Amazing Tales for Making Men Out of Boys Read Online Free

Huddersfield. This is the way and the form of the RNLI—it’s a gift we make to each other.
    She bore the unmistakable livery of purple hull and orange cabin—colors which, in the seas around the British Isles, mean so much more to stranded mariners than the reds and yellows of onshore rescue vehicles mean to British drivers. Nothing compares to the sight of an orange and purple outline appearing over the horizon of waves, its crew made larger than life by their puffy waterproofs and crash helmets, and bearing down upon you with the promise of continuing existence. “Guardian Angel” is an expression that’s bandied about quite a lot nowadays—but the men of the RNLI are the real deal.
    Although the Solomon Browne was crewed by Mousehole men, she was stationed at Penlee Point and was generally known as the Penlee lifeboat. There had been a lifeboat there since 1913, and 91 people had owed their lives to the bravery of its crews down through the years. Many medals had been awarded to crewmen past and present before that night of all nights on December 19, 1981.
    The men who climbed aboard along with Trevelyan Richards were second coxswain James Stephen Madron, 43, assistant mechanic Nigel Brockman, 43, emergency mechanic John Blewit, 43, Charlie Greenhaugh, 46, Barrie Torrie, 33, and 23-year-olds Kevin Smith and Gary Wallis.
    It took masterful seamanship to get the Solomon Browne out onto the water that night. By the time those men arrived at their lifeboat station they were fighting to stand up in the face of a full-blownhurricane—the kind of weather event most of us will never even see. Yet they looked out into the dark of that winter’s night, at 60-foot waves whipped up by 100-mile-an-hour winds, and decided to get aboard a 47-foot boat and head out into it. Remind yourself that they’re volunteers, who do the job because they know what it’s like to be on the sea when it all goes wrong. They understand what it means, and rather than stay safe on dry land while it all plays out, they find it easier to go out there and help. I find it almost impossible to imagine bravery like that.
    The very existence of the RNLI is down to one Englishman, a Yorkshire-born Quaker called William Hillary, who never learned to swim. They say that in the old days, fishermen and sailors chose not to master the art—it gave them more respect for the sea.
    In the days before he concerned himself with the plight of shipwrecked sailors, William was a soldier and adventurer who used his wealthy first wife’s money to fund a private army to stand against any invasion by Napoleon. King George III eventually gave him a baronetcy for his trouble.
    In 1808 Sir William moved to the Isle of Man, with a new wife, and there he heard many tragic tales of local lives lost to the sea. The worst had been the loss of the Manx fishing fleet in 1787, when around 50 ships and more than 160 crewmen drowned in Douglas Bay. Caught out in a storm and running for safe haven, they foundered on rocks. There was no rescue service then, of course, and no one thought of making an attempt to pluck those souls from their watery graves.
    And then in October 1822, Sir William watched with his own eyes as the Royal Navy cutter Vigilant made an attempt to sail out of Douglas Bay into a storm. She was caught by the wind and waves and driven onto rocks.
    Sir William ran from his home overlooking the bay, down to the harbor wall, and there promised to pay any men who would helphim crew a rowing boat and make some effort to help the sailors. Enough volunteers stepped forward to man two boats and they braved the storm to reach the stricken vessel. Fixing lines to the Vigilant , they managed to pull her back toward shore—close enough for rockets to be fired from the beach, carrying hawsers that could be used to draw her closer still. Despite ever-worsening conditions, Sir William and the rest of his volunteers then rowed back and forth between the Vigilant and the beach,