pilots.

  His assistant mechanic, Nigel Brockman, 43, had been at the Mousehole British Legion, watching the ladies’ darts match as he waited to hear whether the lifeboat would be needed. He was a fish salesman in Newlyn, having also been a fisherman and had served on the lifeboat for 16 years. He was married and one of his three sons, Neil, 17, only recently enlisted as a crewmember, was also at the boathouse to see if he was needed.

  John Blewett, 43, had not allowed a heavy cold or his daughter’s 15th birthday party, which was in full swing, to stop him from leaving the house and family and hurrying to the lifeboat station. Another Mousehole man, born and bred, he worked as an engineer for British Telecom and volunteered his expertise annually to wire up the famous Christmas lights in the harbour.

  Another true local and long-standing crewmember was Barrie Torrie, 33, a fisherman, married, with two young sons. He had just settled down to watch a film, The Lost City of Atlantis, on television when the call came.

  Kevin Smith, 23, had moved to Mousehole with his family from Yorkshire when he was young. Now a seaman aboard the Cunard vessel, Samaria, he had been at home on leave, watching the same film and nursing the after-effects of viral pneumonia until he, too, received the telephone summons.

  Gary Wallis, 22, had been at the Legion with Nigel Brockman and had been given a lift by him to the boathouse. He, too, had moved to Cornwall with his family who were from London originally and he still lived with them in the village. He worked as a fisherman out of Newlyn.

  All these men, apart from the young Neil Brockman, were regular members of the crew and were soon togged up in foul-weather gear and lifejackets and making ready aboard the lifeboat. Coxswain Richards now surveyed the less regular members of the crew who had come at the sound of the maroons, weighing up whom to take as his eighth crewman. Some he thought too old for what he suspected lay ahead and one keen volunteer, Neil Brockman, he turned down saying, ‘No more than one from a family on a night like this.’

  As those around absorbed this sobering pronouncement, another man burst into the boathouse. It was the landlord of The Ship Inn in Mousehole, Charlie Greenhaugh, who had managed to extricate himself from one of the busiest nights of the year behind the bar. Richards was very happy to take him as his eighth man. He was 46 and had served in the Royal Navy and the Merchant Navy and was a popular figure in Mousehole, having been given the honour of switching on the Christmas lights the day before.

  Even to launch the lifeboat took tremendous courage that night. Great waves were sweeping the slipway as the Solomon Browne was inched forward out of the boathouse under her own weight on the winch wire. There was a great risk she would be swept away while still on the slipway but, timing her release with utter precision, the coxswain allowed the lifeboat a full run down into a deep trough, giving her maximum momentum to power away from the rocky shore.

  Meanwhile, out at sea, an extremely dangerous operation was under way. The Royal Navy helicopter, R80, was hovering as low as the pilot dared over the Union Star in an attempt to lower the winchman to the cramped after deck so as to take off the three female passengers. It was impossible to maintain a steady hover in the violent gusts of wind and the winchman was swinging alarmingly above the coaster which rose and fell beneath him and whose mast whipped menacingly back and forth through nearly 180 degrees.

  Lower and lower the helicopter came, trying to reduce the swing on the winch wire, but after the third attempt, when the mast had missed striking the rotor blades by only ten feet, the pilot knew he would have to try another method. This involved dangling a ‘high line’ from the helicopter which could be grabbed by someone on deck and which the winchman could then use to guide himself down to the ship. But the wind and violent motion of the ship thwarted these efforts, too. Once a crewmember did succeed in grabbing the line, but then the coaster plunged into a trough and he lost his hold on it. Then, for a heart-stopping moment, the line became entangled in the mast; fortunately, the winchman was able to free it from his mid-air position but, for the second time, the helicopter had come within an ace of crashing onto the deck of the Union Star. A brief radio exchange between Lt Cdr Russell Smith and Mick Moreton followed:

  R80 to Union Star: ‘Too difficult for us as far as safety is concerned. We’re getting very close to your mast and we don’t have a long enough line.’

  Union Star to R80: ‘OK. Very much obliged for your assistance. Going to put an anchor down.’

  This was much more easily said than done but one of the crewmembers did manage to get forward to release them, risking, as he did so, being swept over the side by massive waves which broke clean over the hatch covers. The starboard cable snapped almost immediately the anchor reached the seabed. The port anchor was then let go and although it did not hold firm, its drag slowed the coaster’s drift towards the rocks. It also had the effect of turning the bow towards the oncoming seas which often would immerse the forward part of the ship and then crash against the bridge with terrifying force.

  By now, at 8.43pm, both tug and lifeboat were arriving on the scene. The Union Star’s engineer had just managed to restart one of the auxiliary generators which gave the ship electric power again and she was well lit. It did not take Captain Bu
urman, the tug skipper, long to realise, however, that the Union Star was far too close to the shore for him to manoeuvre safely to connect a towline. In any case, it was now out of the question to send one of the coaster’s crew forward to attach the line; he would have been swept away instantly. The tug could only stand off and watch the lights of the helicopter and the lifeboat as they moved in closer.

  The lifeboat had taken half an hour to travel the 2½ miles from her station. It would have been one of the most alarming passages any man aboard her had ever made. Waves were 35 or even 40 feet high, the wind was gusting to hurricane force. Only the ablest, strongest helmsman could have kept the lifeboat from capsizing in those seas. For the first time, Trevelyan Richards could be heard speaking to the Union Star over the radio:

  Penlee lifeboat to Union Star: ‘Understand you had trouble with the chopper. Do you want for us to come alongside and take the woman and children, over?’

  Union Star to Penlee lifeboat: ‘Yes please. The helicopter is having a bit of difficulty getting to us, so if you could pop out, I’ll be very much obliged, over.’

  The helicopter crew did, in fact, make another attempt to trail a high line to the ship after this brief exchange. They had attached a weighted bag at the end of the line but when, at one point, it dipped in the water, a breaking wave caught it and tore the bag from the line which then streamed away uselessly in the wind.

  The lifeboat crew would have realised now that they were the only people who had a chance of saving any lives. Advising everybody to get ready to come off, the coxswain made an approach along the coaster’s port side, his bow to seaward. The view from the helicopter, lighting the scene with spotlights from above, was of the lifeboat colliding with some force against the ship’s side and of her crewmembers throwing ropes over the rail to keep themselves alongside for as long as possible.

  Others waved furiously to the people on the bridge to make a run for it but then a huge wave reared up ahead and the lifeboat was forced to pull away to save herself.

  Coxswain Richards’ next approach was from the seaward side, drifting down towards the after end of the Union Star and holding on with ropes as long as he dared. Still no one emerged from the bridge. Again and again the same approach was tried; any weaker vessel would have long since cracked open with the force with which the lifeboat continually struck the metal plates of the heaving coaster. On one approach one of the lifeboat crew was seen attempting to board the Union Star, presumably to try to drag people physically to safety. He was pulled back, however, either by the violent motion or by his fellow crewmembers. On another occasion the lifeboat’s bow was lifted over the ship’s rail and landed with such impact on the side decking that the masthead light went out. In moments she was back in the water, her coxswain pulling away to make yet another attempt.

  By 9.20pm, the danger to the coaster, lifeboat and helicopter had become extreme. They were no more than 200 yards from the cliff. Rocks and ledges lay just beneath the surface of the water, exposing themselves momentarily in the wake of the gigantic seas that passed over them. The 300ft cliffs loomed up unseen behind the helicopter, hovering at only 100ft; the slightest contact with them would have been fatal for her crew who could feel the 100mph gusts blowing them backwards involuntarily. There were barely ten minutes left before the Union Star would be on the rocks.

  Russell Smith, at the controls of the helicopter, decided he could not stand by watching the lifeboat risking everything on each approach without having one last attempt himself at putting his winchman down to the ship. The first time he went in the flailing mast missed his rotors by no more than five feet. On the second try it came closer still and in the desperate avoiding action, the aircraft was flung back 30 or 40 yards by the wind and the winchman, Steven Marlow, swung upwards on his line and struck the underside of the helicopter. The pilot regained control and the winchman was hauled back on board, bruised but still alive. There was nothing more they could do but observe.

  To their considerable disbelief, the lifeboat below them continued with the same persistent pattern of approach, even though no one stirred from the bridge. Then the anchor chain parted. Immediately the ship slewed round, broadside to the waves and she was swept, threatening to capsize at any moment, towards the breakers on the shore. The lifeboat went after her. The first attempt to get close came to nothing; on the second approach a wave caught her and carried her right up onto the hatches of the Union Star. For a moment the lifeboat stayed there like some incongruous deck cargo, then the ship rolled and the Solomon Browne slid back into the sea stern-first.

  Even that near disaster was not enough to deter the Penlee crew from trying again. This time, at long last, the eight people aboard the Union Star realised that their only hope was to get to the rails on the lower side deck. Eight figures, clad in orange lifejackets, tumbled down the steps from the bridge and clung on to the railings, fighting to stay on board as seas washed over them and the ship played havoc with their balance. Suddenly, the Solomon Browne loomed up out of the spray and darkness and thumped against the side. Arms reached out to grab anyone within reach. When at last the lifeboat had to pull away, the helicopter crew could see that they had some survivors aboard but that there were two people still on the coaster and one, if not two, in the water.

  Then, moments later, at 9.21pm, they heard over the radio:

  Penlee lifeboat to Falmouth Coastguard: ‘Falmouth Coastguard, this is Penlee lifeboat, Penlee lifeboat calling Falmouth Coastguard.’

  Falmouth Coastguard to Penlee lifeboat: ‘Falmouth Coastguard, Penlee lifeboat, go.’

  Penlee lifeboat to Falmouth Coastguard: ‘We got four men off — look, er hang on — we got four off at the moment, er…male and female. There’s two left on board…’

  The message ended abruptly with a crashing noise. But Russell Smith could see the lifeboat still, apparently under control and heading out to sea. He took this as his cue finally to lift his aircraft out of the death trap where she had been hovering for so long and head back to Culdrose. He and his crew had been operating under extreme duress for 2½ hours and any more time airborne could have proved fatal. He had assumed the lifeboat had made the same decision to turn for home.

  At this point there was only one other witness left, the tug Noord Holland, standing off, about a mile out to sea. Her skipper, Guy Buurman, listening to the vain attempts by the Coastguard to regain radio contact with the lifeboat and watching intently from his wheelhouse, could see the Union Star right up close to the cliff and, intermittently, the lights of the lifeboat. His last view of the lifeboat was when she appeared high on the crest of a wave, silhouetted against the coaster’s lights. Minutes later, the ship suddenly went dark, the moment she was at last tumbled over at the foot of the cliffs.

  The Union Star photographed at first light on 20 December 1981. (RNLI)

  No one will ever know what calamity overcame the Solomon Browne and her crew. By the time cliff rescue teams arrived at the scene, the Union Star was already wrecked at the foot of the cliffs and there was no sign of the lifeboat. Did she turn back again to try to rescue the others? Did she lose power or control at a vital moment close to the shore? Had she been badly damaged on one of her earlier approaches to the Union Star? The wreckage gave no real clues other than that she was ultimately subjected to the most shattering and violent force imaginable. Never before has a lifeboat been smashed to smithereens in the way that had happened here. The largest portion of the boat, including the heavy engine compartment was found 300 yards to the east of the Union Star which suggests she met her fate here.

  Some of the victims’ bodies were never found. Sympathy with the grief felt by all their families, particularly the lifeboat crew’s, was universal across the UK and Ireland. The story of the disaster and its aftermath amply sustained the news media throughout the slack Christmas and New Year period. Spontaneous donations poured in for the Mousehole families who became unwilling objects of fascination with the press, not least beca
use of the eventual size of the fund in their favour.

  In many people’s minds, Trevelyan Richards and his crew, (each of whom received the posthumous Bronze Medal, to accompany their coxswain’s Gold), had paid the ultimate price of volunteering for the RNLI. The public inquiry into the disaster found that nobody could or should be blamed for their death, but supporters became all the more determined to ensure that crews were given the best possible tools for their selfless work. This positive public attitude, re-awakened by the Penlee disaster, probably helped the RNLI more than anything else in the 1980s to raise the money needed to accelerate the modernisation of its fleet. The new Penlee crew, which had re-formed, manning a relief lifeboat only days after the disaster, received a new Arun class in 1983. They and many other lifeboat crews around the UK and Ireland would have had considerably longer to wait for a more capable lifeboat without the sacrifice of the eight men aboard the Solomon Browne.

  One of the first people to step forward to be part of the new Penlee crew following the disaster was the 17-year-old Neil Brockman, son of the late assistant mechanic. He went on to become coxswain, a position he holds to this day. In 1995 he was awarded the RNLI Bronze Medal for his part in the rescue of five men aboard a trawler off Land’s End. It was a proud day for him, his family and the people of Mousehole, pointing up the indomitable spirit of Cornish seafaring blood, and reminding the world that triumph was as much a part of Penlee lifesaving as tragedy.