Uneventful Passage
by Ron A. Sewell
Genre: Horror/Supernatural
Swearwords: None.
Description: Seeing is believing, but maybe not...
_____________________________________________________________________
Extract from a Captain’s Diary:
Whilst my crew went about their daily duties, I sat in my cabin attempting to compile a report. Only two days had elapsed since my experience of the night to remember or better still, to forget.
As truth is always stranger than fiction and while every word of this story is true, I do not expect anyone to believe it. I now know that strange things can happen which have no logical reason.
On 6 September 1983 I was the Commanding Officer of one of Her Majesty’s minor warships on passage from Rosyth Naval Base to Hull. The journey would take three days with my junior officer training being prime task.
The barometer had risen all day but now was beginning to fall. Through my cabin window, I could see high ripples of cirrus clouds decorating the sky, pretty little streaks that meant much to a sailor. The storm would arrive within the next twenty-four hours. I reminded the officer of the watch to listen to the shipping forecast on radio four.
The cadets needed additional training to complete their task books. I decided that we would transit at ten knots from the Farne Islands to Blyth and back overnight with junior officers fixing the position of the ship every fifteen minutes.
After a long and busy day, I took a final look round the bridge. A quick check of the charts and my bunk beckoned. Sleep overtook me and when the telephone alongside my head gave out its horrid shrill scream, I cursed.
Pulling on my trousers and jumper, I made my way hastily to the bridge.
On my arrival I asked, “What’s the problem, Terry?”
“It’s that vessel over there, sir.” He pointed. “I can see it but there’s nothing on radar.”
Staring into the darkness I could just make it out. Its navigation lights were non-regulation but there was certainly a ship out there moving slowly.
Looking at the chart, we were two miles south of the Farnes and there was plenty of sea room. I wanted to go to bed but something irritated my nose. I was now wide-awake and I needed to investigate. Taking charge, I wound up the engines to twenty-five knots and closed the vessel from astern. The first surprise was she was a paddle steamer under sail. Initially, I thought it must be the Waverly, an old Clyde steamer that undertook charters. Somehow this didn’t look like her. In an instant the squall from hell hit us. Brilliant flashes illuminated the sky like a star shell. A fork of lightening chased the clouds and in that moment I saw her name ‘Forfarshire’. This definitely was a new one to me; I’d never heard of her. Only then did I understand, its paddle wheels had stopped turning and her sails were useless. Out of control, she was drifting with the tide towards the Harcar Rock.
The sea changed. Waves, short, steep angry walls of dark green water, attacked both vessels mercilessly. I tried the radio but only static erupted from the speaker. I knew I was in no position to salvage but I could at least attempt to get the crew off before she struck. I made up my mind we would go for it. The wind speed increased beyond belief. Should I risk my vessel and crew when I could easily run for shelter?
The distressed ship rolled and pitched so close to disaster. I had to get nearer but whatever I did, neither the engines nor the rudder responded. My position remained unaltered as if locked in ice. I could see Farne Light clearly. The ‘Forfarshire’struck the rocks and seemed to dance with her head high. Waves cascaded over her stern as the lightning played along her masts. Desperate men attempted to lower a boat only to see it swamped and torn away.
Helpless, we watched. The sea surged along her decks sweeping away women clutching children. They vanished as rag-dolls in the foam, to reappear moments later, smashed on the rocks. What remained washed away as if they had never existed.
Out of nowhere, a small cutter appeared. Across that angry seething stretch of water a man rowed, as a young girl steered. They managed to close the lee side of the stricken vessel and take men off.
The lightning heightened in its intensity until with one almighty crash of thunder, the storm vanished, the sea fell flat and we surged forward. A full moon reflected off wet rocks.
“Starboard twenty,” I roared, as I pulled the throttles back.
For the next hour we looked for survivors. My crew scanned the sea with our searchlight. There was nothing; no wreckage and no bodies.
Farne Light was bright in the morning sky. I turned the ship south and resumed our course.
The captain’s daily log is a compulsory document and should contain all the relevant facts. What could I write that would be believed? That page remains almost blank. I wrote three words “Night Passage uneventful.”
The Forfarshire sank on 6 September 1838 due to engine failure and a storm. There were 18 survivors out of 63.
Later in the year I visited the Grace Darling Museum where there is a painting by a survivor of the Forfarshire. In the background, as she clings grimly to the rocks, there is a grey streak, which could be another vessel. I saw it clearly but maybe no one else can.
Swearwords: None.
Description: Seeing is believing, but maybe not...
_____________________________________________________________________
Extract from a Captain’s Diary:
Whilst my crew went about their daily duties, I sat in my cabin attempting to compile a report. Only two days had elapsed since my experience of the night to remember or better still, to forget.
As truth is always stranger than fiction and while every word of this story is true, I do not expect anyone to believe it. I now know that strange things can happen which have no logical reason.
On 6 September 1983 I was the Commanding Officer of one of Her Majesty’s minor warships on passage from Rosyth Naval Base to Hull. The journey would take three days with my junior officer training being prime task.
The barometer had risen all day but now was beginning to fall. Through my cabin window, I could see high ripples of cirrus clouds decorating the sky, pretty little streaks that meant much to a sailor. The storm would arrive within the next twenty-four hours. I reminded the officer of the watch to listen to the shipping forecast on radio four.
The cadets needed additional training to complete their task books. I decided that we would transit at ten knots from the Farne Islands to Blyth and back overnight with junior officers fixing the position of the ship every fifteen minutes.
After a long and busy day, I took a final look round the bridge. A quick check of the charts and my bunk beckoned. Sleep overtook me and when the telephone alongside my head gave out its horrid shrill scream, I cursed.
Pulling on my trousers and jumper, I made my way hastily to the bridge.
On my arrival I asked, “What’s the problem, Terry?”
“It’s that vessel over there, sir.” He pointed. “I can see it but there’s nothing on radar.”
Staring into the darkness I could just make it out. Its navigation lights were non-regulation but there was certainly a ship out there moving slowly.
Looking at the chart, we were two miles south of the Farnes and there was plenty of sea room. I wanted to go to bed but something irritated my nose. I was now wide-awake and I needed to investigate. Taking charge, I wound up the engines to twenty-five knots and closed the vessel from astern. The first surprise was she was a paddle steamer under sail. Initially, I thought it must be the Waverly, an old Clyde steamer that undertook charters. Somehow this didn’t look like her. In an instant the squall from hell hit us. Brilliant flashes illuminated the sky like a star shell. A fork of lightening chased the clouds and in that moment I saw her name ‘Forfarshire’. This definitely was a new one to me; I’d never heard of her. Only then did I understand, its paddle wheels had stopped turning and her sails were useless. Out of control, she was drifting with the tide towards the Harcar Rock.
The sea changed. Waves, short, steep angry walls of dark green water, attacked both vessels mercilessly. I tried the radio but only static erupted from the speaker. I knew I was in no position to salvage but I could at least attempt to get the crew off before she struck. I made up my mind we would go for it. The wind speed increased beyond belief. Should I risk my vessel and crew when I could easily run for shelter?
The distressed ship rolled and pitched so close to disaster. I had to get nearer but whatever I did, neither the engines nor the rudder responded. My position remained unaltered as if locked in ice. I could see Farne Light clearly. The ‘Forfarshire’struck the rocks and seemed to dance with her head high. Waves cascaded over her stern as the lightning played along her masts. Desperate men attempted to lower a boat only to see it swamped and torn away.
Helpless, we watched. The sea surged along her decks sweeping away women clutching children. They vanished as rag-dolls in the foam, to reappear moments later, smashed on the rocks. What remained washed away as if they had never existed.
Out of nowhere, a small cutter appeared. Across that angry seething stretch of water a man rowed, as a young girl steered. They managed to close the lee side of the stricken vessel and take men off.
The lightning heightened in its intensity until with one almighty crash of thunder, the storm vanished, the sea fell flat and we surged forward. A full moon reflected off wet rocks.
“Starboard twenty,” I roared, as I pulled the throttles back.
For the next hour we looked for survivors. My crew scanned the sea with our searchlight. There was nothing; no wreckage and no bodies.
Farne Light was bright in the morning sky. I turned the ship south and resumed our course.
The captain’s daily log is a compulsory document and should contain all the relevant facts. What could I write that would be believed? That page remains almost blank. I wrote three words “Night Passage uneventful.”
The Forfarshire sank on 6 September 1838 due to engine failure and a storm. There were 18 survivors out of 63.
Later in the year I visited the Grace Darling Museum where there is a painting by a survivor of the Forfarshire. In the background, as she clings grimly to the rocks, there is a grey streak, which could be another vessel. I saw it clearly but maybe no one else can.
About the Author
Ron A. Sewell was born in Leith, Edinburgh. At the age of fourteen, he ran away from home. Heading for the south of France, he found work as a deckhand on luxury yachts. On his return to the United Kingdom, he enlisted in the Royal Navy, eventually becoming a commissioned officer. During his career, he travelled the world, qualifying as an engineer, deck officer, boarding officer, a diver, and parachutist and for a time part of an Air Sea Rescue team. This has given him much experience and many ideas.
Ron has been writing for twenty-three years. He has written numerous short stories (many of them published) and five complete novels to date. Two of the novels, entitled The Collectors, are currently with his agent, who is attempting to sell them to a publisher.
Ron has been writing for twenty-three years. He has written numerous short stories (many of them published) and five complete novels to date. Two of the novels, entitled The Collectors, are currently with his agent, who is attempting to sell them to a publisher.