The advent of the First World War saw many new innovations, the most profound being the advance of the aeroplane, from something of a music hall joke to a serious fighting machine.

Returning after the dive.

The military were not slow to see its advantages and for a time its development overshadowed other even more warlike machines. One such was the evolution of the submarine. The British, with characteristic stupidity, had condemned underwater warfare as tantamount to cold-blooded murder, and definitely not sporting. The Germans however knew a winner when they saw it, and churned out hundreds of the deadly craft and soon were gaily sinking thousands of tons of British shipping while the Navy, who had never had any qualms about undersea warfare, murder or not, pointed the finger at the politicians. In the meantime the U-boats had it all their own way, and in an age before the wolf packs had been invented they sectioned off their killing grounds into huge boxes so that each submarine had a set target area. One of the best was the box that encompassed both the Eddystone and Start Point. Nearly every ship that passed up the Channel had to come through this box, and on the night of December 18 1917 the armed British merchant steamer Riversdale was to be no exception.

Inside one of the holds.

Built in 1906 by J Blumer & Co of Sutherland, the Riversdale was 317 feet long with a gross tonnage of some 2805 tons, and was en-route from the Tyne to Savona in Italy loaded with a cargo of coal. Lurking in her path was the German submarine U.B. 31 commanded by Oberleutnant Bieber. As the Riversdale came abeam of the Start Light, Bieber picked up the noise of her single crew and rose to periscope depth to have a look. There in the pale moonlight he could see the cargo vessel plainly silhouetted, steaming slowly towards him. As the Riversdale came within range, Bieber loosed a torpedo which struck the vessel, causing such an explosion that Bieber, confident the Riversdale would sink called off the attack and hightailed it north east towards Dartmouth, where he caught up with another collier, the Alice Marine, and sent her to the bottom.

Peering into the anemone clad hull.

Meanwhile the Riversdale had surprised herself and her crew by staying afloat and her skipper, Capt. Simpson, was now battling to get her safely to the shore. In this he succeeded, finally running her aground near Prawle Point. Luckily the weather was in his favour, and apart from one crewman lost in the initial explosion, all the rest of the crew were saved. Salvage experts quickly arrived on the scene and soon decided that with a bit of effort the Riversdale could be saved. To this end bulkheads were shored up and compressors were installed to get rid of the water and keep a check on leaks from the patch that had been hastily cobbled together around the torpedo hole. Tugs were sent for, towing arrangements made, and with a mounting sense of confidence the Riversdale was pulled off the rocky shore. She came off without too much trouble, but before the vessel had gone more than a thousand yards the patch blew off and the Riversdale gently sank, nice and upright in about 42 meters of water. As she hit the bottom her bow broke away and in later years her superstructure was wire swept and dispersed.

Coming up towards the light.

Even with all the wire sweeping, this wreck still sits up 45 feet or so from the seabed and so is quite easy to find once you have sorted out where the marks for the marks are. This bit of coast is rather bland, so study the photos carefully and then confirm with your echo sounder. If you are hooked, then you are on it because there is nothing else in the area and the seabed is just sand. The visibility on the Riversdale is usually very good, 20 to 30 feet being the norm, and because it is in a relatively sheltered area it can be dived on most occasions. However the tidal streams in this area are very strong, so slack water is by far the best time to dive her. Once on the wreck you will find that in someways it is very reminiscent of the James Egan Layne a few years ago. The wreck is virtually still intact and has massive holds that you can swim into just like the Egan Layne. Since it is a good bit deeper however, it is not as light inside the holds and your exit points are limited, so distance reels are very necessary. At the stern the wreck still has its great iron propellor supported by huge brackets, and it is here that you probably get the best indication of her size as you swim from the deck, down over the stern to the prop and the sand below. Scattered around the wreck is part of its cargo of coal, and local divers quite often raise some in sacks for their own use. A nice bonus this, I always think, as this type of coal always seems to burn with a weird green and blue flame. Smashing on a dark, cold night.

The fish life on this wreck is not as prolific as others in the area, maybe because it is heavily fished by anglers. Once again there are a lot of old lines hanging around, so make sure that your knife is sharp. All in all the Riversdale is one of my favourite ‘deep’ wrecks because it is easy to find, nice and intact, and has that feel about it that makes you think you are going to find something really nice. To date no such luck. But one day, who knows?

In the 18th century, shipwreck was very much a way of life for many villages along the south Devon coast. The sheer poverty of the inhabitants is hard to imagine nowadays, but for many, even the provision of their next meal was filled with uncertainty. It is no wonder then, that when news of a shipwreck was heard, hundreds would flock to the clifftops in all weathers so as not to miss an event which could keep their bodies clothed and fed for nearly a full year. For the seafarer however, shipwreck meant only one thing, death and a pretty nasty one at that.

Still life was pretty cheap in those days, but late in the evening of 14th February 1760 a shipwreck occurred near Bolt Tail whose loss of life was so great, that even today its awful memory still lingers on.

Artists impression of the Ramillies.

The ship was the Ramillies, a 90-gun ship of the line, whose main claim to fame was that she had been in almost continuous service for ninety-six years. Originally built at Woolwich in 1664 as the 82 gun Katherine, she was rebuilt twice, renamed the Royal Katherine, and finally as the Ramillies in 1749, was given another 18 guns which brought her all up weight close to 1700 tons.

In 1760 the British were busy blockading the French sea ports and on the 6th February the Ramillies in company with several other ships sailed from Plymouth to join Admiral Boscowan’s Channel fleet. By the 14th, a violent southwesterly gale had sprung up, scattering the fleet and causing the Ramillies to heave-to in order to make repairs to her badly leaking hull.

The gale pushed her steadily eastwards until Bolt Tail came into sight. The sailing master, thinking that he was back off to Plymouth, mistook Bolt Tail for Rame Head and advised the Captain to run for the shelter of Plymouth Sound. As the Ramillies stood into what was really Bigbury Bay, the terrible truth dawned on the sailing master and he frantically called for full canvas as he attempted to turn the ship around.

Inside the cave is one of the cannons.

He never really had a chance. Under the huge press of canvas the main mast crashed to the deck, closely followed by the mizzenmast. Most of the sails were now in shreds, so after dropping the anchor in order to prevent the ship becoming completely embayed, the rest of the wreckage was chopped up and thrown over the side.

Without any masts the Ramillies rode easier and with another anchor down the situation seemed almost under control. In all the panic however, it was not noticed that the anchor cables had got tangled and were continually chaffing. Soon one of them broke, and the other was not strong enough to hold the vessel in the huge seas. The sheet anchor was dropped as a last resort, but the Ramillies was doomed. She ripped past Bolt Tail and smashed her stern right into a large cave at the bottom of the cliffs.

The cannon has been worn smooth by the wave action in the cave.

People started dying almost immediately. Some were smashed to a pulp on the rocks; others just tossed into the heaving seas where they speedily drowned.

Almost at once the Ramillies started to break up. The last person to leave the stricken vessel was William Wise who later described the wreck as "drove into such small pieces that it appears like piles of firewood". That terrible night over 700 died, crushed or drowned at the foot of those unclimable cliffs.

The next morning the coast around Hope Cove was full of wreckage and the floating corpses kept coming ashore on each successive tide. The looting was fearful and to this day many of the old houses still have something of the Ramillies built into them.

Ramillies Cove is marked on most maps, but that is not where the wreck lies. The remains of the Ramillies lie instead in the next cave to the east.

Ramillies Cove

The cave is at least eighty feet high and goes in quite a long way. The seabed is made up of rock and sand, and right at its entrance, in about twenty feet of water lie three iron cannons. They are very corroded but quite unmistakable.

The undersea floor of the cave steps up about five feet here, and at the base of this rise, almost hidden in the sand lies part of the Ramillies massive wooden rudder. The only other things in the cave are some pieces of lead sheet, which presumable were used to line the ships scuppers; but just outside are all sorts of bits and pieces. There is plenty of iron crudded into the rocks and several larger pieces show quite clearly the hollows where cannon balls were stowed. Pieces of broken bottle, copper nails, and of course cannon balls are still to be found amongst the rocks, and further out still, in only thirty feet of water lies some of the hull.

The diver is holding onto a piece of the wooden hull.(Sorry about the time stamp)

I was really surprised at this. After over 200 years, I would have thought that it would have been smashed up completely, but not so. There is only about a ten foot piece that sticks up out of the sand, but it is nearly four feet high, and still more pieces of wooden keel are to be found half buried amid the sand and rocks. What’s more, some of it is lined with lead sheeting.

Seeing that really made this wreck come alive. To think that after over 200 years you can still touch part of the hull of a ship that started life way back in 1664.

After the dive the thing that you notice most of all, apart from the scenery, are the masses of seagulls wheeling in squadrons around the clifftops. Why so many? Well they do say that the seagulls are really the souls of the dead, and where else would they go?

The Poulmic is a very popular wreck and is dived by hundreds of divers each year. Most of them only see what they expect to see, so these three stories might encourage you to look harder at what at first sight is just another wreck.

• The Poulmic Wreck
• The Wreck with No Name
• Mines on the Poulmic

Four million tons of rock and thirty years in the making, Plymouth’s free standing Breakwater, the first of its kind was one of the greatest engineering feats of the age, and was vital in maintaining Britain’s sea power at a time when Napoleon’s army rampaged allover Europe. Without its shelter the great anchorage of Plymouth Sound could never have supported the Royal Navy in its blockade against the French ports, without which the final victory at sea would have been impossible.

Sunset over the Breakwater.

Throughout two World Wars Plymouth forged a long and successful partnership with the Royal Navy which still exists today and is the bedrock of the prosperity that the city now enjoys. None of this could have happened without the Plymouth Breakwater. The struggle to build it in the teeth of fierce storms and the ever present threat of a French invasion. the ships that were wrecked because of it, and the underwater life that now depends upon it.

• The Plymouth Breakwater
• Abelard
• Yvonne
• The Old Lady, the Barquentine and the Ghost
• Lancaster Bomber
• Hopper Barge 42
• U.S.Navy L.S.T. 493
• Project Glaucus

All these tales and more are interwoven in this fascinating video to tell what came to be known as “The Great National Undertaking”.

The Persier, originally built in 1918 as the War Buffalo, was a World War British Standard B class ship of 5,030 tons. She was built in Newcastle by the Northumberland Shipbuilding Co., and on her completion in 1919 she was sold to the Belgium Maritime Co., and renamed the Persier. She traded allover the world and took part in the Dunkirk evacuations during 1940. In that same year she was bombed whilst anchored near Oban. Thankfully the bombs missed the Persier, but the explosions did some damage to her hull, a fact which unfortunately went unoticed at the time. Sailing in convoy on her way back from Baltimore, heavily loaded with steel and dismantled vehicles, she began to leak. As the leaks became more serious, she was forced to stop several times to seal them.

The Persia in happier times.

Hampered by snow and the icy fog that prevailed in the Atlantic during that February of 1941, she started to fall behind the convoy until she was left all alone. As the weather worsened, her cargo shifted and a huge wave brought down the foremast, which smashed open No.2hatch. Immediately water started to pour in, and as she staggered from wavetop to wavetop her steering system broke down, closely followed by her electrical system. With most of the lifeboats smashed, and water pouring into her, it was with something like relief that the ” Persier finally went aground near Halvidru, on the coast of Iceland.

For fourteen months she lay stranded in Iceland whilst salvage experts worked to get her reasonably seaworthy. At last in May 1942, she was towed back to England and putin dry dock for further repairs. Early in 1943 the Persier was back in service, but after only five voyages she was designated to be sunk as a blockship on the Normandy beaches. As is usual in these cases, a change of orders came only after the Persier had been stripped of all her fittings, and great holes cut in her to facilitate her sinking. However, all this was put to rights, and on the 8 February, 1945 the Persier set sail from Cardiff with sixty-three people on board in convoy BTC 65.

Some of this wreck is just a great scrapheap.

Because of the rough weather, the convoy was forced to shelter at Lundy, and then Clovelly. By 11 February (not the Persier’s best month) the convoy was at the Eddystone, right in the middle of the U boat’s favourite killing ground. A lookout saw the periscope, but he was too late. The torpedoes were already running. The first prematurely exploded in front of her ,and the second narrowly missed her stem. But the Persier’s luck had run out. At5.25pm the third torpedo exploded in No.2 hold, and she started to list heavily. The Captain stopped the engines and ordered the boats to be lowered. On his inspection he found that the frontholds were completely flooded, so he ordered the ship to be abandoned.As the bows started to sink the stern rose, and a defective steam valve restarted the engines.

Most of the lifeboats, by now full of people, had clustered about the stem and so were chopped to pieces by the Persier’s spinning propeller. The Persier slowly moved away from the ensuing chaos, leaving the remnants of her crew marooned onboard.The escort vessels, seeing their plight soon closed with the Persier, whose engines had by now stopped. This happy state of affairs was short lived however, because of HMS Cornellium dropping depth charges in the near vicinity. The shock waves again starred the Persier’s engines, and off she went again, slowly sinking by the bows. The escort vessels managed to get the rest of the crew off, and left the Persier slowly steaming towards her fate. When the morning arrived she was nowhere to be seen, and was listed as “torpedoed and sunk off the Eddystone”.

Diagram of the War Buffalo drawn by Wilf Dodds who seved on these types of ship.

The records stayed like that until 1969,.when a fisherman using an echo sounder, and his nets, found a large wreck in Bigbury Bay. After some exploratory dives the ship’s bell was brought up, and on it was the name ‘War Buffalo’. So, gradually sinking, but with her engines still slowly running, the Persier had staggered towards the coast. Maybe she remembered that other February night, when again full of water she had struggled to reach the Icelandic coast. This time however, she foundered long before she reached the safety of the shore, and since there was to be no reprieve, Bigbury Bay became the Persier’s final resting place.

Now a days the wreck of the Persier or War Buffalo, call her what you will, has become one of the West Countries best known dive sites. The Persier lies fairly upright on a sandy bottom in about 96 feet of water. She lies roughly north to south, with a large rocky reef about 25 yards to the west of her. The bows and srem are in fairly good shape, but the midships section is a bit of a shambles. This is most probably due to periodic scrapping, and the severe storms of the past couple of winters. The visibility is usually about 15 to 20 feet, and the first thing that you notice are the fish. The wreck is absolutely teeming with them, and they all seem to be a good deal bigger than anywhere else. The bows section appears huge, stretching up and away from you. As you swim over it you see large expanses of steel decking disappearing into the gloom. Finning along this steel plain, pushing through the shoals of fish you arrive at two massive boilers. As you start to examine these yourealise that 15 feet below you is another exposed deck level with all sorts of interesting holes to explore. Further aft the steel plate gives way to large areas of twisted and jumbled girders. All in all it’s a very good dive, and there’s still lots to see. But, with a bottom time only about twenty minutes, you have hardly got time to get your bearings. This most probably accounts for the Persier’s popularity. It’s a very impressive wreck, but it needs several dives to appreciate it fully.

Just before the turn of the century, in spite of all the advances made by steamships, sailing vessels of all shapes and sizes still carried the bulk of Britain’s trade. Whilst fast clipper ships like the Herzogin Cecillie were undoubtedly the glamour boys, sailing barques like the Oregon were the ships that made up the backbone of England’s merchant marine, and carried cargo’s all over the world, often in appalling weather. Today we think that deadlines and clockwatching are modern diseases, but even in those days cargo’s had to be delivered on time or the Captains were likely to be sacked on the spot, especially if the owners lost money. The pressures on the Captain were immense, especially if he had shares in the cargo. With navigation still a chancy business in confined areas like the English Channel, mistakes were bound to happen and if cast on a lee shore like South Devon’s these mistakes usually proved fatal.

On December 18 1890 the Oregon, a steel hulled three masted sailing barque of 810 tons, was in the last stages of her voyage from Iquique in Chile to her home port of Newcastle loaded with a cargo of nitrate of soda. As she came up the Channel towards Falmouth the weather deteriorated with fierce squalls of rain lashing the ship, and her skipper, Capt. Lowe, decided to put into Falmouth to pick up a Pilot. He left later that evening and raced up towards Plymouth in the freezing gale force winds and tumultuous seas, with the night seemingly getting darker and darker. With visibility cut down by the now torrential rain, the Oregon weathered Rame Head and set course for Bolt Head.

This is not the Oregon but the Cutty Sark. She was very similar to the Oregon and is seen here loading at Chile.

Now if you have ever been on this bit of ocean you will know that it is very easy to actually steer for Bolt Tail instead of Bolt Head, a course that will bring you into the last bit of Bigbury Bay. Why Capt. Lowe and the Pilot made this elementary mistake we shall never know, although in the weather conditions that they encountered it would have been easy enough. What we do know is that late that night the Oregon struck the Book Rocks just off Thurlestone Beach. Capt. Lowe immediately ordered the ship about and managed to claw off the rocks before becoming impaled by the sharp granite reef. Alas his prompt action was to no avail, as the Oregon was badly holed and taking water in very fast. Realising that he would have to abandon the vessel, Capt. Lowe ordered the lifeboats lowered. The first boat was swamped by the huge seas and immediately sank, but the other boat was successfully launched and Capt. Lowe and all his crew managed to scramble into it without losing anybody in the process.

For twelve hours they floated on the stormy sea in complete darkness. With the wind howling and the huge seas crashing down onto the boat it must have been a nightmare. At last one of the crew spotted a light on the shore. It was a local labourer who had heard the barque striking, and with his lamp he guided the Oregon’s lifeboat safely to the little fishing village of Hope where the inhabitants took in the by now nearly dead crewmen and made them comfortable in their own homes. Meanwhile the Oregon, swamped by the mountainous seas, sank soon after her crew left. For her there was to be no safe haven at Hope Cove.

The wreck can be very pretty.

Nowadays the remains of the Oregon lie in 110 feet of water on a flat sandy bottom, and are extremely difficult to find. The marks although easy to locate, allow a certain parallax error, which means that once on the marks you will have to switch on your echo sounder and use that to pinpoint the wreck. It is not easy, but if you are successful the dive is certainly worthwhile providing the visibility is reasonable. The wreck lies as she sank with the bows the most prominent and intact feature, with a large anchor lying nearby in the sand. The Oregon’s sides have collapsed leaving the inside of the hull exposed with all her ribs and keep posts showing, and across her lies one of the masts. She is a very compact wreck and easy to get around in the limited time.

Underneath the rusting iron plates of her hull live quite a number of lobsters who obviously do not see a lot of divers, and small congers also become quite inquisitive when you peer underneath some of the hull plates. Pollock and pouting shoal about this wreck in some numbers, and on the bows some very nice plumrose anemones are attached. Because the wreck is so compact you can hover above it and get to see nearly all the wreck spread out before you, and that is a sight that is worth waiting for.

Searching in the crannies.

If you have dived on other sailing vessels like the Herzogin Cecillie, you will get some idea of their relative sizes, and realise how lucky the crew were to get off before she sank. On this wreck however, visibility is all. If the visibility is bad then you will just not appreciate what a pretty little wreck this is. So it is well worth picking your time, preferably a flat calm sunny day, near slack water, and no rain for a few days. (The mouth of the nearby River Avon drops tons of silt over the area after heavy rain). Winter is a very good time if you can crack the cold, as the water gets that wonderful ice blue quality and fifty-foot visibility is a real possibility. By the way, do not be misled by reports that the Oregon is just a few rusting iron plates. The people who say this usually cannot find the wreck. Go and see for yourself.

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Of all the ships that have come to grief on the Shagstone, the steamer Nepaul was by far the largest. Owned by the P & O Steam Navigation Company, and used by them as a Royal Mail steamer, the Nepaul was 375 feet long, and had a gross tonnage of 3536 tons. Besides the mail, the Nepaul could carry nearly 160 passengers, as well as a substantial general cargo. Built in 1876 and capable of fourteen knots, she was used on the Calcutta route and had already been involved in two serious mishaps. In 1877 whilst off Shanghai, the Nepaul rammed and sunk a Chinese transport ship, causing the death of over a hundred people. Eleven years later her unfortunate Captain suffered a fatal heart attack when his ship struck a rock during the approach to Marseilles. The Nepaul’s damage however, was slight, and she was soon refloated.

The Nepaul

In December 1890, the Nepaul on a voyage from Calcutta to Plymouth had called at Marseilles where most of the passengers disembarked. As she headed on towards Plymouth, the Nepaul safely passed the Lizard and encountered a slight fog as she came up the Channel. However, at about seven o’clock on the evening of 10 December, the Eddystone light was clearly sighted and Captain Brady set a course that he thought would bring him into Plymouth Sound. It was the custom in those days for a Pilot cutter to be waiting somewhere off the Breakwater ready to guide ships safely into harbour. Unable to find a cutter in the vicinity of the Breakwater light, Captain Brady decided to steer for the eastern end of the Breakwater in the hope of finding one there.

The Nepaul

Although the fog was still fairly thick, the lights of Plymouth were plain to see and the Captain had no reason to doubt his ships position. Very soon a small light became visible, bobbing in the darkness some distance in front of the Nepaul. Assuming that this was the missing Pilot cutter, Captain Brady headed towards it at full speed. It was only when one of the crew reported ‘breakers ahead’ that the awful truth began to dawn on him. He quickly ordered half speed but by then it was too late. The Nepaul hit the reef to the east of the Shagstone, tearing away her forefoot. Her momentum was such that she swung right around, and ended up firmly grounded with her stern pointing towards the shore. Distress rockets were immediately sent up, all boats were lowered, and the Nepaul’s watertight doors firmly shut. The Pilot cutter, which ironically had been at the eastern end of the Breakwater, was the first to assist and later landed all eleven passengers at Millbay Docks. It was later surmised that a small trawler, the Baroda, had grounded near the Shagstone, and that Captain Brady had mistook her light for the Pilot cutter’s.

In any event no lives were lost, and because the Nepaul had struck at low tide, the chances of refloating her on the next high tide seemed very good. Unfortunately nobody realised the full extent of the damage. The Nepaul had ripped out most of her bottom, rendering the watertight doors useless. When the tide started to rise, so did the water inside the ship. It soon reached the boilers and put out their fires. Without steam the pumps could not work, and the situation soon became desperate. The crew had by now become thoroughly alarmed, and almost to a man deserted the ship, leaving the Chief Engineer to stoke a small donkey boiler on deck in a vain attempt to keep some of the pumps working. When the tide reached its highest point, the water had reached the level of the Nepaul’s main deck, and it became apparent that further effort was futile. The Nepaul had quickly become a total loss.

Picking up pottery on The Nepaul.

Today the remains of the Nepaul are well broken up and lie widely scattered along the bottom of the reef to the east of the Shagstone. The depth here is less than thirty feet, and the bottom consists of large kelp covered rocks leading down into sand. The visibility is usually in excess of twenty feet, and once one piece of wreckage has been located it is a fairly easy matter to find more. However, because of the rocky nature of the bottom, and the rapid marine growth, quite a lot of the wreckage is well disguised. It is quite easy to swim into a rib section and not immediately realise what it is. Having said that, there are other pieces that are unmistakable. Part of a funnel, fairly large pieces of hull and ribs, and sections of masts and derricks. There are even the remains of the donkey boiler that the Chief Engineer vainly kept burning all those years ago. On a wreck like the Nepaul often the most interesting finds are the small items of everyday use. A fork or spoon, a brass door handle, inkpots, and of course pottery. This site is littered with broken pottery, and if you are very lucky, and have a keen eye, you might be able to pick up a shard with the P & O crest on it. On the other side of the Shagstone reef lies part of the bows and forefoot surrounded by coal and clinker from the Nepauls boilers. Further up towards the Shagstone itself is some more wreckage but that, most likely, belongs to another smaller steamer called the Constance.

With its good visibility and prolific marine life, the Nepaul is an excellent novice dive, and because of its shallow depth it becomes a very good second dive for the more experienced.

When France finally fell to the invading Nazi Hordes, most of her still powerful Navy became immobilised in various ports around the world, awaiting the decision of its government whether to surrender to the Germans or place their vessels at the disposal of the hard pressed Allies. Meanwhile the French Government was in crisis. Some members fled to England, others decided to cooperate with the Germans and so formed the Vichy government which was roundly condemned by the so called ‘Free French’ under a little known general called De Gaulle.

Some of the warships siezed by the British.

Whilst all this was going on, the British under Churchill, decided to take matters in hand and promptly commandeered at gun point the French fleet stationed at Aboukir, an episode, that even today, still rankles. The Allies then went on to commandeer every other French vessel that it could lay its hands on. One of these was the cargo carrier the Medoc, 273 feet long, 34 feet wide with a displacement of 1166 tons, the Medoc was loaded with ammunition, mostly 3.5 shell cases and cordite when she approached the vicinity of the Eddystone on the afternoon of 26 November 1940.

Me, with a shellcase from the Medoc.

A lookout spotted an aircraft coming towards the ship but decided that it was friendly. He soon realised his mistake when the plane opened fire and raked the Medoc with machine gun fire. As the plane turned away into the gloom of the late afternoon the crew thought that they were in for a lucky escape. However the enemy aircraft was just getting its act together. This time as it flew towards the Medoc it rattled off a couple of bursts with its machineguns and then dropped a torpedo with devastating effect.

The Medoc sank like a stone. So quickly did she go that all thirty nine of her crew perished with her. Today the Medoc lies way down, 150 feet to the bottom. She is still more or less upright and situated in position 50 15 06 north 04 14 10 west.

The ‘identity’ ring.

Make no mistake; this wreck is well worth the effort. Local dive skipper Roger Webber in his promotional blurb describes this wreck as ‘dripping with portholes’ and he is absolutely right. On my one and only dive on the Medoc I counted five portholes, and I was only in the middle. As I said earlier, the Medoc lies more or less upright and does not show all that many scars of battle. She has a small bridge situated towards the rear that you can swim in and out of and look at the hole where the compass binnacle was discovered. This was a significant find because up until about 1984 nobody really knew what the identity of the Halfway wreck really was. The ring around the binnacle had the maker’s name on it, and from this a positive identification was made.

Big Malc with the steam whistle.

If you swim towards the bows you will come across one of the holds that is chock full of shell cases. These are all empty and so make good souvenirs. (Make sure you remove the percussion caps at the bottom). They are however quite heavy and more than one diver has had to jettison his shellcase during the long assent. By far the best way is to tie them on the line and so do your decompression in comfort. The Halfway wreck is a favourite with the charter boat fishing skippers and as such is festooned with fishing tackle. It is difficult to see the fine line and the hooks seem to snag you all the time. Although the wreck is relatively small, it gives the impression of a much larger wreck, probably because of its depth and so it is difficult to find out just where you are on it.

Decompressing with a plate found on the wreck.

However although the Medoc is deep the visibility is usually quite good, about twenty feet, so you might not know where you are on her but you can at least see what you are doing. And there is plenty to see. Although the steam whistle, binnacle and telegraph have long gone the bridge is still largely intact, the holds are still full of shell cases, and portholes seem to be all around. This is all largely due to the fact that the Medoc is a deep and difficult wreck to find and so not that many divers venture out to her, and of course those that do just cannot spend enough time on her unless they get organised. So there the Medoc lies. A deep wreck, hard to find and so largely untouched. Definitely not one for the casual plunger. But if you are the serious sort of wrecker and you can get your team organised, then I think you will find the Halfway Wreck very interesting indeed.

Ordinary Seaman Albert Joseph Brice.

I am very gratefull to Mr. J.S.Morris for providing this photo of Ordinary Seaman Albert Joseph Brice, who was the uncle of Mr. Morris’s wife. Brice was on the Medoc when it was torpedoed, and he was killed aged just twenty seven years old. Ordinary Seaman Brice had only been married for six months and lived in Bristol. Shortly before the last voyage of the Medoc he had returned home to visit his mother who was dying before rejoining the ship. I am grateful to Cliff Gilchrist for the photo, and information about his Great Uncle John Wilson Simpson.

John Wilson Simpson.

John Wilson Simpson was born on the 23rd October 1919 in Dunnet, Caithness (the most northerly point in Scotland – not John O’ Groats as many people think). So he was only 21 years old when serving as an Able Seaman on the Medoc. His parents and his 3 sisters were only informed that his ship had been torpedoed in the English Channel.

I suppose all of us go through phases with our favourite divesites, and at the moment one of my favourite dives is the Maine, wrecked just outside Salcombe. I first read about this wreck way back in the 1960’s when it was first discovered by the Torquay branch of the B.S.A.C. who later went on to recover its magnificent bronze prop. This was a tremendous achievement back in those days, and even now there are not many clubs that can match it. The Maine (she actually started lift as the Sierra Blanca) came to a sticky end on a misty day in March 1917, when a torpedo from a lurking U. boat hit her in the port side, round about her number two hold when she was about ten miles off Bolt Head. The Maine, a 3600-ton cargo ship, was loaded with horsehair, goatskins, and five hundred tons of chalk, outward bound from London to Philadelphia. Very soon the holds started to fill up and Captain Johnson, after sending off distress signals, set course for the nearest land in a vain attempt to beach her.

The Maine, formerly the Sierra Blanca.

The crew of forty-three must have been terrified that the U. boat would finish them off, but for some reason the U. boat never pressed home his attack. He was either very confident or just lost the Maine in the mist. In any event it did not really matter because that one torpedo was going to be enough to sink the Maine. As the miles drifted slowly by the Maine became more and more sluggish until the water level rose high enough to drown out the engines. As the Captain ordered the lifeboats swung down and prepared to abandon ship, the Royal Navy torpedo boat appeared out of the mist and soon took off most of the crew. Because Hope Cove was by now so close, the Captain of the torpedo boat offered to try and tow the stricken steamer to safety. However, by now the Maine was almost half full of water and the towropes kept parting under the terrible strain. After a while the main bulkheads collapsed, and the Maine sank slowly and gracefully to the bottom about two miles off Bolt Head.

The Barbastel winches up the Maine’s bronze prop.

Nowadays the wreck lies upright on a bed of fine shale and sand in approximately 110 feet of water, and is not as well dived as she might be. This is largely due to the fierce tidal streams that run in this area, making it impossible to dive on the Maine except two hours after, or two hours before high water. Even then you only have about forty minutes before the tide starts turning so you have to get it right. The marks for the wreck are very good except for the fact that the Hamstone blends in very easily with the mainland in the background. Once you pick up the marks however you just cannot miss it. A lot of people thing that they have however, because they forget that the tide is now completely slack and so they sometimes have difficulty in ‘hooking’ the wreck in a small boat because the anchor tends to just go straight up and down. Still if you trust the marks you will be right in the middle.

Swimming through the jumble of metal.

Underwater the Maine is a fantastic sight. Because of the sandy bottom and slack water, visibility is often thirty feet or more, and the sunlight bounces up from the seabed illuminating all the dark holes deep inside the wreck. You can swim down inside the holds and gently push your way through the shoals of pouting and pollack, then glance over the side of the hull through a myriad of fish to the seabed below. The boilers are massive, and on top of them are large round brass valves gleaming duly in the sunlight. Down by the side of the boilers is a jumble of metal that once was the engine room. You realise this when you look through some of the gaps and see large con rods with big brass bearings on them. As you make your way towards the bows, there are other smashed in holds to swim down into littered with scrap iron and broken railings. Small brass and copper fittings are to be found here as well, but they are all well fastened, and to be honest as soon as you see one your buddy usually distracts you by wildly waving in the direction of a better one, so it is often a case of coming up empty handed because you cannot make a decision about which bit to take off.

Part of a small winch.

Mind you, in a way that is all to the good. The Maine has probably survived in such good condition because of the simple fact that it is an awkward wreck to dive on because of the tides. Often, on a smashing summer’s day we have been the only boat on her. Still the Maine is one of the West Country’s ‘classic wrecks’, and if you get an opportunity to dive on her, take it, because her unspoilt condition cannot last forever.

All along South Devon, the coast is dotted with various outcrops of rock called ‘Mewstones’, and because they invariably stand at the entrance to busy ports or harbours, each one seems to have its own crop of shipwrecks. The pair of Mewstones standing guard outside the entrance to Salcombe Harbour are no exception, and since they lie in the middle of a particularly notorious stretch of coastline, (Bolt Tail to Prawle Point) it is remarkable that many more ships have not been smashed to pieces on their uncompromising rocks.

The Liberta hard aground on the rocks.

In 1926 however, on a foggy February Sunday evening, the Mewstone was about to claim its first victim for some years, the Italian steamer Liberta. The Liberta, a 375 foot steamer of some 4073 tons had been built by Barclay Curle of Glasgow in 1900 as the Vermont, and was on her way from Spezia to Rotterdam in ballast. The intention of her master, Capt. Achille Moscatillii was to pick up a cargo of coal and return to Italy. Unfortunately for him he ran foul of the English Channel’s weather, and ended up blundering along the coast of Devon completely lost. On Sunday, February 14th, Capt. Moscatillii not only had fog to contend with, but a southwesterly gale that blew his ship unerringly towards the rocky coast near Salcombe. In an effort to fix his position in the dense fog the crew took frequent soundings, and since these showed a consistent depth of over twenty fathoms, they assumed that all was well and that they were well south of where they actually were.

Some of the crew being rescued.

Whilst they were all no doubt congratulating themselves on their good fortune the Liberta quietly ran aground, passing inside the Little Mewstone and the shore, ending up stuck between both Mewstones. There was very little panic as the grounding had been quite gentle, however the problem was where on earth were they? The Captain sent out a distress call on his radio and also sounded his siren in long mournful blasts. The crew waited patiently. Soon the wind started to blow more fiercely, the rain lashed down in sheets, and the sea, whipped up by the now gale force winds, funnelled in through the Mewstones, the waves breaking right over the Liberta’s deck. The Italian crew began to become increasingly uneasy. Luckily the Liberta’s distress call had been picked up by a ‘ham’ radio enthusiast at South Sands, and although he could not pinpoint the exact location, he telephoned the Coastguard at Prawle Point who decided that the wreck must be near Bolt Head.

They immediately phoned the Hope Cove lifeboat which launched in truly awful conditions, and took over four hours to row the five miles to Bolt Head in the pitch dark, arriving just before dawn. Meanwhile other radio stations had picked up the Liberta’s signals and decided that the strickened vessel was really off Start Point, so the Torbay lifeboat was launched as well. Fortunately this one was motorised, and the coxn, finding no wreck off the Start used his common sense and continued on past Prawle Point and on to Bolt Head. It was just as well, because by now the Hope Cove lifeboatmen were exhausted, and in the first pale light of dawn it was obvious that they had no hope of getting anywhere near the wreck as she was jammed on a large rock, and as each wave washed over her she plunged up and down like a giant see-saw. As the fog lifted the Torbay lifeboat hove into view, and the two coxn decided to wait until the light got better so they could properly assess the situation. By now the steamers crew could just make out the two lifeboats, and feeling that they were going to be abandoned, they started to fire off distress rockets and called despairingly to the lifeboatmen for help.

The Liberta split in two.

The Torbay boat, at some considerable risk moved in very close to the wreck and tried to reassure the crewmen. This however just made them more panicky, and in the end a buoy and line was rigged between the two vessels. With great difficulty three men were dragged off the deck of the Liberta, through the heaving sea to the comparative safety of the lifeboat. The rest of the crew, horrified at the dangers involved, thankfully turned for their salvation to the Hope Cove Rocket Apparatus Team which conveniently turned up in the nick of time and rigged a breeches buoy from the clifftop to the deck of the Liberta. Not only did they rescue all the remaining crew, they also managed to save the ships cat and dog as well.

Four days later the Liberta broke in half, and very shortly afterwards she disappeared beneath the waves forever. Today the Liberta lies more or less exactly where she sank all those years ago. The area between the two Mewstones and the shore is a nightmare of treacherous rocks and violent currents, but if you wait for a calm day, slack water, and preferably low tide (so that you can see all those rocks that would otherwise be hidden), you can just sail straight into the middle of all those rocks and drop anchor. You will hook immediately because you will be right in the middle of the Liberta’s bow section.

Ever thought of what you would do if you did not have your trusty echo sounder? Sure you have, that’s why you have it and not a pile of muddy old rope with a weight on the end. How much simpler it all is nowadays with our little electronic bunch of tricks, all we have to do is flick a switch. Not all that long ago it was all down to a leadsman stuck up in the’ chains’ of a ship, calling out the marks as he laboriously threw the leaded line in front of the ship and then recovered it. Somewhere in between those two extremes were rather less well-known methods for recording depth, and one such depth machine, manufactured incidentally by Kelvin, Bottomly and Baird, who now are known as Kelvin Huges, and still make depth sounders, came to light recently on the wreck of the Elk.

Disk from the top of the sounder. It is faint, but you can still read the wording.

The Elk was a trawlwer of some 181 tonnes built by Cook, Welton and Gommel of Hull in 1902. Requisitioned by the Navy during both World Wars, she had a checkered career and was finally sunk by a mine off Penlee Point in November 1940. When we first dived on the Elk she was completely intact, but over the last couple of yeas she has suffered a lot of storm damage and is starting to break up. So quite often for an evening’s dive we hook into the wreck and then swim out on lines so that we have a look at the seabed all around it. In the past this has given us some nice souvenirs, mostly bottles, inkpots, door handles, and more recently a complete clay pipe. The whole area is littered with bombs and large shells, and sometimes empty brass shellcases can be found. These by the way are not from the Elk but from later dumping (the date is normally stamped on the bottom of the case).

Diagram showing how it works.

On one dive my partner brought up what he thought was an empty brass shellcase, but when it was cleaned up it turned out to be the business end of a small core sampler. This rather mystified me until I remembered that on one dive we had come across a steel podium about three feet long, lying on its side in the sand. Could this be the winding gear? I was not convinced, or I must say very interested until Steve Carpenter, of Sound Diving at Queen Anne’s Battery, showed me some drawings and instructions of how to operate a Kelvin Sounding Machine that he had found in an old Admiralty seamanship manual. The whole thing looked incredible complicated with lots of wires and pulleys, and seem to need at least three men to operate it. But the machines stand was exactly like the iron one that I had seen near the Elk.

Diagram from old seaman ship manual.

Now Steve is very interested in old bits of diving gear and associated machinery, so he provided the lifting bags and the boat, and we all went off on his regular evening ‘swanee’ dive to locate the ‘Iron Podium’. As luck would have it I managed to locate the podium on the first sweep, and very quickly my partner tied on our two lifting bags, whist I whacked in the air. As the lifting bags inflated, the podium stood up in the sand and lifted off to a height of about five feet and there it stuck. No matter how much more air we put into the bags, the wretched podium just hung there gently bobbing just above the bottom. Worse still a slight current had caught the bags and the whole contraption was slowly drifting away out of reach of our distance lines. With our time and air running low we decided to surface and get somebody else down to finish off the job. After all the podium could not get far, especially if we tied a line to it.

On go the lifting bags.

Having been in the services I am something of an expert at tying knots, and I still maintain that my ‘stokers dobyhitch’ could not, under any circumstances, have come undone. Suffice it to say however, that when the next team went down, the knot had mysteriously worked loose, and the podium, complete with lifting bags had disappeared. Just as I could not believe that my knot would come undone, you dear reader, may well find the next part of this story a trifle unbelievable as well. Six weeks later on another of Steve’s Monday dives, he decided to try on the reef near the Elk in the hope of finding some bottles. Since there were warships exercising nearby he decided against drifting and anchored into the reef instead. As the first diver down I checked the anchor, made sure my distance line was securely fixed, and swam off. Twenty feet later I came to an abrupt halt, because there in front of me, bumbling along the reef was the missing podium still with its lifting bags attached and inflated.

I did not believe this myself, and I was there.

Wasting no time my partner elbowed me out of the way, and this time he firmly tied on the line. We surfaced, as they say in the theatre, to thunderous applause. The rest was a bit of an anti-climax really. We got the podium into the boat and Steve carted it off to get it cleaned up. Unfortunately all the winding gear had become damaged and the podium itself was badly cracked. In the end the only useful bit was the counter on the top, which had all the measurements and its name, The KELVITE Mk IV hand sounding machine. Still with what we had, we could work out some methods of using it, and soon became glad that we never had to operate it for real. I am not a great believer in electronic bits and pieces on small boats, but after seeing the KELVITE I look at my simple Seafarer in a new light, and am glad I have it, and not the other.

Sometimes you can see a photograph of a wrecked ship, and when you go to the site to dive on her, you are often surprised to find that she lies in exactly the same place as the photograph shows. The liner Jebba is one of these wrecks, and the photograph that shows her wrecked under the cliffs near Bolt Tail, also shows her exact location. Built originally as the Albertville in 1896 by Sir Robert Dixon and Company, she was later taken over by the Elder Dempster line and renamed the Jebba. 302 feet long and 3813 tons gross, the Jebba was homeward bound from Sierra Leone carrying a cargo of rubber, ivory and fresh fruit worth over ?00,000. Besides this cargo she was also carrying 155 passengers and crew, and the Royal Mail.

The Jebba aground near Bolt Tail.

In the early hours of 18 March 1907 the Jebba overshot the Eddystone in dense fog and ran aground under the steep cliffs at Whitchurch, just a few yards away from Bolt Tail. The ship immediately started to take in water, and after sending up distress rockets, the Captain ordered all the boiler fires to be doused to prevent the risk of an explosion. Being broadside onto the rocks, waves soon started breaking over the liner’s decks, but instead of the usual panic, the passengers and crew remained exceptionally calm, and all went dutifully to their lifeboat stations to await the Captains orders. Very quickly the Hope Cove lifeboat, which was literally around the corner, came upon the scene and because it could not get into the comparatively sheltered water between the Jebba and the shore, it was considered too dangerous to attempt to take people off from the weather side as it would mean cragging all 155 people through the rough seas. However, with the aid of a rocket apparatus and the extraordinary bravery of two local men all the passengers and crew were eventually saved.

At the boiler of the Jebba.

In order to get the rescue started, Issac Jarvis and John Argeat climbed down the treacherous 200 foot cliffs in complete darkness to set up a bosun’s chair, with which they rescued over a hundred persons. So impressed was everybody by their selfless bravery that King Edward VII personally approved that the men be awarded the Board of Trade Bronze Medal. They were also awarded the Liverpool Shipwreck and Humane Society Silver Medal.

Issac Jarvis and John Argeant – courtesy of Pauline Lane.

Mind you it was not only people that were saved. At least one chimpanzee and three small monkeys were hoisted ashore, and many homes around Hope Cove suddenly found themselves in possession of a brightly coloured parrot. Soon after the rescue the Jebba filled with water, and although most of the cargo was eventually salvaged, it was obvious that the liner was a complete write off. Once again Bolt Tail had claimed another victim.

Chipping a valve off the Jebba.

Today the remains of the Jebba lie in less than thirty feet, exactly where she it, which is as close into the rocks as you dare take your boat. As you look at the shore from the sea, her stern lies to your left and her bows to the right. The bottom consists of rock and sand, and in the summer there is quite a bit of kelp. The wreckage lies all around you and so does the brass and copper. Most of it is well crudded into the wreck but the odd valve is still available if you look hard enough for it. Where the stern is, two rocks break the surface, and in between these lies the rudder, still more or less complete. As you fin from the stern along the ribs and decking of the Jebba, you come to a stretch of sand upon which lie two boilers, one stuck up on it’s end. Further out from these are rocky gullies with all sorts of bits of wreckage, broken pottery, and pieces of brass nametags crudded into the rock. I have not found any pottery artifacts myself, but I do know that in 1971 a diver found a whole dinner plate with her old name of Albertville on it, so there must be some of it still left around.

Fitting the lifting bag.

Because it is such a shallow wreck you can spend a lot of time on it, and in between you can gaze at the truly magnificent scenery provided by the huge cliffs and caves. It is a very impressive place, and how those two local lads managed to scramble down the cliffs in total darkness beats me. Opposite the upended boiler, close into the shore, is a part of the hull that seems to have been compressed. There are pieces of brass and copper sticking out all over the place, although most of it is only a few inches long, and firmly welded to the rest of the iron plating. The action of the sand and waves has burnished it all shiny bright, and in the sunlight it all sparkles like jewels set into a rusty crown. And that is what this little wrecksite is, a real gem. On a sunny day, the diving and the spectacular scenery should keep you amused for hours, and long after you have returned home the memory of that day, I am sure, will linger on.

I am very gratefull to Pauline Lane for providing the photo, and for correcting me on some points.
Here is what she wrote:

“I was interested to see the report on your website about the wreck of the SS Jebba near Hope Cove in South Devon. I have an interest in this ship, not as a diver but because John Argeat was my husband’s Grandfather.
I have done extensive research to ascertain the true facts about the awards to John Argeat and Isaac Jarvis. I have searched the records and have been able to establish that the 2 men did not receive the Albert Medal, as stated in some reports, but the Board of Trade Bronze medal and also the Liverpool Shipwreck & Humane Society silver medal for gallant conduct.
I have seen the actual BOT medal, which is in the possession of John Argeat’s granddaughter, and I have a copy of the entry in the Board of Trade registry. I would be grateful if your article could be amended to read “The King personally approved that the men be awarded with the Board of Trade Bronze medal”. The medal was not actually “personally presented”. This award, I understand, is second only to the Albert Medal, so still a very great honour.
Many thanks
Pauline Lane

The Mendi

I am very gratefull to Ronald Aitchison for the information below.

Sister Helen Mclean was a member of the Wesley Deaconess Order serving in Freetown, Sierra Leone. She had sailed from England in October 1905 aboard the Mendi another ship of the Eder-Dempster line and in accord with the system of the Deaconess Order she was returning on furlough on the Jebba. Her time in Sierra Leone was taken up with the work of re-establishing a school for girls in Freetown a task to which she would return ofter her six months furlough. She writes, in a letter, to the Church of her experiences aboard the Jebba, describing the events in detail. Her description of her rescue from the ship by bosun’s chair is a model of calm and ladylike reserve: somewhere about six o’clock, I think, I found myself being assisted on to the chair – really just a strip of wood like a swing – I was told to hold tight and shut my eyes, and a few minutes after, I felt myself being seized hold of and deposited somewhere on the rocks. There we women sat huddled together until the men got off. That was an anxious time. The waves were breaking over the ship more and more, and when we knew that all were really ashore the relief was almost too much. Then came the ascent of the cliff, which was, to say the least, a dirty and difficult undertaking. The first half I managed with only the assistance of the rope, along which I pulled myself hand over hand. There was a gentleman behind me who would have been ready to catch me had my grasp or footing failed. About half way up a burly coastguardsman met me and tied a rope round my waist. Then I seemed to be helped by so many, my recollections are somewhat confused. So far as I remember the coastguardsman got behind me and pushed, the rope around my waist was pulled from the top, two others came down and got hold of my arms, and the top was gained. I was thrust into the arms of some ladies who poured brandy down my throat, and finally set on the ground, feeling not a little amused. Sister Helen’s closing comment in her letter is of her “shame” at turning up back at the Deaconess Headquarters out of uniform!

Many Liberty Ships have sunk around our shores, and of course the most famous is the James Egan Layne, which is probably the most dived on wreck in the British Isles.

This photo shows Ken Cox in front of the mast in the 1970s.

These stories will tell you more about her, and about some other Liberty Ships that are still around.

• The James Egan Layne
• Wally Layne
• Love me, love my lump
• The Richard Montgomery
• The Jeremiah O’Brian
• Coast Guard Log entry

Sometimes you know, diving is just too much. You go out on an ordinary dive not expecting very much, and wallop, you find yourself swimming over a wreck that you had no idea existed. We had gone out to the Eddystone one evening in early spring. As we had about an hour before dark we decided to anchor close by the rocks near the Eddystone Lighthouse and just have a quick look see. As we swam down the reef through a silver shower of sand eels I saw before me the unmistakable outline of a ship’s boiler. I could hardly believe it. Later I found out that this was part of the wreckage from a ship called the Hiogo, and the reason why it is not very well known is because in the summer, when most diverse visit the reef, the kelp completely hides it. But it is there all right, and in its day the wreck of the Hiogo became a very popular tourist attraction with boatloads of holidaymakers being ferried out to view its sad remains stuck fast on the ‘notorious Eddystone reef’. So how did it get there?

The Eddystone Lighthouse.

Well the Hiogo was a barque rigged screw steamer of some five hundred tons on her maiden voyage from London to Japan. Manned by a crew of twenty-seven, the Hiogo carried a valuable general cargo, some passengers and two boxes of specie worth over twenty thousand pounds. On leaving the Port of London the Hiogo proceeded down the Channel bounds for Falmouth where she was to take on more passengers. The weather was exceedingly rough with the steamer pushing into a strong headwind. However the Hiogo was able to press on at a good speed, and all on board marvelled at how well she performed. At midnight on 2nd October 1867 they were off Start Point and Captain Bainton retired below leaving the Second Officer in command.

Fresh in from the London Illustrated News.

By now the weather had moderated somewhat and visibility was very good. Soon the Eddystone Lighthouse came into view and the Second Officer sent down to the Captain for a change of course. For some unaccountable reason Captain Bainton refused to order any, and whatsmore could not be persuaded to come up on deck. As the Hiogo sped towards the Eddystone reef the Second Officer repeatedly implored the Captain to order a change of course, but Captain Bainton would have none of it. The situation was incredible. The Captain steadfast in his refusal to change course, and the Second Officer, with less than five hundred yards to go, was too frightened of disobeying his Captain to give the order himself. The inevitable outcome was five hundred tons of finely built ship colliding with the Eddystone rocks at a speed of over ten knots.

The bottom was ripped out and the steamer ground to a halt hard and fast on the Sugar Loaf rock at the north eastern edge of the reef. Immediately the engine was flung into reverse but thankfully nothing happened. If the Hiogo had managed to get off the rocks, the huge dents in her hull would have sent her plunging into almost a hundred feet of water and would have most probably drowned everybody. As it was nobody was really hurt, but inside the ship all was confusion. Chandeliers had crashed down inside the cabins and all the furniture and fittings had been completely smashed up. After the first shock had passed distress rockets were set up and paraffin lanterns lit. But the Coastguard saw none of this, and knew nothing about the wrecking until the passengers and crew were safely landed at Plymouth by a Pilot boat who had seen the flares whilst returning to Plymouth. With all the passengers and crew safe, attention was focused on the Hiogo’s cargo, especially the twenty thousand pounds worth of specie. Unfortunately for all us divers, the specie was quickly recovered but the cargo was ruined. So too was the Hiogo. Her position was so obviously hopeless that no salvage attempt was made and soon she completely broke up. In the ensuing Board of Enquiry some very harsh things were said, and the Captain and his Second Officer had their certificates suspended for twelve months.

One of the many boiler pipes raised from the Hiogo.

Nowadays the Hiogo’s remains lie in forty-five feet of water on a natural plateau in the reef. As I have said before, to see the wreck properly you should visit in the winter or early spring, as come the summer the kelp becomes so thick that I doubt if you will be able to find it. Still there is a lot there, the main items being the two boilers and the rest of the engine room. You can get right inside one of the boilers, crawl around underneath the other, and hack away at some of the brass con rods in the engine room. Outside this main area are a lot of iron ribs and plating scattered about, but the stern part of the ship must be in deeper water and is I suspect further along the reef (more on this in a later article).

The fish life is superb. Everything that the Eddystone is famous for seems to hang around the wreck in shoals, but surprisingly the most exciting things are not the fish but the birds. The area around the Hiogo absolutely abounds with sand eels, young pollock and mackerel, and the Gannets repeatedly dive-bomb right below the surface in order to spear their fish. It is really fascinating to watch the way they fold their wings at the point of impact.

One word of warning. The Hiogo should only be dived on at slack water. But the Eddystone as far as currents are concerned, is a law unto itself and the Hiogo is situated right in the middle of a sort of rocky funnel and seems to set up its own small current system. When water all around is slack, over the wreck it is running almost at the flood. You can see this quite plainly in the form of a localised tide rip on the surface. All you have to do is wait for this to disappear, and then you are free to dive. I hope you find it worth the wait, I know I did.

The Hertzogin Cecillie was the last of the truly great clipper ships and when she was breaking up in Starehole Bay thousands came to mourn her passing.

The ‘Duchess’ being built at Bremerhaven.

We have three stories . One is about the wrecking of the ‘Duchess’ as she was known. One is the eyewitness account of a survivor, and one is about the man who was at the helm when the great ship struck the Hamstone.

The Wreck of the Herzogin Cecilie

Diana Woolner, a survivor’s tale

Per Hjelt, the helmsman’s tale

If there is one quality that a wreck diver should have in abundance it is the ability to think positive. So many times divers give up on good potential wreck sites because they become discouraged all too quickly, and then talk themselves into believing that the wreck is not there anyway. It is all too easy to do especially when under pressure from your diving buddies to get on to a ‘proper’ wreck and stop fooling around in the kelp. Still if your budding wreck hunter wishes to come up with the goods, then he or she must ignore the peer pressure, increase their research, keep the faith and continue to dive the site in the firm belief that eventually they will find something.

The Halloween aground.

Now on every dive I do, I honestly believe that I will find something, anything from a fork to a porthole. On most dives of course you do not find anything, but at least you are ‘tuned’ in and ready to spot the slightest clue that could lead you finally to your wreck. If you think about it the law of averages are firmly on your side. If you put enough dives in then eventually you must find something, especially if your research is spot on. But you really must believe in your own ability or you will just give up and go home. A good example of this power of positive thinking is the wreck of the China tea clipper Halloween which struck the shore just inside the Hamstone on the edge of Soar Mill Cove on the evening of January 17th, 1887.

The Halloween had the reputation for being one of the fastest ships of her day. On her maiden voyage in 1870 she took only sixty nine days to get to Sydney, and held the record for the fastest passage between London and Shanghi which she completed in a mere eighty nine days. The tea clippers represented the very pinnacle in sailing technology, and a major part of the Halloween’s success lay in her seventy eight foot mainyard from which flew a huge mainsail. Iron hulled and sporting three masts laden with sails to catch every ounce of wind, the Halloween could cram sixteen hundred tons into her vast holds worth well over forty thousand pounds.

You can just see part of an anchor.

On what was to be her final voyage, she sailed from Foochow loaded with tea bound for London. But this time no records were to be broken. Right from the start bad weather slowed the Halloween, and it was to be one hundred and fifty five days before her exhausted crew finally saw the Eddystone Light Square on her starboard side. A new course was set to safely take the ship some eight miles off Start Point.

Running in huge seas, with the rain and wind beating relentlessly on the huge spread of sails, the Halloween somehow deviated from her set course, and in the howling darkness unsuspectingly drove in towards the shore. At half past seven in the evening the Halloween ran full tilt inside the west end of the Hamstone and crashed onto the rocks at the edge of Soar Mill Cove. She was done for. In the heavy seas it was impossible for her to escape. The waves smashed the forecastle and cabin forcing the crew to take to the rigging until that too parted and they reluctantly returned to the deck. Flares were sent up, and even a bonfire built on the afterdeck, but nobody on shore took any notice.

The porthole.

In the early morning three of the crew volunteered to try to take a line ashore. It was a desperate idea and unfortunately one of the brave volunteers was drowned in the attempt, but the other two managed to scramble ashore and stagger up the cliffs until they came to a farmhouse. More dead than alive they managed to stammer out their story to the farmer who quickly sent a message to Hope Cove, and the lifeboat was launched at about eight thirty.

After a journey of almost an hour and a half the lifeboat managed to come alongside the Halloween and with some considerable difficulty extricated all nineteen crew who by this time were nearly frozen solid from their rigorous exposure to the bitterly cold conditions. Within three days the ship was broken up by repeated storms and her cargo of tea washed out of her broken hull and swept into Soar Mill Cove were it formed an almost impenetrable barrier some twelve feet high. Over the years the Halloween broke up and in time most of her was covered by about eight to ten feet of sand. The odd rusty plate and rib could be found close by the rocks but nothing much more. Slowly even they became covered by the sand and soon her passing became forgotten.

Part of the bowsprit.

After researching this wreck Steve Carpenter and I were fairly sure that it was findable, and over about three years we dived in the area usually on the way back from other dives around Salcombe. In all that time we found absolutely nothing but still remained convinced that one-day the wreck would surface. In February 1990 Steve took his dog for a walk at Soar Mill Cove. The tide was out and to his surprise so was most of the sand. What had been a beautiful sandy beach was now all rocks. Neither of us realised the significance of this until early May. Because of the storms, diving close to the shore in this area was useless due to the stirred up visibility. But as the high-pressure systems settled down and the good weather continued I decided to chance it and go and take some photographs of the Cantabria.

Captain Robert Warrender Fowler, Master of the Halloween between 1875 and 1882.

Conditions were good so on the way back I thought of having a snorkle in Soar Mill Cove, and cruised around in the boat. There was a small ground swell, which made anchoring into just sand a bit difficult, but the water was nice and clear. Since the bottom was only about fifteen feet I looked for a clump of rock to anchor into. Over to the right of the Cove I saw a dark shadow, and thinking it denoted rocks I threw my anchor in. When I was satisfied that the boat was well hooked, I assembled my camera gear and jumped in for a look around. Immediately I saw that I was hooked into a wreck. Right underneath me in twelve feet of water was a huge hatch, part of a bow, and a massive mast lying out across the sand. I just could not believe it. Steve and I, and the rest of my diving partners had dived this exact area on many occasions and found absolutely nothing. Now, at last, here was the wreck. At the bow (just like the photograph) you could see the remains of the once proud bowsprit, with wooden decking all around. As I ducked down again, I held onto the anchor rope to pull myself down. As I slowly turned to my left there, not twenty feet from my anchor lay a complete porthole glinting in the sunbeams. Now I knew what heaven was going to be like.

One of the huge masts.

Secured only by a few rusting bolts it came away easily and when cleaned up revealed its maker’s name, J. Stone and Co. Deptford London. The rest of the day was really an anti climax, but as I drifted around the rest of the wreck I realised that there was almost no weed growth on any of the exposed wreckage. This meant that it had only been uncovered for a few days at most. (We took some photos for comparison a month later and the wreck was almost obscured by weed). I had been incredibly lucky. Over the next few weeks different sections of the wreck started to appear, the lines of the hull for instance just pushing up through the sand near the rocks to the left of the Cove. But as the year progressed no other major sections appeared more than a foot above the sand.

Captain Fowler as a boy.

Back in the main bow section, near the huge hatch, I later found two large anchors complete with some chain, and some large pulley blocks that were probably used to secure the boom. Steve, rooting in the sand by one of masts pulled out a superb wooden Monkey block, and uncovered another large iron boom. As a dive in the long hot summer that we experienced that year it was magical, almost like being in the tropics. The fish although fairly small were many and varied, and even cuttle fish seemed content to play hide and seek around the wreckage without getting too frightened. Will any more of the Halloween appear, or will the storms shift the sand yet again and cover her for good? We shall have to wait and see. Whatever happens the Halloween justified my faith in positive thinking, and to see her after all those years is reward enough for me.

The Halloween with trademark very large bowsprit.

I am indebted to Dave Foker and his family for the photos of Captain Warrender who was his great great grandfather on his mothers side. (You work it out) He also sent me the following information which I hope is of interest.

Although launched on the 4 June 1871, the Halloween was not handed over untill late 1871 when the numerous lawsuits had ended between her owner, John Willis, the underwriters, and Maudslay, Son and Field of Greenwich, her builders, concerning the dismasting of the Blackadder which was her sister ship. Built of iron, Halloween measured 216 ft. long, 35.2 ft. in the beam with a draught of 20.5 ft. with tonnages of 872.38 under deck, 970.99 gross and 920 net. She had a 78 ft main yars and an under deck tonnage coefficient of only 0.55. She was very fast in light airs but was not so powerfull as Cutty Sark, although she made runs of 360,341 and 338 miles in the roaring fourties.

On her maiden voyage she went out to Sydney in 69 days and brought home wool, being too late to load tea. She was in the tea trade all her life and was finally wrecked on 17 Jan 1887 in a force 9 gale.

Her early passages are truly remarkable even though they were made in the fair monsoon. These consisted of:

1873-74 J. Watt, Shanghai to London, 17 nov to 17 Feb, 92 days.

1874-75, J. Watt Shanghai to London, 21 Oct to 20 Jan, 91 days.

1875 76 J.Watt, Woosung to London, 23 Nov to 24 Feb, 92 days.

1876 Fowler, London to Shanghai, 11 March to 24 June, 105 days (96 from the Lizard)

1876-77 Fowler, Woosung to London, 13 Nov to 23 Feb, 102 days.

1878 Fowler, Woosung to London, 7 Jan to 16 Apr,97 days.

I keep tabs on this site, and in August 2006 parts of the Halloween reapeared for about two months. here are some pics that Peter Rowlands took and a small bit of video.

Thanks to Peter Rowlands.

Thanks to Peter Rowlands.

Thanks to Peter Rowlands.

Halloween filmed around 2006

Deliberately sunk to become an underwater classroom, the Glen Strathallan soon became a bit of an embarrassment, as it was a danger to local fishing boats and soon had to be disbursed. Over the years however thousands of divers have had their first wreck experience here, so in some ways it did fulfill its intended purpose.

Photo courtesy of John Crossland.

• The Glen Strathallan
• The Last Voyage of the Glen Strathallan
  • John Crosslands memories
  • Roy Phillpot’s memories

Although nobody would wish a ship to be wrecked, I am sure that many of us would admit to feelings of excitement and expectation when one does, especially if it happens right on your own doorstep. Jennycliffe has in the past been the scene of many strandings, and of course more recently the Noordzee lay sunk there for over a year before she was eventually salvaged, much to the disappointment of many local divers.

My thanks to Paul Hennessy for this pic of the Fylrix.

However, for ships in trouble, Jennycliffe Bay provides a very sheltered anchorage, and with the violent storms that we seem to be experiencing more often nowadays, it was not long before another damaged ship crept into the shelter of Jennycliffe Bay, capsized and promptly sank.

Yes, its a porthole.

On the night of 21 November 1984 the small cargo vessel Fylrix was on its way from Dean quarry bound for London with a cargo of granite chippings. Whilst off the Eddystone light, some of the cargo shifted and the Fylrix developed a severe list to st’bd; The Master decided to head for the safety of Plymouth, and was escorted into the Sound by a Royal Navy frigate. As the Fylrix approached Jennycliffe the list became much worse and it became obvious to all that the ship would soon sink. In the early hours of the following morning the entire crew abandoned the ship as it started to capsize, and the Fylrix sank in shallow water about one hundred yards offshore.

No attempt was made to salvage the vessel and soon she was declared a constructive total loss. The Fylrix now lies on her st’bd side with her stem pointing towards the shore. At high tide she is completely covered, but at low water her port side is completely clear of the water, and you can get on board by simply stepping out of your boat. It is best to be careful, however as just below the surface is a mass of rigging from the radar mast, and it would be very easy to foul your propellor. On a ship this modern, it comes as a surprise to find that all the portholes are made of brass instead of the more usual steel or aluminium. Some of the portholes are hanging open and so it is very easy just to peer into the cabins, although the portholes are too small to enter the ship by.

Fylrix ‘The Movie’ Local tele doing a bit on my books.

If you want to get right inside, simply go to the bridge and drop right through the door. The toilet is on the left, Captain’s cabin to the right. Of course if you wish to go right inside the Captain’s cabin, or the engine room, then you will have to get properly kitted up as snorkeling inside this wreck is definitely not recommended. So what is it like inside? Well it might sound silly but my over riding thought was how clean and tidy everything was. I kept expecting the crew to arrive back at any moment. In fact the Fylrix is the only wreck that I have been on where you think that you are on the film set of the Marie Celeste. In the Captain’s cabin for instance, all the books were on the shelf, bed still made, and photographs still on the walls, sorry bulk- heads. There was even soap and toilet paper in the loo. It was as if everybody had gone out to lunch. Come to think of it I suppose that is exactly what did happen, only nobody ever came back.

Pete Barraclough (presenter with cup) and the film crew.

On the outside, the wreck is still completely intact right down to her radar. The granite chippings which caused the capsize in the first place are still left inside the holds, so it is not a good idea to go crawling around inside, as the chippings could quite easily move and cover you. Just off the bridge a lifeboat has broken loose from its davit and is only prevented from shooting to the surface by a restraining wire at the top of the winch unit. Over the rest of the seabed are strewn all kinds of debris. Fire extinguishers, hanks of rope, pieces of wire hawser, broken stanchions, and quite a few pieces of crockery. Judging by the number of divers that swarm over the Fylrix at the weekends, I should not be surprised to find lots of diving knives and the odd mask and snorkle as well. Very soon I should think that anything that can be removed will be, and the only thing of value left will be the beautiful bronze propellor.

The Lads from ‘Bovi’ geting ready to blow.

If only the Fylrix had gone down on the Tinker reef. What a dive she would have made. As it is you have to contend with hordes of divers banging and chipping away, inflate- abIes churning up the water, and curious board sailors bumping into her upturned hull. It is almost as frustrating as a traffic jam. Never mind, in the evening on a high tide when everyone has gone home, you can pretend that the Fylrix is in a hundred feet of water and puzzle out how to lift that beautiful bronze propeller.

Someone undid this screw.

Shortly after I took this photo of the Fylrix prop, a very professional ‘team’ snuck down and had it away.

Soon the Fylrix started to break up and after a diver was killed in distressing circumstances, he got lost in the wreck and ran out of air, it was descided to blow it up to disperse the wreck and make it less dangerous.

Today there is still quite a bit left, but its basically now just scrap. The glory days have gone.

Experience with earlier types of destroyers had convinced the Navy that going just for speed was a delusion. What they really needed was a much tougher type of boat that could keep going at relatively high speeds when the weather got really rough. To this end the Navy commissioned a new type of destroyer that was to provide the bench marks for all future Navies, and designated it the River Class. Well over thirty were built before the Great War, and one of them was HMS Foyle.

H.M.S. Foyle

Laid down at Cammel Lairds shipyard in August 1902, the Foyle was launched in February of the following year and entered service thirteen months later in 1904. 225 feet long with a top speed of twenty five and a half knots, the Foyle was armed with four twelve pounder guns and two torpedo tubes. At first her slower speed (anything under thirty knots was considered very odd) caused some ill informed comment, but it was soon realised that the sturdiness of her design allowed her to maintain her top speed in all but the worst conditions, and soon her critics were silenced.

When War broke out the Foyle found herself performing patrol and escort duties in the killing ground of the Dover Straights. On the night of March 15th 1917 she hit a mine, and the force of the explosion blew away the whole of her bows forward of the bridge, killing twenty-seven of her crew of seventy. Unbelievably the stern half stayed afloat, and it was decided to tow this to Plymouth, presumably to graft on another bow. What the thoughts were of the tug crews who had to place the tow on a helpless drifting hulk in the middle of a potential minefield we can only guess, but eventually the tow was established and the Foyle was led away towards Plymouth. Alas there was to no happy ending. After surviving the minefield and slipping through a screen of marauding E boats, the salvage crew on the Foyle just could not keep up with the water pouring through her ruptured plates, and only a few miles from Plymouth HMS Foyle gave up the fight and sank in fifty meters of water miles off the Mewstone.

Sadly none of these are mine.

One of the main troubles about diving on a wreck as deep as the Foyle is the lack of time that you can spend on her. If you are diving this wreck on a one off basis, then you really will not have a clue where you are on it unless you stumble onto the gun at the stern section, or blunder into the bridge. You really need to go with somebody who knows the wreck so that they can explain to you after the dive where you have been, or pray for uncharacteristically good visibility. Having said that, the one thing that anyone will recognise is the brass. On the few dives that I have done on this wreck everywhere that I have looked there seemed to be large lumps of non ferrous metal, either portholes (to firmly fixed for me) large copper pipes and brass valves, or on one occasion, what seemed to be the top of a binnacle.

The Foyle now lies on a sandy seabed with what appears to be a thirty-degree list. Most of the portside is buried in the sand and the rest of the hull has caved in. However her boilers seem to be mostly intact, although other divers say that one boiler is probably buried in the wreckage. At the bridge end is a great mound of iron plates and girders covered in shoals of swirling pollack and pounting. Somewhere in all that junk should be three of the Foyles twelve pounder guns, but I must confess I have never seen them. Lobsters abound on the wreck as do congers, and because the wreck is heavily fished by local anglers quite a bit of fishing gear is left lurking to entangle the unwary diver.

The Foyle’s Telegraph.

Somewhere towards the stern are the remains of the torpedo tubes. Back in the Sixties rumour has it that one of the Foyles torpedo tubes still had a torpedo left in it. When this torpedo was duly liberated and placed on dry land, the salvers became so blinkered as to the profit on the non ferrous metal, that they seemed to completely forget all about the couple of hundred pounds of Amatol explosive that was by now highly unstable.

When the Police arrived on the scene they found the scrappers gaily hacking at the torpedo with lump hammers and crowbars, with the explosive oozing out of the cracks that they had made. Seems unbelievable doesn’t it? But as I say it is only a rumour.

The Foyle is probably the deepest wreck off Plymouth that you can still find just on the marks. But because she only stands up about fifteen feet from the seabed, and is such a long way down, a good echo sounder is really a necessity. Once you have found her you will be able to fine-tune the marks to suit your boat handling techniques, and then you should have no further trouble. If you can arrange a series of dives on the Foyle, so much the better as it is very frustrating to see something that you cannot get off in the short time available. In recent years local clubs have had some very impressive trophies from this wreck, but for the dedicated wrecker there is still an awful lot left.

I am extremely gratefull to Russel Peekfor this photo of his great grandfather Samuel Peek, who was a stoker on H.M.S.Foyle. Sadly he did not survive her sinking.

Stoker Peek is seen here with members of his family and wearing an ‘H.M.S.Vengeance’cap tally.

I am very grateful to Mark Lawrence for the photo and information below.

Able Seaman George Arthur Gander.

Able Seaman George Arthur Gander -191637- was serving aboard HMS Foyle, when she hit the mine. His body was not recovered. His wife Rose of Gillingham, Kent was notified of his death. He was born in Brighton in 1881.

I am very grateful to Tony Game for the photo, and information about his Grandfather, James Alfred Alexander Game.(He writes) I don’t have a photo of Granddad as a young man, but this is the last known photo of him at the christening of his great granddaughter in the summer of 1970. Along side him is his eldest Grandson Larry James Game 1941-1989. This is also the day that granddad died 1895-1970.

J.A.A.Game with eldest Grandson.

List of those who were lost on H.M.S.Foyle.

ALLISON, James S, Signalman, RNVR, Clyde Z 2892 ARCHER, Ernest, Petty Officer, J 8776 (Ch) ARNOLD, James, Stoker 2c, K 39076 (Ch) BENNETT, John W, Signalman, 222683 (Dev) BIGSBY, Albert E V, Stoker 2c, K 39200 (Ch) BLOWES, Frank, Stoker 2c, K 39054 (Ch) BUTLER, Arthur W, Stoker 1c, K 25143 (Ch) COATES, Frederick J, Able Seaman, 238829 (Dev) COLE, Harold G, Stoker 1c, K 22752 (Ch) CRITTENDEN, Howard G, Stoker 2c, K 39087 (Ch) DANES, Albert V, Leading Stoker, K 15907 (Ch) DAVIS, Alexander, Stoker 1c, K 26058 (Ch) DAVIS, John H, Stoker 1c, K 17087 (Ch) GANDER, George A, Able Seaman (RFR B 8057), 191637 (Ch) GOATHAM, Augustus, Leading Stoker, 295977 (Ch) HARRIS, Bert, Leading Stoker, K 11503 (Ch) HATFIELD, John I, Boy Telegraphist, J 48937 HERBERT, James J, Leading Seaman, 227334 (Ch) HULFORD, Sidney A, Stoker 1c, SS 115470 (Ch) MCDONNELL, George F, Fireman, MMR, 905338 MCKEOWN, Eugene G, Act/Engine Room Artificer 4c, M 18497 (Ch) MIDDLETON, James W, Stoker 1c, SS 115383 (Ch) PEARSON, John A, Able Seaman, J 29658 (Ch) PEEK, Samuel, Stoker 1c, 230201 (Ch) RICKARBY, Arthur J, Able Seaman, J 29663 (Ch) ROAKE, Arthur, Able Seaman (RFR B 8843), SS 1940 (Ch) RUSSELL, Alfred, Act/Engine Room Artificer 4c, M 19746 (Ch) SMITH, Henry G, Able Seaman (RFR B 5534), SS 342 (Ch) STEARN, Sydney J, Leading Signalman, 194902 (Ch) WOODLEY, Edward A, Ordinary Seaman, RNCVR, VR 2688

I am very grateful to Roger Dingley for all the information and photo’s below about his uncle Alf Russell.There is also a sound bite of Roger’s mother, Edna Dingley talking about Alf.

Alf Russell aged 22.

Alf Russell aged 25.

Alf Russell (seated) about 20 with friend.

Alf Russell’s set of micrometers.

Model whaler made by Alf Russell.

Below is the citation issued by the Navy on his death. This gives the dater on his birth and death. The Census records for 1911 indicate that he was living in Harborne with his parents, but working as a screw turner. He was a trained engineer which probably made him a natural to go into the Navy as an ERA, but we have no record of his training, or exactly when he joined.
Name: Alfred Russell Rank: Act ERA 4th Birth Date: 24 May 1890 Birth Place: Great Wyrley, Stafford, England Branch of Service: Royal Navy Cause of Death: Killed or died as a direct result of enemy action Official Number Port Division: M.19746. (Ch) Death Date: 15 Mar 1917 Ship or Unit: HMS Foyle Location of Grave: Not recorded Name and Address of Cemetery: Body Not Recovered For Burial Relatives Notified and Address: Mother: Carrie. 10 Margaret Grove Harborne, Birmingham

During the last two World Wars the Admiralty requisitioned hundreds of trawlers and drifters, and pressed them into service as mine sweepers, Dan layers and the like. Around major dockyard ports like Plymouth, these fishing boats did all the routine and unpleasant tasks that were vital if a port was to be kept safe for the Fleet to operate from. Although their task was not as glamorous as the destroyers or the escort carriers, the risks that they took were nevertheless the same, and very many of these tough little craft were blown up by mines, torpedoed, or sunk by enemy aircraft. It certainly wasn’t a cushy number, and until fairly recently their contribution to Britain’s maritime history has gone largely unrecorded.

The crew of the Elk before the War.

Because of the great sea battles in the Atlantic, or the unremitting bombing of cities like Coventry or Plymouth, the loss of an ageing trawler on a dark night just didn’t make the news. Often the only record of the ship’s passing was a terse line in the Navy’s Official Loss List. One such entry is dated 27 November 1940 and refers to the 181-ton trawler Elk. The Elk, a 108-foot long boat was built by Cook Welton and Gommel of Hull in 1902, and she led quite an ordinary life fishing out of Grimsby until the outbreak of the First World War. Then she was requisitioned by the Admiralty, used as a minesweeper, and later sent out to the Dardanelle’s to help with the evacuation of the British Army after Churchill’s little fiasco in 1918.

The Telegraph.

At the end of that war she was repatriated to her owners, sold on to new ones, and for the next few years carried on fishing from Milford Haven. However the outbreak of the Second World War soon put a stop to all that, and once again the Elk was requisitioned in October 1939. Her career however only lasted eleven months, and on one dark November night she struck a mine and swiftly sank. The official report into her sinking revealed that the Elk was lost whilst attempting to sweep acoustic mines with an experimental sweep designed at the Royal Naval Engineering College at Keyham, Plymouth. The new sweeps made some sort of noise, but one side of the Elk impeded that noise, and so she drifted onto the mine on her ‘blind’ side. The explosion fractured the hull from the engine room to aft and the Elk took about 45 minutes to sink. Thankfully there were no casualties as they had plenty of time to get off, and there were other ships nearby.

Family fun day before the War.

This is what I wrote about the Elk when I first dived her back in the 1980’s

Lying upright on a sandy bottom in 105 feet of water, the ship looks at first sight almost complete. The bow’s, together with the neatly stowed anchor and winch are covered with dead men’s fingers, and the hatchways leading to the fish holds are still structurally safe, so it is quite easy to get inside the forepeak and have a good look around. Along the starboard side going aft, is a hole giving access to the engine room, which still contains a mass of machinery and some brass pipes. The cabin superstructure is still fairly intact, and lashed in the starboard companionway is a bank of eight or nine car batteries. This foxed me for a while until I realized that they were needed to power the experimental sweep. (Talk about a lash up.)

The after part of the cabin, once used to house the toilet, now lies in pieces on the sand, but the toilet itself, still stands firmly bolted to the trawler’s deck. Obviously it will take more than a mine to dislodge this one. There were still portholes on it when I first dived it, but they are all long gone, along with most of the other large goodies, but there are still some nice pieces in the engine room for anyone handy with a hammer and chisel. The portside is a bit more ramshackle, with much more debris lying on the sand. Access into the cabin area is easier from this side, but there are a lot of jagged pieces of metal, so a bit of caution is needed. Likewise when sorting through the debris on the sand on subsequent dives, we came across to large artillery shells buried in the sand.

Where did all those portholes go?

We later found out that the whole area had been used as a minefield during the war, so it is fairly certain that a few other nasty surprises could be hidden close by. The fish life on this wreck is surprisingly varied, and for once the rumours about a large conger lurking in the wreck are quite true. So think twice before hauling out that ‘long piece of lead pipe’, or you might get the same shock that my partner did. The lobsters, which are quite large, seem to prefer the outside of the ship underneath the jumbled pieces of plating, and the ever present bib and pouting swarm all over the wreck in a huge cloud. They say that all good things come in small packages, and that just sums up the Elk. At 105 feet you only have about 20 minutes, and believe me it is just not enough.

The binacle from the Elk.

Update Sept 2003

I still dive the Elk on a regular basis as its great to film and just perfect for an evening dive. Unfortunately it has now become a lot more damaged. Storms did a lot but what really did the damage was some idiot winching up whole parts of the deck to get at some large brass valves that went right through the deck. The cabin and toilet are now long gone, and so are the batteries. The anchor is gone and most of the main deck, and the engine room is empty, although someone found a glass lampshade there only the other month. The which is still there and the conger, or its offspring still lurk slyly for the unwary. For all the damage it’s still a great dive, it is just so atmospheric. The bib still swarm all over the wreck, giving it a ghostly unreal quality. I am just glad that I was there shortly after this wreck was found, and so saw it in its best condition. If you get a chance dive her, you wont regret it.

Update June 2009 I did an evening dive on the Elk in June 2009. It was absolutely flat calm and the vis was about 20ft with just the lingering bit of plankton. The hull is slill more or less intact but all the decking is mostly gone revealing the boiler and giving easy access to the inside of the hull. You can still see where the toilet was and the winches are there, but its a shadow of its former self. Even so it is still a good dive. It’s deep enough for it to be a bit exciting, and there is plenty to look at in the short time available. Peter Rowlands our resident ‘veteran’ photographer took the pics below. (mine were just as good, but somehow I lost them in the computer)

Bare Hull.

Bare Hull.

Bow

Bow

Bow

These two stories about the Elk should give you some insite into what it was like to dive the wreck when it was first discovered in the and what it is like now.

The Elk

If you use a modern echo sounder read about the Elk’s. No pushing buttons in those days, just three men and a lot of rope, and it nearly got away..

• H.M.T. Elk
• Lord Kelvin’s Sounding Machine

The near hurricane storms of December 1992 caused yet another ship to be wrecked on the infamous ship trap Prawle Point, near Salcombe. The vessel was the cargo ship Demetrios, and she was being towed from Dunkirk to a breakers yard in the Mediterranean, so ironically she was already on her final voyage.

The Demetrios breaking up.

In the terrible gales that lashed the Channel that night, her tow parted and the Demetrios drifted helplessly until she smashed into the vicious rocks of Prawle Point on the 18th of December. There was no point in trying to refloat her. She was no risk to shipping and she carried no pollutants, so she was left to the mercy of the sea. Over the next few weeks’ crowds flocked to the cliff tops to watch her hull twisting and breaking up in the heavy waves. In the end a local salvage firm cut up what was left of her, and towed it all away on a barge to Plymouth, where it was sold for scrap.You would think that there was nothing left to dive on, but you would be wrong.

The Bow is stuck fast.

Today it is easy to find the Demetrios because there are still two large pieces of her left stuck on the rocks. What you have to do is go in as near as you dare, anchor, and let the boat drift in a bit closer. You should be in about 30 feet of water, but bits of the wreck stick up quite high so be a bit cautious. The wreckage lies in two main areas. To the left (looking at the shore) large pieces of plate are artistically strewn along a sandy gully, making little caves that are full of fish. Along one side of the gully is what looks like rock but is in fact all iron plate twisted and buckled. A hawser drapes itself across the gully, and if you follow it into the shore you will come across more and more pieces of plate and other debris, again all teeming with small fish, mostly wrasse, but also the odd small Pollock. If you like photography this is the place for you.

Cut right in half.

If you like scrapping then go right towards Prawle Point. Here you will see an absolute jumble of twisted plate, some almost reaching to the surface, smashed boilers and loads of brass pipes and elbows all mixed together. It is a great place to pick through. Taps, brass insides of gauges, little valves and joint fittings, great big brass elbows, steel hatch covers and condenser pipes all in one great glorious mix.

Location of the Demetrios.

Further down the wreck is the star of the show, a great big engine block, and its pistons pointing at the surface. At extreme low tide it sticks up out of the water, but normally it lies balanced on top of a reef so that it forms a sort of iron cave that you can swim right into and count the cog wheels, or whatever they are that are fixed underneath the huge block. Underneath is a great mess of broken ladders, pipe work and more smashed iron plate. It is a great sight but there is a snag, and that’s the surge. It is best to dive this wreck when there are off shore winds and the tide is almost at its peak. Other wise the surge can fling you all over the place and with all that jagged metal it can be a touch worrying. Still it’s a rare treat to have such a good ‘grot’ dive, even if it is at the edge of our normal diving area.

The Deventia was a coastal trader typical of the hundreds that plied their trade all around our coasts in the early part of the 20th Century. On 12th of February 1929 the Deventia was carrying a shipment of soda from Fleetwood to the Port of London when she got caught out in an east-south-east gale, which blew her onto the rocks near Soar Mill Cove, between Bolt Head and Bolt Tail.

The Deventia aground.

At the time there was no lifeboat stationed at Salcombe, so the Plymouth Lifeboat had to battle in the teeth of the gale for over two and a half hours before she managed to get into the lee of the Deventia’s stricken hull. Ten of the crew managed to jump into the lifeboat before she was forced away by the howling sea, and by that time the Coast Guard had arrived with its rocket apparatus, with which they managed to rescue the other three very frightened men.

Interview with the Captain

In an interview Russell Kelly said:- “We left Fleetwood about midnight on Saturday and as we were rounding Lands End on Monday morning the conditions were almost summer-like, the sun being warm, visibility good, and sea fairly smooth. Our crew were made up of the skipper, captain Kelly, who is my uncle, four Tynesiders, two Welshmen, one Irishman, a Shetlander, A Cornishman, two Fleetwood men and myself. About four o’clock in the afternoon the wind suddenly turned round and we ran into a thick snowstorm within half an hour, finally running aground into sand below the rocks of Bolt Head. We quickly got the life-boat ready and sent flares out, and our signals were soon answered. Our position, however, was very difficult, being underneath some huge, ice-covered rocks, and some hours went by before we were landed. Three of us went with the rocket apparatus (the breeches) and the other ten with the life-boat. Owing to the storm and bad visibility they could only lift us on the rocks half-way, and when I found myself on a rock I found that my line had been fouled and I was stranded. I picked my way cautiously in the dark, scrambled up the rocks in my bare feet to the top and gave them the position of the others. I left my sea boots in the boat, but had another pair round my neck. I badly scratched my feet, but naturally I didn’t give them a thought at the time. We were then taken by the coastguard to Hope Cove and given a good feed.”

Location of the Deventia.

The Deventia was soon refloated, but was found to be not worth repairing, and was scrapped where she lay. As it happened they left quite a bit behind mouldering on the bottom hard up against the cliffs.

Up to Mischief.

My friends and I found this wreck by accident whilst we were looking for the remains of the ‘Dragon’ a British East Indiaman wrecked near here in 1757. At first all that was visible was a couple of feet from the top of an engine block. As the years progressed however, more and more sand got washed away revealing propellers, decking, ribs and much other scrap plating, all in fifteen feet of water. Further out we found an anchor, more ribs and other bits and pieces including some nice lumps of brass.

Can’t quite make out makers plate.

The star attraction however was about twelve feet of prop shaft encased in its bronze bearings. Because they were regularly polished by the sand coming in and out with the tide you needed sunglasses inside your mask to protect your from the glare. Over the next two years we happily visited and filmed the Deventia wreck site. The water was usually gin clear with a mass of fish poking in and out of the wrecks entrails. It really was a most beautiful wreck. But then it started to slowly become buried by the sand, washing back in during the winter storms. In 2000, as the century turned it completely disappeared, all except a small piece from an iron propeller blade, sticking up like a forlorn finger.

Can’t quite make out makers plate.

So far there has been no resurrection, but who knows. Watch this space.

In 2010 the Deventia reapeared and then started to be buried again

By the way, the black and white photos of the Deventia and lots of help in identifying her was given by Malcolm Darch, who besides being very good local historian, also makes his living by making incredibly beautiful scale models of ships for museums and corporate clients.

See more of this beautiful ship wreck underwater in my Devon Shipwrecks video, available to view free online.

View video stills of the Deventia

Summer 1691. England was at war with her old enemy France, and the fleet were busy trying to lure the French and Dutch Navies out of the relative safety of the Channel Ports. The French however, knew when they were on to a good thing, and lay snug in their harbours whilst the English Fleet was battered by some of the worst summer storms anybody could remember. In late August, during a particularly bad gale, much of the Fleet retired to shelter in Torbay, and amongst those ships was the 90 gun second rate man of war, Coronation.

Launched in 1685 the Coronation was 140 feet long and weighed some 1366 tons. Commanded by Captain Charles Skelton, the Coronation should have had a ships complement of 660 officers and men, but due to manpower shortages it was unlikely that she was up to full strength and was probably managing with up to 100 men less than she needed. Whether this was to have some bearing on subsequent events I leave for the reader to decide.

Old print circa 1700 showing the rig out of a 96 gun ship of the line.

After a couple of days the weather took a turn for the better and once more the Fleet, including the Coronation, sailed forth to blockade the French ports. Unfortunately on the first of September, when the Fleet was off Ushant, the weather turned extremely nasty and once more the ships had to turn tail, this time making for the safety of Plymouth Sound. The French must have laughed fit to burst, for the storms were accomplishing more than their own Navy had dreamed possible. Worse was to follow.

Most people know that Plymouth Sound provides one of the best natural harbours in England, well protected from southwesterly gales by a very effective breakwater. However in 1691 the breakwater had not even been thought of, and when the southwesterly gales blew, the safe haven of Plymouth Sound often turned into a raging deathtrap. Imagine that night of September 3 1691. Southwest winds of hurricane force blowing right across the Sound. The Fleet lashed by torrential rain and forced to take in all canvas. Communications with the flagship impossible. What to do? Anchor off Penlee or Rame Head and risk dragging onto a lee shore, or take a calculated risk and press on into the Sound. If you could miss Drakes Island and avoid being smashed onto the Hamoaze, you would be home and dry. If not disaster and a ruined career.

In the end some of the Fleet elected to anchor off Rame Head, and some like the Harwich, took the gamble and plunged into the maelstrom. She did not get far; in fact she didn’t even make the Sound but ripped onto the rocks near Maker Point. There was no hope for her, and she quickly smashed to pieces drowning 450 of her crew. Other ships followed the Harwich, some were successful, others foundered in the Hamoaze, ran aground at the Cattewater, or simply ran into each other. The carnage was fearful.

Map of the area.

But what of the Coronation? Well she was still somewhere between Rame Head and Penlee Point, and what happened next is largely a matter for conjecture. All we do know for certain is that she was anchored somewhere between Rame and Penlee, apparently completely dismasted with only an ensign flying from her stern. A rainsquall obliterated her, and when visibility returned the Coronation had sunk killing Captain Skelton and all but twenty of his crew. We can only imagine that Skelton had decided to have a go at sailing into the Sound when he became dismasted. Perhaps he didn’t get his sails reefed in time. Whatever the cause he would have lost control of the vessel and found himself heading for the rocky shore at an alarming rate. In a vain effort to regain control he must have slipped his anchors, but the strain of bringing the Coronation up short in those murderous seas must have been her downfall. Maybe she took on too much water and foundered, or maybe she just started to break up. In any event, whatever the cause, down she went with well over 500 officers and men. That one night shocked the Nation. Over a thousand men were killed, and the damage done to the Navy was worse than a dozen sorties against the French. But the pressures on a country during a long war are many, and soon the shock of that terrible night receded, and by the turn of the century nine years later, I doubt anybody really remembered it.

For 276 years the Coronation lay undisturbed and unremembered. Unremembered that is until 1967, for then a ‘discovery’ was made that plunged the Coronation deep into controversy.

George and Alan.

In 1967 George Sandford and Alan Down were diving together with Terry Harrison just off Penlee Point, when they came across some cannonballs, and then an iron cannon, another cannon and then lots of cannons. In all fifty cannons were later discovered in the area now known as the Penlee Cannon site.

Naturally George, Alan and Terry thought that they had found a major new wrecksite, and to their credit, they immediately called in the experts. After a lot of research it became apparent that the only ship capable of carrying this amount of cannons, to go down in the area with the Coronation. So could this be her final resting-place? Well yes and no.

In the next ten years or so, marine archeologists from just about everywhere had a go on the Penlee site. Large bronze wheels, thought to be steering pulleys, were found marked with the Admiralty’s arrow, as were lead scuppers, buttons, and pieces of rope. Over the years lots of different artifacts were discovered, but nothing that could positively identify the wreck was turned up. Even the cannons caused some problems, and the experts continually argued amongst themselves as to their proper identity.

Meanwhile the lads who had started it all had been doing a bit of research of their own. After collating a lot of the eyewitness reports, and reading the various state papers involved, they came to the conclusion that the Coronation must have foundered much further off Penlee Point, possibly in up to 100 feet of water. As time passed a lot of the experts seemed to agree but still opinion was sharply divided. Some just said that it MUST be the Coronation, others though that some other man of war had run ashore and ditched her cannons over the side in order to float off to safety.

Peter McBride

Whilst the various arguments raged back and forth, other eyes had been scanning the state papers and sifting once more through the eyewitness accounts. In 1973 a small team under the direction of Peter McBride started to carry out a systematic search of an area some 1000 yards of Lady Cove using a proton magnetometer. The search was not easy, but after a frustrating four years in which hundreds of dives were done, McBride finally came across another cannon site in August of 1977. In a small area no more than 200 feet in length, he and his team found sixteen cannons and three anchors. They were delighted. But was it the Coronation? Five days after the initial discovery Peter McBride was finning over part of the wrecksite when he discovered a folded pewter plate jammed into a rock. After carefully easing the plate open he discovered that it contained a large crest bearing a coat of arms. Research in the Plymouth Museum showed that the crest belonged to the Lieutenant Governor of Plymouth, Sir John Skelton. Charles Skelton was his fifth son and of course also the Captain of the ill-fated Coronation. Surely this at last was proof positive. But was it? After all only sixteen cannons were found. The Coronation carried ninety. Where were the rest?

The arguments started all over again. McBride obtained a Wreck Protection order making it illegal for anybody else to dive on his wreck site, and carried on looking. To this day the Protection order is in force. Nothing else of any significance has been found, and hardly any diving now takes place.

Peering into the muzzel of a cannon.

So what of the Penlee Cannon Site? Well with fifty cannons there, and sixteen found on McBride’s site, people started to wonder if the two sites were not connected after all. They reasoned that if the Coronation had anchored where McBridge found his cannon site, then in the storm she could have broken up and her stern half been washed away to smash onto the rocks around Lady Cove. The next day there would have been lots of wreckage in the area as plenty of other ships came to grief that night, and so no one would have seen any reason to challenge the eyewitness accounts of the Coronation sinking somewhere between Rame Head and Penlee Point. Far fetched? Well maybe. But if you go out in a boat over the area on even a moderately rough day, you will soon see that it does not seem as ridiculous as it sounds. However I must confess that I am still far from being convinced, but then trying to puzzle these things out is surely one of the great attractions of wreck diving.

See the latest development on the official webite and contact the licence holders, Mark Pearce and ‘Ginge’ Crook if you want to dive the sites. They will usually try to accomodate you.

www.coronationwreck.co.uk.

So what about the diving. Well naturally enough you cannot go diving on the protected wrecksite, and that protection also includes the Penlee site which is a shame as it is a very interesting dive. If you have never seen a whole lot of cannons lying in situ, then this place will fascinate you. The whole area is covered in a dense forest of kelp, the bottom being made up of sand and rock. The cannons, all between eight and twelve feet long, lie scattered all about, the deepest lying in about thirty five feet of water, the shallowest in about fifteen feet. They are quite easy to recognise even though they are covered with concretion and weeds. The trunnions are quite plain, as are the mussels. The kelp used to be periodically hacked down by the Fort Bovisand school who once used the site for instructional purposes. Closer inshore the kelp thins and lying in the sand are large mounds of what look like rust covered rocks. These are in fact groups of cannonballs, which have been covered in concretion.

Plenty of these around if you look hard enough.

Because of the varied bottom and thick kelp the fish life is quite prolific. The ever present wrasse like to hang about in case you disturb a tasty morsel, and medium sized lobster have been found closer inshore amidst the rocky gullies. Small free swimming conger eels can give you a start when you are poking about in the kelp, but their larger parents never seem to put in an appearance. So there you are. If you are not too keen on just looking at the cannons you will find that the whole area is very colourful, and a pleasant place to dive.

Read more about Admiral Shovell’s Treasure and Shipwreck in the Isles of Scilly, Peter McBride and Richard Larn’s book about the Coronation

Midway between Bolt Tail and Bolt Head lies the Hamstone, and just a few hundred yards to the east lie the towering cliffs which surround Steeple Cove. On a summers day Steeple Cove is a delightful place. The gulls and cormorants glide effortlessly amid the clifftops, and occasionally, high in the sky, a hawk can be seen hanging motionless before swooping onto its unsuspecting prey. But in the early hours of 13th December 1932, Steeple Cove was far from being a pleasant place. For surrounded in fog as it was, it nearly became the graveyard of twenty-four seamen who had just been wrecked on the Spanish freighter Cantabria.

Stern view of the Cantabria.

Heavily loaded with iron ore, the Cantabria was outward bound from Bilbao to Newcastle when she encountered very dense fog off the Devon coast. By early morning the Captain did not have a clue as to his exact position, and soon, almost without any warning at all the Cantabria ran aground on the rocks at the bottom of Steeple Cove. The crew did not have much difficulty launching their boats, and soon they had abandoned the Cantabria and were all heading for the shore. Unfortunately the men had not realised how steep the cliffs were, and having let go of their boats when they jumped for the rocks, they found themselves unable to climb up the cliffs or get back into the lifeboats. It was into this potentially disastrous situation that the Salcombe lifeboat came after painfully groping her way along the coast in the thick fog. By now a heavy ground swell had started up and it had become far too dangerous for the lifeboat to approach the rocks upon which the Cantabria’s crew were trapped.

Looking at the bottom of the boiler.

The coxn of the lifeboat however was not short on initiative, and after making the lifeboat fast to the wrecked steamer, he went on board and found a small boat which had been left behind. Using this boat the lifeboats crew, after making a dozen journeys, managed to get all twenty-four people off the rocks and safely into the lifeboat. By now it was obvious that the combination of a very heavy cargo and a severe ground swell spelt the end for the Cantabria. With the continual pounding she eventually went to pieces and soon disappeared beneath the waters, leaving the Cove once more occupied by only the seabirds and the hawks.

This photo shows exactly where the wreck lies today.

Over the years Steeple Cove has not changed very much and the wreckage of the Cantabria lies almost exactly where she originally ran aground. The photograph shows her position very clearly, and right at the foot of these rocks is where most of the wreckage lies. For a wreck in only thirty-five feet of water the Cantabria is really impressive, and can rival many wrecks in deeper water. Unfortunately the Cantabria was a cheaply built ship and so there is not much in the way of brass or copper. Her propeller for instance, is still there lying on the rocks, but before you all get too excited let me tell you that it is just a common old iron one. Even so this sort of find certainly sets the scene for this wreck. The great majority of the wreck is to be found at the foot of the pinnacle rocks shown in the photograph.

Part of the mid section of the wreck.

Underwater these rocks have fairly broad flat bases which gently fall onto the sand. The boilers, still reasonable intact, lie here surrounded by rusty iron plates and sections of broken guard-rail. Up on a rocky plateau lies the iron propellor, with a large section of decking stretching out across the rocks. Underneath this is a large amount of debris which is well worth poking about in, as sometimes a small brass fitment such as a porthole fastener can be found. Lying across the decking and supported by another rock are the remains of the propellor shaft. This is in quite good condition and will lead you over the other side of the rocks where some more, smaller amounts of wreckage lie scattered. Going back to the main parts of the wreck, further inspection will reveal that large amounts of the decking are most probably the main deck and the one below compressed together, and in some places holes reveal an interior which goes down some four or five feet. A few yards away from the boilers lie of the Cantabria’s anchors with some chain attached.

As you swim away from this towards the other end of Steeple Cove, more small pieces of wreckage can be seen and in the jumble of rocks at the base of the cliffs more anchor chain is to be found, as well as other pieces of iron plating crudded into the rock. You can spend a great deal of time looking around these rocks, because you get the feeling that just behind the next one something really exciting is waiting to be found. All in all the Cantabria is a very underated wreck site. There is certainly plenty to see, and the underwater scenery is far from boring. With it’s shallow depth there is no need to whip around it, and the inquisitive diver can indulge himself by taking plenty of time and really enjoy himself. I suspect that if this wreck was located in deeper water many more divers would flock to it. Still a wreck is a wreck whatever depth of water it lies in. So next time you are in this area make time to give this one a dive. You will not be disappointed.

On the 8th of August 1920 the four-masted barquetine Yvonne left Jamaica with a cargo of logwood bound for Harve. Although built in California the Yvonne was French owned and captained by a Norwegian, Geohard Touneffen. Built of steel and weighing over a thousand tons, the Yvonne was a large and extremely well found ship, even to the point of having a radio. All went well on the voyage until the morning of the 3rd of September 1920, when the Yvonne, sailing up the Channel rounded The Lizard and encountered winds of hurricane force combined with very dangerous seas. All morning the crew battled against the weather, and as afternoon came, the headsails were blown away and the ship became very difficult to steer. So bad in fact had the steering become, that Captain Touneffen only just managed to avoid being smashed on to the Eddystone Reef.

Yvonne aground at the breakwater.

Worried by this lack of control, the Captain decided to seek shelter in Plymouth Sound, and radioed Rame Head Wireless station to ask for a Pilot to come and meet him. The Yvonne endeavoured to enter Plymouth Sound by the Western Channel, but at the crucial moment the topsails carried away leaving her at the mercy of the huge seas. Within minutes the Yvonne struck the Break- water with her port bow and was immediately smashed into its rocks. The time was half-past seven in the evening. It was pitch black, the rain coming down in solid sheets. The seas were so big they were sweeping over the Yvonne’s crosstrees and hitting the vessel with such force that it frequently knocked the crew off their feet.

Just a hulk now.

Immediately the ship struck, the rudder carried away and Captain Touneffen let go the anchor. The starboard lifeboat was smashed to pieces, and the Captain, uncertain how long his ship would hold together set about launching the port lifeboat. However, as soon as the lifeboat hit the water it was hurled on to the Breakwater and broken up, except the large piece of its bottom which lay stranded on top of the rocks. By now the Plymouth lifeboat and the tug Rover had arrived on the scene, but the seas were so rough they both had to stay inside the Breakwater in relative shelter. To aid the stricken vessel they sent up flares and operated search lights so that the crew could get some idea of the situation. Realising that they would have to save themselves Captain Touneffen got everybody into life jackets and instructed them to scramble on to the Breakwater. Everyone accomplished this harrowing journey, even the ship’s cook who was well over sixty.

A Pair of Bollards.

Gathering his crew all together Captain Touneffen seized the large piece of wrecked lifeboat and launched them into the sea on the inside of the Breakwater. He put the cook into the middle of the improvised raft, and all the rest jumped into the water, and holding on to the raft they started to swim towards the lifeboat. Unfortunately there were too many people for such a small piece of wood, and many became separated. However, all the crew were eventually picked up except for the cook who was last seen floating away into the darkness. The King’s Harbourmaster, was on board the Plymouth lifeboat and could hear the cook shouting for help and jumped into the water to try and find him but to no avail. The cook was never seen again.

This bit is just on the inside of the breakwater.

In the next few months the Yvonne lay stranded on the Breakwater gradually being stripped of all her equipment and fittings. Though she had become an empty hulk, the sea which had caused her so much harm finally relented and broke her into pieces to that she slid to her final resting place at the bottom of the Breakwater. Since 1920 the Breakwater has periodically had huge blocks of stone added to its seaward side to help minimise the relentless probing of the sea. It is amongst these great blocks that the remains of the Yvonne now lie scattered. The depth is only 25 feet and the hollows between the great blocks are filled with sand. In the summer kelp hides everything and you would be hard pressed to see anything even if you were standing on it. But once winter arrives the wreckage becomes revealed, and there is a surprising amount of it, even though it is well scattered.

Location of the wreck.

The only large things left are the ship’s anchor anchor and chain, and some large pieces of bulkhead which are jammed into the side of the Breakwater. Strewn elsewhere in the rocky hollows are pieces of derricks, bollards, hatch combings and other miscellaneous pieces of steel plate. In one area we found what looked like part of a wooden boat, and whilst trying to pull it out of the sand, we discovered more iron wreckage, Digging down into the sand revealed the wreckage to be part of the rib section, Looking more closely at other parts of the wreck site on later dives, we unearthed more wreckage and came to the conclusion that quite a lot of the Yvonne is still buried underneath the sand, Maybe one day storms will uncover more wreckage and maybe some surprises as well, The Yvonne is not one of Plymouth’s most exciting wrecks, but it is in a very picturesque location, The huge stone blocks create a reef effect much loved by marine life, and around almost every corner you will find another large hollow to poke into, With its shallow depth and good visibility the Yvonne’s site provides the diver with a gentle blend of pleasant scenery and rewarding curiosity, Not a bad way of spending an afternoon.

Between Bolt Tail and Bolt Head lie five miles of the most treacherous coastline anywhere on the South Devon coast. Over the years shipwrecks have carpeted this part of the coastline almost end to end, and some have become so jumbled together that it is hard to tell where one starts and the other ends. The area underneath Bolberry down, near Catehole Cliff is a good example of this chaos, because at the bottom of the steep cliffs lie the remains of two ships, separated in their wrecking by nearly twenty years, but now lying almost inextricably entwined together in the shallow seas.

The Jane Rowe. Photo – Thanks to Chris Verstappen.

The first vessel to be wrecked here was the Jane Rowe, a former Cardiff collier now owned by a firm in Gefle, Sweden. Built by Palmers of Newcastle, she was launched in 1889 as the Mary Thomas but later changed her name to Barto when she was sold to another firm, and finally, after being sold again to the Swedish company, she was renamed the Jane Rowe. During February 1914 the Jane Rowe loaded up in Oran with three thousand tons of burnt ore bound for Rotterdam.

Photo of the crew. Chris verstappen’s grandfather is on the right of the photo, and the dog is on the left. Both were saved.

In the early morning of the 28 February, the Jane Rowe, surrounded by dense fog ‘somewhere off Salcombe’ ran gently aground on the only sandy bit of beach for miles around, right under Bolberry Down Golf Links about a mile and a half east of Bolt Tail. Shortly after dawn the wreck was sighted by the Kingsbridge Packet, a small steamer that plied between Plymouth and Salcombe. She closed the grounded steamer and passed her a tow but in the end could not budge her, and left to summon some tugs.

Small boiler from the Jane Rowe

Meanwhile a pair of early morning rabbit catchers had seen the wreck and notified the Coastguard who launched the lifeboat from Hope Cove. However when they arrived there was very little they could do except wait until the tugs arrived about three hours later. Whilst the lifeboat stood by, five tugs tried until half past nine at night to refloat the Jane Rowe, but to no avail. When the lifeboat and the tugs returned the next morning they found that the tide had pushed the stricken vessel further up the sandy beach, and that she was now lying broadside at the base of the cliffs.

The Jane Rowe stranded.

The weather had by now changed for the worse, and huge waves were breaking right over the ship, pounding the hull up and down on the beach. As the day wore on the Jane Rowe started to develop some serious leaks and it became clear that she was not going to survive. Since the lifeboat could not get close enough to the vessel to take the crew off and the crew steadfastly refused to jump into the huge surf and swim to the lifeboat, the rocket brigade was sent for.

The Rocket Brigade arrive. Photo – Thanks to Chris Verstappen

A line was fired from the top of the cliffs and secured high up in the Jane Rowes formast, and a breeches buoy was swiftly rigged. Eventually all the crew were safely pulled off the wreck, including the ships kitten, a cat, and lastly a very large dog that nearly did for the crewmember struggling to save him.

Pulling the crew to safety.Photo – Thanks to Chris Verstappen

After a while, the Jane Rowe, now a total loss began to break up and by the time the year 1933 came along she had all but disappeared, with only her boilers left to mark her going. Once again the stage was set and the little piece of sandy beach was ready to receive its next victim who turned out to be the Lowestoft drifter the Charter, which had been fishing out of Plymouth.

The Charter.

Once again fog was the culprit, laced with a small amount of over confidence, which caused the Charter to run aground on the afternoon on 7 January on a full tide. There was an aggravating ground swell and a fresh wind blowing up which drove the fog away, but the well-built trawler lay comfortably on the sandy beach. Comfortably that is until the tide started to ebb and caused the trawler to fall over on her beam-ends. The crew, ten in all, had by now vacated the Charter and were stood around unconcernedly on the beach waiting to see if they could refloat their boat on the next tide. The lifeboat, this time from Salcombe, had arrived to stand by the vessel, but soon saw that she was not going to be needed. Unfortunately when the next high tide arrived it became obvious to the crew that the Charter was beyond refloating, and all they could do was salvage whatever equipment they could. Once more the beach had claimed another ship, but thankfully no lives had been lost on either occasion. Soon the Charter would begin to break up and her wreckage mingle with the rusting remains of the Jane Rowe until eventually they would be as one.

The steam tug Joffre ran aground just to the left of the Jane Rowe in 1925 but was refloated six weeks later and was finally broken up in 1966.

Nowadays it is very easy to sail straight past the little sandy beach as the boilers have blended very well into the background. However as the tide ebbs a small boiler is clearly visible lying in the middle of the sand, and over to the right on a rocky ridge you suddenly realise that the rocks are of a regular shape, and you then see the two other boilers which are much bigger and therefore probably come from the Jane Rowe.

It is probably best to wait till near high tide to explore the rest of the wreck as it is all extremely shallow, and has an irritating ground swell at low tide. Because it is so shallow you really only need a snorkel to find the main points of the wreck and this makes it very suitable for youngsters and non-diving wives. Right in front of the beached boiler are the stern ribs of the hull of the Jane Rowe lying across the beach. Quite often these are covered in sand and not always visible, as is a large piece of mast some fifteen feet long, and part of a deckhouse which is nine tenths buried in the sand a little further out. Other pieces of plate can sometimes be found, but I think it would be fair to say that most of the Jane Rowe is now buried somewhere down in the sand.

The French trawler Tarascon in Steple cove in 1938.She was refloated on the next spring tide after all the crew had been dragged to safety through the heavy surf.

However over to the right of the beach stand the other two boilers, one upright and the other lying on its side. As the swell hits these, water gets trapped inside the boilers and is then explosively forced out through small holes in the iron plating making a noise like a sounding whale and heaving a fine mist of spray into the air. Further around smashed into the rocks are the remains of the Charters bows (I think) and various other pieces of wreckage that continue along the bottom of the rocks and into the next little inlet. Everything is well smashed up but it is interesting to try and piece it all together, and also to try and separate the two wrecks. The thing about these wrecks is that you never know for certain which one you are on, so if you like crosswords or puzzles this is the place for you.

In any case it is a very beautiful area, and on a flat sunny day, an extremely pleasant dive. Anything else has got to be a bonus.

The Torrey Canyon, Amoco Cadiz, and the Exxon Valdez are all infamous for one thing, oil pollution. In the mid 1800’s that phrase had no meaning at all, and if you had told people that a hundred years later oil pollution would be on of the world’s worst problems, they would probably have said, so what. You cannot really blame them; after all they had enough problems of their own. Nowadays we all complain about cars polluting the atmosphere, but imagine London in the horsedrawn 1850’s. With a population of well over two and a half million, there were up to a million horses working in Englands capital city, depositing something like sixteen thousand tons of horse dung on the streets every day. Just imagine it. Give me good old carbon dioxide any day. Still as the internal combustion engine started to replace the horse, petrol became more and more in demand and soon ships were being specifically designed to transport it. The controversial age of the oil tanker had dawned.

The Blesk

One of the first ships to be specially designed for oil shipments was the Russian steamer Blesk, and she was to have the unhappy distinction of being the very first oil tanker to be wrecked on the coast of the British Isles. 298 feet long, and loaded with 3180 tons of petro-oil; the Blesk was built to have all her holds at the front and her engines at the stern. Defying convention of the times her bridge and accommodation was set well back towards the stern instead of being placed amidships. This first design was almost right first time and did not really alter until the first of the supertankers came along in the early Sixties. On November 14 1896 the Blesk left Odessa bound for Hamburg. On 1st December the Blesk was at the entrance to the English Channel and Captain Adolph Deme, confident in his navigation, cracked on at the Blesk’s full speed which was around ten knots. It was a thick, dark day with heavy rain, and when Captain Deme saw a light blinking ahead in the murk he consulted his chart and decided that he was about to pass the Corbiere light just off Jersey.

This is near the middle of the wreck.

Part of Anchor Winch?

As he altered his course to come slightly more to the north it never occurred to him that the light was actually coming from the Eddystone Lighthouse. By altering course Captain Deme had now aimed the Blesk straight at the coast of Devon. As the rain continued its downpour the afternoon drew into the darkness of night, and the visibility dropped to nil. But still Captain Deme, happily pacing his bridge had no idea of the impending disaster that was shortly to happen. At just after nine o’clock that evening the Blesk, still forging ahead at ten knots, ran full tilt into the Greystone rock and ran hard up onto the Greystone Ledges just to the east of Bolt Tail. Because she had hit so hard and ridden up over the Ledges, it was fairly obvious even at that early stage that the Blesk would never get off.

The Blesk ramming Gray Stone.

Captain Deme ordered flares and distress rockets to be launched, and opening the ships firearms locker issued handguns to his officers and told them to fire those as well. With the seas pounding her stern, and the noise of her hull grating and banging on the rocks, it must have been a terrifying time for all the crew. However they all kept their heads and nobody tried to commit certain suicide by attempting to jump ship. At last the Hope Cove Lifeboat appeared, and in the space of two trips managed to save all forty three crew and take them to the safety of Hope Cove. By the next day it was a rarity to see oil floating on the water and people came from miles around to stand on the clifftops and watch the oil stain the sea black all along this part of the coast. After a while however the novelty wore off as the fumes made people vomit, and the stench grew horrendous. Local reports at the time said that you could smell the oil in Totnes, over twenty miles away. As the oil spread it poisoned all the fish between Bigbury and Prawle Point, and soon every tide brought ashore oiled up lobster, crabs, bream and mullet, all killed by the Blesk’s escaping cargo. It was a sad time for Hope Cove and Salcombe and a glimpse of the ecological catastrophes yet to come.

One of the bollards

Solidified Lump of Tar

A porthole? If only

Plenty of brass below

Today if you swim around the Greystone Ledges the one thing you will not find is any wreckage belonging to the Blesk. However if you swim along Redrot Ledges, which are more towards Bolt Tail, you will come across plenty of boiler coke, solidified lumps of tar, and a certain amount of wreckage. It is my belief that here in about thirty five feet of water lie the remains of the Blesk. Well I was wrong. There is wreckage here, and it might, or might not be from the Blesk. But the main wreckage is undeniably in the bay beyond. I now know this, not because I found it, but because Matt Walker, a local man took this amazing photograph from the top of the cliffs above Huge’s Hole this year.(2014) It clearly shows the outline of a ship, bows to the shore, with two boilers just a little way out too sea. I am extremely grateful to Matt Walker for the two photo’s below clearly showing the shipwreck. The two boilers are the black blobs to the upper right.

Aerial View

Aerial View

View from top pf cliffs.

I couldn’t believe my luck. The savage winter storms had move most of the sand to reveal what was left of the ships ribs. Surely it was too good to be true? As soon as I could, I shot around to Bolt Tail and the Greystone Rock, with Dave my diving partner to take a good look. It was a flat calm sunny day, and using Matt’s photo, we soon located the wreck in about 25ft of water and dropped our anchor right by one of the boilers. Even though the sea was calm, there was quite a ground surge, which made things a bit tricky as all the metal sticking out of the sand was razor sharp. However there was so much to see that we soon got used to it, and spent a happy hour exploring all the bits of metal and plate, trying to piece the wreck together. The two boilers were fairly intact, except for one, which had its top missing. The ribs outlined in the photo, were in fact bits of metal sticking out of the sand, covered with a coating of weed.

One of the Boilers.

A pile of metal ribs near the middle

On the bottom, these did not really show up as lines, so it was difficult to establish quite where you were on the wreck. However, we soon made our way to the bow area, which was right by the rocks, and it was here that we found a mass of plating, anchor chain, but alas no anchors. Bollards and the remains of a winch were half buried in the sand as well as some lumps of tar. We did not find the engine block, so it would seem that the people that bought the ship at auction salvaged it where it lay, cutting up the plate down towards the bottom of the hull, much as was done to the |Demetrios at Prawle Point. There is quite a lot of brass lying just hidden under the sand, and no doubt that much of the wreckage is still covered in sand, so who knows what is left unseen. It made for a fascinating dive, and in the next month or so, we managed to visit the wreck a for a couple of dives, but the sand seemed to be moving back in, with the ground swell getting stronger. There is always next year, so lets hope the sand uncovers some more.

These metal ribs are razor sharp.

They maybe part of the bow.

Again, buried near the bow.

Once again I am indebted to Matt Walker for the pics below taken April 2015. It clearly shows that most of the sand has moved back to cover the ribs. He filmed at one of the low tides, and you can see one of the boilers sticking out of the water. Also to the left of the bay are the boilers of the Jane Rowe or Charter with a mass of iron plating and ribs, belonging to one or the other. All part of the jigsaw.

Boiler from the Blesk – – Boilers and mass of plate and ribs from the Jane Rowe or Charter.

From the shore.

From the shore.

He scrambled down the cliff – – Boiler from Jane Rowe

From the waters edge.

From the waters edge.