Blackpool, England //
At the mercy of Poseidon
Exploring a modern day shipwreck
Date March 2008
Posted June 2010
Posted June 2010
About half a lifetime ago when learning about the World Wars for history at school I read about the sinking of a navy ship, the bow lifting up as the stern went down, revealing a giant hole blown in the hull by a torpedo. An eye witness recalled some sailors clinging to a raft who screamed with terror as a strong current swept their raft through the hole into the darkness of the flooding vessel just before it sank. They were never seen again.
History reveals countless struggles between Man and his environment, and the reality of it has been made abundantly clear: if the elements want to put you down, then they damn well will. Which seems to be more or less what happened to MS Riverdance, taking a heavy broadside hit during a storm and then running aground, listing heavily. Too bad for the crew, who had to be winched up to a helicopter after several terrifying hours clinging on. Unless a squadron of Chinooks could be deployed then the ship itself was going to be a little too heavy to be salvaged in such a manner. A little later Riverdance was condemned to death by oxy-acetylene torch, right there where she lay.
Before such dismantling could begin, more lives were to be risked, but voluntarily of course. With the work to start imminently the cops who'd been 'guarding' the vessel had gone back to the uneviable occupation of trying to police Blackpool. The beaches were clear, and the tide was receeding. And so there we stood, like Papillon and friend on the cliff, the pair of us watching for the 'seventh wave'. With the tide receeding just that little bit further it was possible to reach across for some old ropes and wires and cling on as the surf swept back along the narrow but deep channel surrounding the ship. For tonight, this was as far out as it would go, leaving us an estimated window of 20 minutes in which we could enter the ship, have a poke about and then leave.
First on and now above me, my companion looked down and pointed at some twisted metal bars. Gripping and kicking, ears were finally shielded from the wind and the sound of the tide. The round metal pipe was horizontal to the water but large enough to crawl through, like giant hamsters parallel to the sands but perpendicular to the deck (in its final death throes the ship had completed its roll, and was now resting on the bridge). Continuing through the pipe, torch beams pointed at the end disappeared into a black void, so the lorry deck was near. Once inside it was a scene resembling a film set that presented itself. Below, dark green water masked the hidden obstructions waiting for the hapless adventurer who may slip on oily white-gloss painted beams and fall into it's hidden depths.
From the roof (to us, the wall) of the lorry deck, there was only really one direction to take, and that was up. Moving then along the vessel, we approached the lorry trailers stacked up and in some cases smashed open. More worryingly one trailer, sandwiched between two others, was not resting against the roof. This meant that passage past the trailers was possible, but at a price: should gravity come to collect, and slide the lorry that little bit further, either or both of us would end up trapped in a small enclosure between the bulkheads, the roof and the trailer, and left to wonder how high tonight's tide would rise.
Obviously that didn't happen, and we pushed on further. At this point it's worth mentioning the sounds inside the wreck, which were odd to say the least. At the most expected end of the scale was the slop of the water below, which was entering through any number of holes, pipes and vents in the structure, and therefore rose and fell with the chop of the waves. Stranger though were various creaks and bangs - these were down to the stressing of the hull under conditions for which it was simply not designed.
Access to the engine room was in theory possible, but decided against. It would (from our vantage point) require a little ropework, which was something we were not equipped for. What oily mess was lying in wait there would have to stay a mystery, as would the bridge at the far end, unreachable for lack of handholds and a swirling mess of floating wood and debris. And not to mention that we were rather limited for time, unless we wished to spend a night camped out on top of the ship.
And so we traced our path back through the jaws of death, taking immense care not to fall down into the nasty underworld below, clambering around bulkheads and moving roughly in the direction of the entrance. Not before leaving though I took a shot of the cargo deck, shown above for your enjoyment. Back when my parents suffered taking us kids on holiday to France on the ferry, I'd take note of the chains strewn about the car deck, once asking what they were for. On being told that they were incase we hit a storm, I stood wondering just how much all these heavy vehicles could move. Twenty or so years later, looks like I found out: they can move a lot. Now smashed and swamped with water, little if anything would be salvageable.
The night was clear and welcoming as we pushed our anxious faces back out of the pipe and looked down. The tide hadn't sought to cut us off yet, so it was just a case of swinging down on the cables and rope and hoping to avoid a broken leg, and the inevitable dragging of oneself like some injured animal up a beach which has one of the fastest tides in the country. Additional drama did not feel the need to get involved, and we were spared such an incident. Instead, feet met wet sand, and again we contemplated reaching the bridge. Tentatively walking into the pool that surrounded the white-painted steelwork suddenly the sand beneath the surf gave way to greater depths, not helped by a ripple of a wave reminding us that these conditions were not static.
And so the rest of the ship remained inaccessible, save for those who might like to push their further, or persons equipped with a rib and outboard. In subsequent months demolition teams moved in and started cutting the beast into sections before shipping them off to who knows where for recycling. Since there were no deaths, and some wieldy corporate insurance firm probably paid for a new boat, it appeared that all was well that ended well.
History reveals countless struggles between Man and his environment, and the reality of it has been made abundantly clear: if the elements want to put you down, then they damn well will. Which seems to be more or less what happened to MS Riverdance, taking a heavy broadside hit during a storm and then running aground, listing heavily. Too bad for the crew, who had to be winched up to a helicopter after several terrifying hours clinging on. Unless a squadron of Chinooks could be deployed then the ship itself was going to be a little too heavy to be salvaged in such a manner. A little later Riverdance was condemned to death by oxy-acetylene torch, right there where she lay.
Before such dismantling could begin, more lives were to be risked, but voluntarily of course. With the work to start imminently the cops who'd been 'guarding' the vessel had gone back to the uneviable occupation of trying to police Blackpool. The beaches were clear, and the tide was receeding. And so there we stood, like Papillon and friend on the cliff, the pair of us watching for the 'seventh wave'. With the tide receeding just that little bit further it was possible to reach across for some old ropes and wires and cling on as the surf swept back along the narrow but deep channel surrounding the ship. For tonight, this was as far out as it would go, leaving us an estimated window of 20 minutes in which we could enter the ship, have a poke about and then leave.
First on and now above me, my companion looked down and pointed at some twisted metal bars. Gripping and kicking, ears were finally shielded from the wind and the sound of the tide. The round metal pipe was horizontal to the water but large enough to crawl through, like giant hamsters parallel to the sands but perpendicular to the deck (in its final death throes the ship had completed its roll, and was now resting on the bridge). Continuing through the pipe, torch beams pointed at the end disappeared into a black void, so the lorry deck was near. Once inside it was a scene resembling a film set that presented itself. Below, dark green water masked the hidden obstructions waiting for the hapless adventurer who may slip on oily white-gloss painted beams and fall into it's hidden depths.
From the roof (to us, the wall) of the lorry deck, there was only really one direction to take, and that was up. Moving then along the vessel, we approached the lorry trailers stacked up and in some cases smashed open. More worryingly one trailer, sandwiched between two others, was not resting against the roof. This meant that passage past the trailers was possible, but at a price: should gravity come to collect, and slide the lorry that little bit further, either or both of us would end up trapped in a small enclosure between the bulkheads, the roof and the trailer, and left to wonder how high tonight's tide would rise.
Obviously that didn't happen, and we pushed on further. At this point it's worth mentioning the sounds inside the wreck, which were odd to say the least. At the most expected end of the scale was the slop of the water below, which was entering through any number of holes, pipes and vents in the structure, and therefore rose and fell with the chop of the waves. Stranger though were various creaks and bangs - these were down to the stressing of the hull under conditions for which it was simply not designed.
Access to the engine room was in theory possible, but decided against. It would (from our vantage point) require a little ropework, which was something we were not equipped for. What oily mess was lying in wait there would have to stay a mystery, as would the bridge at the far end, unreachable for lack of handholds and a swirling mess of floating wood and debris. And not to mention that we were rather limited for time, unless we wished to spend a night camped out on top of the ship.
And so we traced our path back through the jaws of death, taking immense care not to fall down into the nasty underworld below, clambering around bulkheads and moving roughly in the direction of the entrance. Not before leaving though I took a shot of the cargo deck, shown above for your enjoyment. Back when my parents suffered taking us kids on holiday to France on the ferry, I'd take note of the chains strewn about the car deck, once asking what they were for. On being told that they were incase we hit a storm, I stood wondering just how much all these heavy vehicles could move. Twenty or so years later, looks like I found out: they can move a lot. Now smashed and swamped with water, little if anything would be salvageable.
The night was clear and welcoming as we pushed our anxious faces back out of the pipe and looked down. The tide hadn't sought to cut us off yet, so it was just a case of swinging down on the cables and rope and hoping to avoid a broken leg, and the inevitable dragging of oneself like some injured animal up a beach which has one of the fastest tides in the country. Additional drama did not feel the need to get involved, and we were spared such an incident. Instead, feet met wet sand, and again we contemplated reaching the bridge. Tentatively walking into the pool that surrounded the white-painted steelwork suddenly the sand beneath the surf gave way to greater depths, not helped by a ripple of a wave reminding us that these conditions were not static.
And so the rest of the ship remained inaccessible, save for those who might like to push their further, or persons equipped with a rib and outboard. In subsequent months demolition teams moved in and started cutting the beast into sections before shipping them off to who knows where for recycling. Since there were no deaths, and some wieldy corporate insurance firm probably paid for a new boat, it appeared that all was well that ended well.
