Dungeness: Bringing Them Home Public Post

During my visit to Dungeness in 2018, I witnessed a very special sight; a modern lifeboat ritual of the highest order.

I’d arrived at the lifeboat station on a breezy autumn afternoon after making the short hop from Rye Harbour, a little further west along the Kent coast.

If time and logistics allowed on arrival at a lifeboat station, I relished a wee recce the evening before so that I could suss the lay of the land and say hello to anybody who might be around.

This time, I got much more than I bargained for.

The car park was full, which would likely mean one of two things: the lifeboat crew had been paged to launch on service or it was exercise night at Dungeness.

As I suspected, it was the latter. The lifeboat volunteers had mustered in the crew room and were being briefed by the Coxswain.

I left them to it, sauntering outside to take in the stiffening air. It was a classically clean blue sky, wispy white clouds gently sprayed from a can above the horizon. The hot temperatures had finally calmed down but the strong winds forecast for the following day had rocked up early in this wild spot, encrusted by one of Europe’s largest expanses of shingle.

Then came the overture of swinging doors, the hubbub of banter and the familiar rustle of yellows (lifeboat slang for their waterproof clothing). The huge submersible launch tractor fired up. On the signal, the space-age Shannon class lifeboat was pushed out from the shed and crawled across the vast crunching hinterland, like a rocket to its launch pad.

Once the crew had safely launched into the calm sea, they powered into the distance. I loved the hour or two of relative peace that followed. The subtle chatter of the shore crew, the flexing breeze and the darkening sky kept me company; some time for a wander, to catch up with my thoughts, introduce myself to some folk and polish some glass ready for the next day’s photographs.

When I returned to the beach, I snatched a prized chance for a snooze on the steep shelving beach (I can sleep just about anywhere, especially on such a perfect bed).

When I opened my eyes, I was instantly aware that the lifeboat was on its way back. I sat up, arms clasped around knees, eyes gripped on the horizon. Nothing yet.

To my left, a green light appeared further up the coast. A fast green light. For the uninitiated, a green light on a vessel is the starboard navigation light — it’s a way of indicating the right hand side of the boat. There’s a red light on the left (port) side.

At this time of night, there was only one vessel around that could be travelling so swiftly. I found that lone green star thrilling, telling a story all of its own. Like reading a line on a page, we traced her along the horizon.

If that lifeboat was going to find its way back to us speeding through the inky waters, it surely wouldn’t be long before she turned, enabling us to see the port navigation light dancing alongside its green sidekick.

That’s exactly what happened. A twinkling red star to join the party. And what a surreal sight to see an 18 tonne vessel driving directly towards us, the sublime rumble of those engines drawing rapidly closer, filling the space and stealing the breeze.

I broke away from my trance, turning my head to check what was happening over my shoulder, only to see one of the most beautiful scenes on the journey so far: the shore crew standing in formation, a lone figure holding a flashing red beacon aloft.

The stature of this simple transaction of trust hit me from one direction while the lifeboat continued to charge from the other. The hairs on my neck stood on end. What a thrill!

The helmsman was driving the lifeboat towards the beach at 20 knots, aiming for that flashing beacon. In the darkness, it’s all he had. And it had to be right.

Seconds later, the lifeboat scooted up the beach with pinpoint accuracy, the displaced water chasing her stern and catching up a few seconds later. There were no surprises for the shore crew. This was run-of the-mill stuff for them.

But it was kid-in-a-sweet-shop stuff for me. Then I remembered to breathe again.

The 650hp engines continued to purr away, like a huge twin-hearted sea creature; beached but still breathing, the shingle vibrating beneath my boots.

It was one of those sublime moments from the last few years that will stay with me, a real sense of bringing them home and what it takes to be a lifeboat volunteer.

POSTCARDSDUNGENESS PRINTS