(Pole calibrated to register the strength of the wind by the height of the waves. It’s a thought))
For the moment, our rowdy transatlantic visitors have left us, Abigail, Big Bertha, Caligula, Desmond, Frank, Godzilla, Henry the Devastater, Imogen…. There have been so many that I get confused by the names. I vividly remember Hurricane Charlie, but that was a one-off and we all knew Charlie. Whose idea was it to name every Atlantic depression in alphabetical order, creating a sense of malevolent beings sweeping across the ocean to wreak havoc across the country. Previously the weather forecasters referred to ‘a storm’ or a ‘deep depression bringing high winds and heavy rain from the Atlantic.’ The Skerries fisherman would refer to ‘a gale of wind’ to remove any doubt. Now we have a sense of shrieking Valkyries and shambling thugs lurching towards us to do us harm. They employed millibars, marked on barometers. Now it’s hectopascals and poor little Buoy M5. We used to make barometers out of jars of water and inverted bottles. I doubt if anything ever registered but that is how amazing discoveries begin…provided you don’t get bored. I can’t imagine a jar full of hectopascals. “Don’t bring those dirty things into the house.” or was that frog spawn?
Picture courtesy of R. O Shea.
Admiral Beaufort, from Navan, made it easier, by basing his wind scale on the number of sails a man o’ war could safely carry. In this way, an officer coming on deck could gauge at a glance, the force of the wind. The landlubber’s version talks of smoke rising vertically, trees swaying, structural damage and hurricane force. The bottom line is ‘take care out there.’ I suspect that forecasters give us the worst case scenario as they say, so that they can’t be accused of being caught on the hop. Poor Michael Fish will be forever blamed for overlooking a hurricane. It could happen to anyone. My sister-in-law slept through the whole thing, while in Bournemouth at a conference. She went for a walk in the morning and was dismayed by the untidiness of what is one of Britain’s leading seaside resorts. Meanwhile the good people of Sevenoaks, just up the road, were out looking for their eponymous trees. It blew Michael’s career away too. He briefly tried the music business but released only one song…said to be the worst recording since records began.
I recall floods and storms before there were names; before global warming and climate change were invoked to explain everything. The picture shows an aspect of the North Strand flooding in Dublin in 1954. This was the time of the collapse of the railway bridge over the raging Tolka. You may remember how the sea came right up to the railway at Fairview. The army built a temporary bailey bridge. All that land east of the railway, East Point, Alfie Byrne Road etc. is the result of intensive reclamation during the Fifties, modeled on the building of Europoort. The sea was driven back and new land came into being. If you want to learn about water management, ask the Dutch.
Fairview Park on the left and the sea on the right.
Griffins’ big tree was even bigger by the time that I made money out of it. We used to sit at the top of the tree and watch Mr. Bailey passing on his tricycle. Secretary to the Dublin Port and Docks Board and the only First Class season ticket holder on the Great Northern Railway, he was a formidable personage. He was also Hon. Sec. and Treasurer to the Golf Club, which he ruled with an iron fist. When he spoke, even the birds were silent. However…he rode a tricycle. An elderly man in plus-fours on a tricycle. Did we catcall from our eyrie in the tree? Did we try to water-pistol his tweed cap? We did not. His reputation was noised abroad… but we nudged one another and giggled. Was he responsible for the bailey bridge? It wouldn’t surprise me. We kept schtum. In February 1953 much of Holland was inundated by a great storm from the west, a spring tide and torrential rain. The disaster gave rise in time, to the wonderful Delta dams. It’s an ill wind, as they say. Our school was shut, due to the weather. Griffins’ enormous tree fell, fortunately, onto the lawn. Mrs Griffin engaged a gang of idle boys to chop off as many branches as possible. The Tom Sawyer effect. We arrived with saws, hatchets and axes….Health and safety? Forget about it. We had a wonderful day. She paid us hard cash when the tree had been reduced to manageable proportions. Hard cash, transmuted into Honey Bee bars and black Cough-no- more bars, in Annie Murray’s sweet shop. If there were calories in those days, we had already worked them off.
The preeminent storm of that era was Captain Carlsen’s storm over Christmas 1951 into January 1952. There was a hero. Every boy wanted to be Captain Carlsen. We followed his progress on his stricken ship Flying Enterprise, as the wind and seas of the Western Approaches battered it. Every radio bulletin reported his plight, alone on his ship, refusing to give it up. Aerial photographs in the newspapers, showed him, a small dark figure against the immensity of the waves working on deck, trying to secure lines to the tug, Turmoil. The mate of Turmoil, Kenneth Dancy, managed to get aboard to help the captain. He also became a hero, except for the fact that he knitted Aran style sweaters, as a hobby and supplied them to his shipmates. We weren’t sure if knitting was a suitable activity for a hero. The episode was an heroic failure, still shrouded in rumour and occasional controversy. The ship went down eventually with its cargo of Volkswagen cars, coffee, rags(!) peat moss, gold, zirconium and pig-iron. Why had he not abandoned ship with his crew and passengers? We will never know. However, he gave us an enduring hero in those dark years.
There is a pub in Cork called The Flying Enterprise. I must go in there sometime, just for pig-iron and raise a glass to a hero. That storm needed no name other than Captain Henrik Curt Carlsen’s storm.