PAGE FIVE
True Historic Story's
by
David Chamberlain
Pictures and Stories are Copyright of Dave Chamberlain unless otherwise stated
A great book full of pictures and
imformation about Deal and Walmer
in days gone by. Available at
Ropers Book Shop Deal Kent
or on Ebay; Click the picture above
to visit Ebay;
The life and times of a Deal boatman in the 20th century
This book illustrates the captures of giant cod, bass, conger, thornback rays etc, from the past with almost seventy professional photographs. It contains dialogue from ex-charter boat skipper Dave Chamberlain, whose, sometimes amusing, anecdotes captures a picture that has changed over the last 50 years. The once thriving charter fleet has sadly dwindled; however, Deal is still a piscatorial paradise for many thousands of anglers who visit the pier and beaches every year. It will also appeal to anybody who is interested in a Deal boatman's point of view from working off the beach.
This is a quality book of A4 size and is printed on glossy 150gsm paper with laminated card cover. The 64 illustrations are from the late Basil Kidd's black and white photographs. Deal and Walmer's Piscatorial Past by Dave Chamberlain, photographs by Basil Kidd document the remarkable sea angling catches of the 1960 and 70s and the dramatic decline of the shore and boat fishing in the South East of England since that time.
Some readers may say that the anglers themselves did the damage with their disgraceful piles of dead cod and Pollack. Others that it was the commercial fleets who have also long gone. Whatever, the fact remains that in those days when PC didn't mean anything other than Police Constable huge rod and line catches of fish were commonplace and they were simply laid out and photographed.
Dave Chamberlain was a charter skipper in those day and he and his beach launched boat, Morning Haze plied their trade from the Deal shore - Basil Kidd, now departed, was the local news photographer who would go anywhere anytime for a big fish picture. Between them they have produced a remarkable history of the changes that have occurred to sea angling.
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THE GOODWIN SANDS
The Romans called it Lomea and Infera Insula (Low Island). Legend has it that the Earl of Godwin inherited land on it until the great sea floods of 1014 or 1099 swept everything away. Of the legend, only the floods can be verified which were possibly caused by a tsunami after an earthquake – or a strong tidal surge that was the consequence of a storm in the North Sea. Either way, the Goodwin Sands has not only been a magnet to ships as a ‘shippe swalower’, but also to people who have a strange desire to visit.
The Goodwin Sands are located off the coast of Ramsgate, Deal and St Margaret’s Bay. The shallowest part of the ten mile sandbank begins at its northern most point, five nautical miles out from Ramsgate, and ends a mere three miles from shore off St Margaret’s Bay. Over the realm of time the Goodwin Sands has probably accounted for at least 2000 shipwrecks and countless loss of lives. Ghost stories surround the sands with tales of sightings of spectral vessels being seen crashing into the surf and mysteriously disappearing when their rescuers arrive.
Regardless of all the myths, the Goodwins are a prominent feature off the Kent coast. In the past, men have tried to make use of the treacherous sandbank as a safe haven for shipwrecked mariners and also as a warning to vessels that stray too close. Admiral Bullock erected a safety beacon upon them in 1840, in the form of a forty-foot mast with a platform or gallery construction that would hold 30 to 40 mariners. This ‘Refuge Beacon’ lasted for four years until a careless Dutch vessel ran it down. Eventually the lightships that surrounded the Goodwins marked the dangers, and their crews kept an eye out for impending mishaps. Incredulously, in 2003, there was a commissioned report to turn the Goodwin Sands into a 24-hour passenger and freight airport, along with two runways!
On the northern area of the Goodwins, at low water, the sand lies exposed. All around the sandbank are ‘swillies’ or deep holes that remain filled with seawater. Elsewhere gullies and mini sand dunes are formed which will start to crumble beneath your feet. When the unwary try to paddle in the ‘fox-holes’, or the deep puddles, it is then that they feel the suction of quick sand. Nevertheless, this situation gives little fear to the alleged colony of 350 seals, however, in the past it has given cause for much concern and grievance to humans.
Even the famed Deal boatmen or ‘hoveller's’ have also been known to misjudge the conditions on the Goodwins. The large galley-punt Wanderer visited the wreck of the sailing ship Frederick Carl, which had run aground on the sandbank on the last day of October 1885. The Wanderer’s two man crew’s intention was to salvage some of the cargo. With an increasing north-east wind, the Sands started to cover as the ‘young flood tide’ swept over the banks. As the sand shivered beneath their feet the two boatmen tried in vain to make it back to their own craft. When the sea encroached up to their waists, the men realised that luck was against them – and waded back to the abandoned hulk of the Frederick Carl. After the lifeboat Mary Somerville arrived, the crew only managed to save one of the Deal men. The other was found the following day, dead, tangled in the wrecks rigging.
The desire to do the unusual has always held a fascination for some, and to visit the Goodwin Sands as a fun-day out is no exception. They have been visited by thousands over the years for various reasons, and still attract the curious. It is known that the Sands hold vast amounts of treasure, both archaeological as well as financial. In recent years a Dutch East Indiaman called the Rooswijk was found by a diver, and a believed million pound cargo of silver coins and bullion have been recovered.
Annual cricket matches on the Goodwin Sands is a myth and has only been played spasmodically over the years. The first recorded game was in the summer of 1813, which caused criticism from the public as a blasphemy against all those unfortunate victims buried beneath the rapacious Sands.
In July 2006, the BBC film crew who were making the well known television programme ‘Coast’ thought it would be a good idea to feature a cricket match being played upon the Sands. As the tide started to make, the skipper of the craft who took them out urged that they should evacuate with haste. The TV crew pleaded for another ten minutes to finish the take. That was all it took – the tide changed against a north-east wind and the surf built up and swamped the vessel and its outboard engines. Several thousand pounds of film cameras were washing about in the bilge of the disabled boat and the occupants were at risk of being stranded. It took two lifeboats from Ramsgate and Walmer, plus the rescue helicopter, to avert a tragedy. At that time, coastguard sector manager Andy Roberts summed up the situation by stating:
‘The Sands can appear safe but, if landing, very careful consideration must be given to tides, the weather forecast and the prevailing conditions. The Goodwin Sands should be treated with the utmost respect by visitors’
This advice, unfortunately, has not always been observed by many, much to their misfortune - and sometimes this endeavour has led to grief.
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The Silvia Onorato
When the fog, which had shrouded the sea off Deal on the 2nd January, 1948, had lifted the coastguard officer had spied a ship aground in the middle of the Goodwin Sands. Within nine minutes from the time the were maroons fired from the Deal coastguard station, the Walmer lifeboat had been launched.
The wind was freshening by the minute, and the sky was overcast with a drizzling rain. The crew of the lifeboat saw the ship about a mile in the distance, aground on the Goodwins with a falling tide, she was the Silvia Onorato, an Italian ship of 2,327 tons.
When Freddie Upton conned the lifeboat over the Sands he found the seas were confused and unpredictable. Different wind directions over the shoal waters of the Goodwins produces wave actions that cannot always be comprehended. The sea on this day looked as if it was boiling. When he approached the Silvia Onorato a wave, larger than the rest, lifted the lifeboat on the top of its crest. He and his crew looked down on the cargo hatches of the stranded ship as they were swept towards her. Before the Charles Dibdin hit, the wave subsided and grazed the lifeboat against the ship’s hull. It was a test for the sturdiness of the lifeboat crew.
Cautiously Freddie went along-side again, and a crewman jumped onto the Jacob’s ladder that was offered. Once aboard he had difficulty in conversing with the ships master, Captain Francesco Ruocco. The Italian skipper was brown-faced with bushy black eye-brows. His knowledge of the English language was monosyllabic and the Deal lifeboat man’s Kentish dialect did not help the situation. Ruocco’s only concern was to get off the sandbank and continue his journey. The lifeboat man explained that if he could use full power and steam himself off the bank he would be in deeper water. It was a ruse that Ruocco was prepared to try – and as his chief engineer produced all the steam he could, the vibrating ship moved forward. The whole exercise became futile as she cleared one bank; the vessel went hard up onto the next in the falling tide.
The Charles Dibdin was standing-by off the ship’s port side, however, the weather was getting worse and Upton did not want to stay that close for the low water. As he went along side to pick up his crewman the coxswain offered to take the rest of the Italian ship’s men as well. His answer was given in broken English ‘My ship, my life. Ship go, me go.’ Freddie Upton hailed the captain that the lifeboat would have to stand-by at anchor in deeper water – and if he was required urgently, send up a rocket.
Before dawn arrived, Upton had up-anchored and was in attendance around the stranded vessel while the tide made. After another futile attempt to extricate the Silvia Onorato the Italian stopped his engine from going ahead. Upton put the lifeboat as close as possible and shouted out that he had to go ashore to refuel, but would be back as soon as possible. This was done within an hour and the Charles Dibdin was again motoring back out to the Goodwins before nine o’clock that morning. Before darkness descended for the second night it was blowing a gale with heavy seas running.
Daybreak on Sunday 4th January was Freddie Upton’s 51st birthday. He would have preferred to have celebrated it ashore; nevertheless, he had a job that needed doing. He weighed anchor yet again and conned the lifeboat through the rough sea towards the ship. Again the captain refused the offer to rescue his crew. He stated that his vessel was still sound and he and his crew were happy to stay aboard.
Dave Chamberlain
After another trip ashore to refuel, get a bite to eat and a change of clothes the coxswain and crew were back alongside the stranded vessel late that afternoon. This time Freddie Upton went aboard the ship to try and convince her captain that there could be no saving of his vessel. As he climbed the ladder and stuck his head above the ship’s side he was confronted by the large head of an Alsatian dog. Upton had braved many tremendous seas and had courageously and daringly undertaken numerous rescues – but this was the most terrifying moment of his career.
After the dog had licked Freddie’s face, the captain, "in Italian", called it to heel. It was to be a very well-behaved and docile animal. The lifeboat coxswain explained all the dangers of staying aboard and tried to convince Captain Ruocco that it was pointless to remain. Again he said ‘Ship go, me go’. The Italian was adamant and Upton left the ship disappointed. The lifeboat started to leave the vessel for another night at anchor when a radio message, from Lloyds Shipping Agents, alerted them to weather warning. There was going to be a severe gale, force nine and imminent from the south-south-west, with winds gusting up to fifty knots.
The Charles Dibdin was turned about and went alongside the ship once more. With the aid of a loud hailer the lifeboat coxswain relayed the bad weather forecast. This time Upton would not take no for an answer. With the lifeboat alongside, the 28 crew disembarked from their doomed ship.
Dave Chamberlain
Almost the last to leave would have been Captain Francesco Ruocco and his Alsatian dog. However, stowaways emerged from their hiding place, they were two Germans who had secretly boarded the Silvia Onorato from the Adriatic; and were looking for a better future after the war.
It took the lifeboat fifty-five minutes to get back ashore in the worsening weather, and more than once Freddie had to knock the Charles Dibdin out of gear as her bow rose onto a huge crested wave.
Two days later the Silvia Onorato’s back broke between the bridge and funnel, the fore part of the ship listed to starboard whilst the stern section stayed bolt upright. The captain returned to this part of the wreck, for the last time, to pick up the crew’s personal possessions –which comprised mainly of wine and cigarettes.
As he said his silent goodbye to his beloved ship he wondered why no tugs had been present to help. Perhaps the answer to that quandary was possibly that the ship was 32 years old and in the past she had been mined, sunk and refloated after being submerged for four years. She also had a low value cargo.
.
Although Francesco Ruocco clearly loved his ship, apparently it was seen as a worthless rusting metal hulk to others. Either way, it was the Goodwin Sands that finally possessed her and embraced her in its clutches – never to be seen again.
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Skardon's World
Aboard the Gull Lightship
From the nineteenth and early part of the twentieth century, the Goodwin Sands lightships had a vital role of protecting mariners from the hazards that confronted them. The six crew and skipper were kept busy day and night with their duty and chores. Normally working two months on board, and being relieved with a fresh crew and skipper, weather permitting, from the Trinity House steam ship Alert. Alert would also offload stores which comprised of fresh water, coal, and lamp oil. The captain and crew would provide their own food for the duration.
During 1910, the Gull Light vessel, number 29, built in 1849, was a sturdy wooden ship of 82 feet long with a beam of 21 feet. She was painted bright red with her name along the hull in bold white letters. On deck two lifeboats secured to davits would also be used for tenders when necessary. Up towards the bow two small cannons on wooden carriages stood either side of the deck. These were used for making a signal to the shore if they saw a ship in distress. They would have a firing code which would avoid confusion and be clearly understood by the lifeboat coxswain ashore where the casualty was.
Dave Chamberlain
Around about amidships was the lantern house, with the 55 foot main mast running through it. In daylight it housed the octagonal lantern which would sit there with its eight quarter of inch thick glass panes. Inside this were 12 lamps in groups of three with shiny reflectors. The lantern house would just about hold a crew member whose job it was to clean and refill the lamps with oil every morning.
An hour before sunset, all the lamps were lit and the command of ‘Heave Up’ mustered all the crew to man the winch and hoist the lantern 30 feet above the deck. When it reached the mark, it was secured to the winch and the complicated clockwork mechanism switched on. This would activate the lamps which would revolve and give a flashing light four times every 20 seconds
As there were no portholes on the vessel the skylights on deck provided light below deck, although oil lamps were constantly lit. The skipper had his own cabin and the crew swung their hammocks from the deck beams in the forecastle. In the middle of the forecastle was a long table bolted down to the deck and with a ‘fiddle’ or a ledge along the sides to stop anything falling off.
The galley held a coal fired stove where the crew cooked and a hot kettle was almost permanently on the boil. Everything below deck was spotless and the brass work polished up. Apart from their normal duties aboard, there always had to be two men on deck watch, day and night. Even the skipper was kept busy writing up the ship’s log every three hours, stating wind direction and strength, barometer reading, temperature and weather conditions.
In times of fog a large metal cylinder on deck had to be physically pumped up on a treadle until pressure was enough to put out two blasts of the foghorn every two minutes. Although this task was strenuous, each man would only spend half an hour at a time on it; however, it was welcomed by the crew as they got extra wages. The additional money in their wage packet was known as ‘Fog-dust’ – which comprised of 2d (1p approximate) an hour for the duration.
Dave Chamberlain
Dave Chamberlain
The Gull Light Vessel number 29 was secured to the seabed by a large and heavy mushroom shaped anchor. The shape of the anchor allowed the lightship to swing and face the tide, after every change, and not foul as a normal anchor would. Although the Gull sat above the waves in around 78 feet of water, there was at least 450 feet of anchor chain let out from the windlass (winch), secured at the bow.
Even though life aboard the lightships, in those days, was a hard way of making a living, the skipper and crews seemed to cope. It was the camaraderie amongst them which kept their good humour. Occasionally they might have felt depressed at leaving their wives and children for long periods of time (one crewman had nine children). They managed to cope as their previous jobs had been deep sea sailors and they became used to accepting the situation.
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Etoile Polaire
The 278 ton Etoile Polaire was not, as would be expected with that name, a French vessel. She was a brand new, British deep-sea trawler that the Admiralty had hired on completion in March, 1915. The trawlers had already proven themselves as work-horses and she was gratefully received into the Dover Patrol to relieve their work load.
On the night of 3rd December, 1915, her short career with the navy was going to be abruptly terminated. Close to the south part of the Goodwins, a deadly mine exploded on contact with the Etoile Polaire’s hull and ripped her bows apart. The crew did not hear the vessel’s death groans, as the bulkheads gave way under the weight of sea flowing into the gaping hole in her bow. As if in a daze, the skipper and crew had hardly time to get into the small ship’s boat before Etoile Polaire sank beneath them.
The sea was rough with a fresh south-west wind; also the tide was flooding to the north-north-east, which swept the boat and men towards the Goodwin Sands. All around were the tumultuous waves threatening to swamp their rowing boat at any moment. They knew that if they capsized, they would not survive long in those freezing cold conditions.
Dave Chamberlain
With his men on the oars, the trawler’s skipper headed the row-boat into the waves, on a south-west course in a general direction of Dover. The strength of wind and tide counteracted their efforts and they soon heard the continuous beating of the surf pounding onto the Goodwin Sands. Fortunately the tide started to ease; nevertheless, they still kept up their frantic strokes on the oars. Gradually, they realised that they were making headway away from the danger - as the tide changed.
The seas grew larger as the tide got a hold against the wind. The men on the oars were only just maintaining to keep the boat’s head into the sea. As the current picked up, the Etoile Polaire’s skipper knew that he would be swept past the port of Dover. He realised that they had only just managed to save themselves from the clutches of the Goodwins – now their fate would be to die from exposure or drown.
Out of the darkness they saw the dim riding-light of an anchored ship. The skipper immediately recognized it as the South Goodwin light vessel. As the men knew their only chance of salvation would be to reach the light ship they pulled on their oars with a will. Now the seas were breaking dangerously on and into the small rowing boat. Those men, who were not rowing, were manically bailing out.
The exhausted men only just reached the South Goodwin, with their rowing boat scraping down the hull’s side with the tide. They became anxious as their hands failed to find anything to grasp on to. Their cries for help thankfully alerted the lightship crewman who had been on watch. On seeing their plight he quickly threw a rope down to them. Fortunately, for the rescued men, the vessel was still manned and had a wireless link to the shore.
Dave Chamberlain
The lightship-men tended to the Etoile Polaire’s cold sea-drenched crew, blankets were wrapped around them and they were given hot drinks. The lieutenant in command of the sunken trawler gave his heart felt gratitude and reported the loss of his trawler. By wireless his plight was relayed ashore and, shortly after, they were picked up and taken back to Dover.
Half-way through the summer of 2002, divers found an upright wreck close to the Goodwin Sands. They had dived on wrecks like this before and instantly recognised it as an armed trawler. As they swam around the rusting hulk a dull glimmer of non-ferrous metal caught their eye – it was the ship’s bell. Rubbing the green verdigris from the bell the letters ETOILE POLAIRE could clearly be seen. After 87 years the correct resting place for this trawler could now be charted.
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Deal boatman Harry Pearson
and the "Niger"
At 11.30am on Wednesday the 11th November, 1914, the small motor boat Elsie left Deal beach on a sunny autumn day. Onboard were the owner, Harry Pearson and his crewmate Thomas Heard. Pearson’s boat was one of the few on the beach that was motorised and was in demand for ship attendance work throughout the busy anchorage of the Downs. With the First World War in its early stage the Downs was being used as a Contraband Control area, forcing all ships to anchor and undergo searches for war materials that could be used by the enemy … and also spies. To enforce any reluctant vessels captains’ to comply with this order was the gunboat H.M.S. Niger.
The Niger was a torpedo gunboat of 810 tons and carried a complement of 85 men. Although she was old, being built in 1892, she had enough fire power, with her two 4.7 inch guns and four three pounders – plus three 18 inch torpedo tubes, to make any contraband runner think twice. Her presence could be seen by all as she was anchored in the fairway opposite Deal Pier.
Dave Chamberlain
Dave Chamberlain
Harry Pearson and Tom Heard were old friends and part of the lifeboat crew, with Harry as second coxswain of the North Deal lifeboat and Thomas the ex-skipper of the then defunct Walmer lifeboat. They both worked the Elsie in all the occupations that the Deal boatmen did in those days. Netting for herring and sprats in the winter, mackerel in the summer and accompanying the new trend of channel swimmers. Harry Pearson was famous for piloting the second person to ever swim the Channel, Thomas Burgess on his record swim. This particular day they were doing ship attendance work and had aboard Captain Jorgensen, the master of the sailing vessel Majorka.
The Majorka had been in collision with another ship and Jorgensen had been ashore to telegraph the owners to make arrangements for his damaged vessel. As the Elsie motored back out towards the sailing ship, Jorgensen exclaimed he had sighted a mine. Harry Pearson viewed where the Norwegian captain was pointing and stated that it was probably the mast from the steamship Adjutant, that had been sunk a week earlier in another collision.
Little did Pearson realise that what he saw was the periscope of a German u-boat that was stalking H.M.S Niger. At 10 minutes past midday, in a freshening southerly breeze, the U12 released a single torpedo which struck the Niger a fatal blow on her starboard side. Within 30 minutes the old torpedo gunboat slid beneath the sea in eight fathoms (48 feet) of water.
Later that day, Harry Pearson related what he had seen. The four feet grey like spar, which had been the U 12’s periscope, was only yards from his boat. He had motored over the stern of the submerged u-boat; and if the periscope had been raised at that time, Pearson speculated, it would have gone through the planks of the Elsie. He reminisced, in hindsight, that he could, if he had known it was a u-boat, smashed the glass of the periscope with his boathook and saved the Admiralty a loss of one of their ships. This was possibly a regret he harboured for the rest of his life.
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Loss of the British Navy
It is seldom that a lifeboat coxswain’s reputation is brought into disrepute. Nevertheless, Robert Wilds, skipper of the North Deal Lifeboat Mary Somerville, name was being bandied about the town as ‘indifference to human suffering and of cowardice’. This cut deep into a man who had and would save 222 lives from the Goodwins and the Downs. The reason for this smear was because he could not put the lives of his crew at risk, in conditions which were so horrendous it would have been madness to attempt to launch the lifeboat.
The incident that caused this slander happened on the night of 26th November, 1881. At midday, the 206 feet iron full rigged sailing ship, British Navy, was towed into the Downs and anchored-up. Forty minutes later when the Trinity House pilot left the vessel he commented to her master, Captain Skelly, that the weather looked unpromising. By 2 p.m. the wind had increased to gale force and as evening approached, in the words of the second officer, Rice Sibley, it blew a ‘perfect hurricane’ along with rain and sleet. The British Navy’s hold was full of general cargo and her destination was Sydney, Australia.
Skardon's World
As the south-west wind worsened and shrieked through her rigging the more experienced hands considered the weather was likened to that of Cape Horn. As the sea in the Downs became heavier and the strong flood tide started to get a hold, the master ordered that more chain should be released. Just before midnight and high tide, a link on the anchor chain parted. In haste the starboard anchor was let go which was to hold the ship for another hour - until a huge sea snapped that chain also. Wind and tide swept the heavily laden British Navy out of control through the busy anchorage.
Dave Chamberlain
In desperation Captain Skelly ordered his crew to set the stay and jib sails to try and steer the stricken ship out of danger as she drifted through the Downs anchorage. Within minutes the jib sheet was carried away and any steerage of the British Navy was lost. As more efforts were being made to set sail she careered into a similar size sailing ship, the Larnaca. The 1,217 tons of vessel shuddered as each hull slammed up against the other with their spars and rigging entangling.
Below decks of the British Navy the bulkheads were giving way and the doomed ship’s crew was in chaos. Sea water started to gush in filling the bilges and the men were hurriedly making for the deck. Blocks and rope were raining down from the rigging and the yards were swinging dangerously from the masts. In the turmoil the second officer had jumped ship and found himself on the deck of the Larnaca - alongside five more of his crew who had done the same.
In With a sickening sound of tearing steel the British Navy was wrenched away from the other ship and drifted down tide sinking. The storm raged throughout the night and many of the other vessels were burning flares of distress in the anchorage. From the deck of the Larnaca, men could be heard shouting from the masts of the British Navy, which were protruding above the waves from the sunken wreck … but no assistance could be given. However, at daybreak, a tug managed to save the cook and two seamen from the masts of the wreck, which were the only survivors, apart from the six men who had abandoned their deck for the Larnaca’s.
Weeks later, the salvage company, Alfred Gann and Co, recovered some of the cargo and dispersed the wreck using explosives. An interesting find on the remains of the British Navy, 90 years later, was discovered by sports divers. It was a large bell with the name Lanarca engraved on it. This mystery was solved as the wrecks story unfolded. The Lanarca survived the storm; however, the violent embrace of the two ships had displaced the other ship’s bell onto the deck of the ill fated British Navy, which was lost.
Dave Chamberlain
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The Robert Morris
Spending Christmas in the Downs, with a north easterly blow, was not everybody’s idea of how to spend the festive season of 1913. The three mast schooner, Robert Morris, had been anchored-up opposite Deal Castle for nine days; and had been awaiting a shift in the wind direction to continue her voyage to the Port of London with a cargo of copperas. On New Year’s Eve, the wind increased to a gale and her master, and owner, was finding the vessel straining against her two anchors.
Captain Robert Morris had named his ship after himself and had full confidence in her seaworthiness. However, as the flood took hold against the wind on the spring tide, the seas became heavier. At 2am her port anchor chain parted and with her starboard anchor not holding she drove down tide, to the north, with the wind pushing her shoreward.
Deal coast guards immediately saw the stricken ship’s flare and informed the crew of the north Deal lifeboat. Coxswain Adams was quick to respond. This was to be the first ‘shout’ that they had had in 7 months. It was a difficult launch in the rolling surf and the boat was swamped with water by two consecutive waves. The men struggled with the haul-off-warp and physically pulled the lifeboat through the surf and into deeper water. By this time it had started snowing, turning into a blizzard as the Robert Morris was stranded on the high tide opposite Sandown Castle.
As hard as the lifeboat tried to assist in saving the ship’s crew, Adams did not have enough water under the Charles Dibdin’s keel to manoeuvre his vessel in the teeth of the north east gale.
The coast guards had been monitoring the situation, and as the Robert Morris grounded, her bowsprit almost touched the remains of the old Sandown Castle. Coast guard John Wood rushed into the surf attached to a safety rope carrying his heaving cane (a stick with a weighted head attached to a life line). Dressed in only his uniform, the coldness numbed him as he threw the cane. His aim was accurate, and the schooners crew grabbed and secured the line. The first two crewmen had waited for a temporary lull in the waves and were successfully helped ashore. The flare that was burning on the ship and illuminating the action extinguished and cast the area into darkness. It was also the moment that the ship’s cook misjudged his jump and fell backwards into the raging surf, disappearing under the water.
Coastguard Wood plunged below the waves and obtained a hold on the cook’s arm, only to find the man panicked and put a strangle hold on him. In the pitch black turmoil, the awaiting coastguards, unaware to what had happened, hauled on the rope attached to their comrade. The ship’s cook was dragged out of the wave’s barely conscious and Wood being in a state of exhaustion and hyperthermia. The coastguards then fired a rocket over the ship and hauled the captain and mate ashore in a breeches buoy.
Within hours Wood had recovered and returned to the hulk, which was now high and dry on the receding tide, and went aboard, armed, to stop any looting. In the light of day, locals came to look at the spectacle and watch as the tug, Lady Vita, pull the Robert Morris off the beach, stern first, and towed her to the safety of the Dover Harbour.
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Then and Now
Almost every morning in 1966 the seafront from the north and south of Deal Pier used to be busy with anglers. The majority of the fishermen would be waiting to board the boats that were plying for hire along the beach. Opposite the boats, Duncan Finn’s and The Angler (almost at the top of King Street) did a good trade in fishing tackle and bait. The Lobster Pot Café (now the restaurant 81) used to satiate the anglers culinary needs with a hearty breakfast; whilst they gazed upon the Basil Kidd photos of large fish that adorned the cafes walls.
Bob Abel's Blue Line fleet at the top of KingStreet in the 1960's -- Todays view of the same position, deserted and bland
Before 1966 some of the fishing boats were north of the Royal Hotel but had to move when the sea defenses were built. The ‘Blue Line’ fleet of vessels belonging to boat builder Bob Abel plied for Hire at the top of King Street. The pride of that fleet was the newly built Sou’Wester, which was one of the only cabin boats on the beach at that time. Her dimensions were just less than 25 feet as the local Bylaw in those days did not allow a vessel over that length to trawl from Deal.
As the coastal sea defense work continued along the beach to the south, the boats either had to move or sell up. Gradually they went and their numbers became less leaving only a few boats berthed towards Deal Castle and Walmer beach. As the new splash wall is now put into place along Deal seafront, the picturesque scenes of the fishing boats as they were in the past is almost forgotten.
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Christmas on the Goodwins
In the past there were four Light vessels standing guard over the Goodwin Sands. Life on the Goodwin Lightships was mainly a routine that appropriated certain types of men. Being at sea for a month was not everybody’s idea of a perfect job, however, for many ex deep-sea fishermen and deep-sea mariners it was a suitable way to make a living. An ability to get along with your fellow crewmates was also an essential qualification.
The six crewmembers were answerable to the master, who was in turn accountable to Trinity House if things went wrong. The light vessel had to be manned 24 hours of the day, every day; and a good lookout was always necessary in foul weather conditions that often occurred in and around the Goodwin Sands. Although the crew were paid extra in their pay packets for the days when the incessant foghorn blared out they soon got used to the noise – and few bothered using the earplugs that were issued.
Another dilemma was the weather. Storms would make the light vessel not only roll but also pitch in a ‘heel and toe’ motion. Nevertheless, the men had faith in the four-ton mushroom anchor that held the ship on station and the 600,000 candlepower light that warned approaching ships of the dangers of the Sands. In their spare time they would often fish off the stern of the vessel to supplement their victuals that each man had to supply himself. The galley and quarters were spotless and every brass part on the lightship was polished to a shine … the men took pride in their vocation.
Dave Chamberlain
Dave Chamberlain
Christmas gifts being given by a Deal Boatman The crew of the lightship
Christmas was a time of celebration ashore, however, for the sentinels of the Goodwin Sands it would be another working day. The disappointment of having to spend Christmas afloat was dulled by the kindness from the population of the surrounding towns; who realised the hardships that these men had to endure to safeguard shipping. Many extra food parcels and gifts were collected along with a Christmas tree and a large turkey for distribution to the seven sailors.
Even the angling clubs contributed with Deal Angling Club adopting the East Goodwin lightship as their chosen one; Kingsdown Angling Club went for the South Goodwin, as it was closer to the club. When the weather was calm the boatmen managed to take their boats out and delivered the presents alongside the light vessel. Nevertheless, that close to Christmas the sea was normally to rough for them to undertake the trip. It was then left up to the lifeboat to make the journey with a few selected guests.
Eventually, and with technology, the Light vessels became unmanned and were replaced by large buoys that marked the dangerous sandbank. The South Goodwin was towed away on the 26th of July 2006 and of the original four ships there is only one left on watch, the East Goodwin Lightvessel. She can be viewed seven nautical miles from Deal Pier flashing a single beam of light every 15 seconds … which can be seen for 26 miles.
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COAL to DEAL BEACH
Over the years, coal has been collected from the foreshore at Deal by local beachcombers. This source of fuel was either from an open seam under the sea or from wrecked steam ships on the Goodwin Sands. Sea coal burns bright and on occasion emits dangerous sparks that could damage or even cause a house fire. Either way, coal has been an essential commodity over the centuries to provide heat and cooking facilities for the townsfolk.
Before the Kent coalfields were found and exploited, coal had to be shipped in by boats from Northumberland and Durham. These would be landed on the beach and their holds unloaded over a low tide. When St Georges Church, in the High Street, started construction in 1707 it was realised money to finish the project had run out - and means of further finance was needed. A petition from Deal to the House of Commons to tax the coal coming into Deal at two shillings a chaldron, was passed in 1716 to supplement the cash shortfall for the building. This coal duty eventually netted in a total of £2129 for the completion of the church.
Dave Chamberlain
Dave Chamberlain
A chaldron of coal was about 53 hundredweight (5935lbs) depending from where it was sourced. This was also the legal limit that a horse drawn cart should carry as it was feared that a heavier load would damage the roads! It is interesting to note that through the years of 1777 till 1785, an average amount of 3,060 chaldrons of coal per year was brought into Deal. In later times and into the 19th century, found coal boats landing their produce at Walmer beach, being exempt from paying the tax. A coal yard was situated south of Deal Castle, near the beach, and in Walmer for unloading purposes.
Before, where coal carrying ships loaded from London, where it had been obtained from Northumberland, to land at Deal, there became a specialized vessel called a collier brig built for the purpose. These small ships were of sturdy construction with a flattish bottom hull which enabled them to be beached without toppling over as the tide receded. Just before they came ashore, an anchor was released from the stern. This would facilitate the vessel to keep her bow onto the beach and pull herself off with the incoming tide. As soon as possible gangplanks were erected from the brig to the top of the beach. Gangs of labourers were then required to empty the vessel of as much as 50 tons of coal before the tide came back in and re-floated the ship.
Many of the collier brigs operated from the direct supply of their merchandise, at Newcastle upon Tyne. This trade of transporting coal from Newcastle would have carried on from the 13th century until as late as 2021 when the last shipment of 12,000 tons left the port. In the middle to late 1800’s as many as 40 landings a year were made by collier brigs at Walmer, when the weather and tides permitted. However, due to weather conditions there were occasional mishaps. With the opening of the Kent coalfields the small, yet sturdy collier brigs were not needed for their purpose. Yet their construction had, in the past, been admired and favoured by the British Navy to be used as exploratory ships, such as the Endeavor, with Captain Cook, and even Captain Bligh’s Bounty.
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Page Updated
28th January2023