In 1969, eight men launched a lifeboat into a storm and never came home. But the price they paid changed maritime history forever.... It was the evening of 17 March, a south-easterly gale had been battering Scotland’s coast for days. Waves were reaching 60 feet. Then the call came. The SS Irene, a 2,600-ton cargo ship, was powerless and drifting towards the jagged rocks off the Caithness coast. She needed help. Immediately. At 7:29pm, the first warning reached Longhope, Orkney. The maroons were fired at 7:40pm. Coxswain Daniel Kirkpatrick did not hesitate. At 59 years old, he had been with the Longhope lifeboat since 1940 and was one of the RNLI’s most decorated lifeboatmen, already honoured for multiple rescues before that final launch. He knew the Pentland Firth was one of the most dangerous stretches of water in the world. He knew the conditions that night were completely lethal. But someone needed help. He made the call: they were launching. And he would take an extra crew member, eight men instead of the usual seven. At 8pm, the lifeboat T.G.B. slid down the slipway at Brims on Hoy and headed out into the roaring darkness. Among the crew were: • Daniel Kirkpatrick (Coxswain) and his two sons, John and Ray • Robert Johnston (Mechanic) and his two sons, James and Robert • James Swanson (Assistant Mechanic) • Eric McFadyen (just 24 years old) Three families. Eight volunteers. At 9:28pm, they radioed their position. They were making agonising progress through the monstrous swells towards the Irene. It was the last time anyone ever heard from them. The next morning, Orkney woke to a suffocating silence. Word arrived that the Irene had been driven onto the rocks, but her entire crew had been miraculously pulled to safety by the Coastguard using ropes from the cliffs. But there was no word from Longhope. Massive search parties were launched. RAF helicopters scoured the water. Lifeboats from Stronsay, Stromness, Kirkwall and Thurso joined the hunt. Then, at 1:40pm on 18 March, the Thurso lifeboat found something. The T.G.B. Capsized. Four miles south-east of Tor Ness. When they finally towed her into Scrabster Harbour that evening, they discovered the horrifying truth. Seven of the eight men were still strapped into their seats inside the upturned hull. All had drowned. James Swanson’s body was swept away and never found. The official inquiry concluded they had been hit by a freak wave, possibly 100 feet high, which overwhelmed the vessel. The community lost a third of its population in one night. The men left behind seven widows, one widowed mother and eight children. But in moments like this, the UK showed what it was made of. A massive radio appeal raised the modern equivalent of millions of pounds. Six hundred miles away, deep in the English countryside of Gloucestershire, a village heard the news on the radio. Its name was also Longhope. Bound by nothing but a shared name on a map, the English village immediately mobilised, sending money, support and toys for the children, forging a bond that remains unbroken today. And within a week, even before the funerals had taken place, local Orkney men stepped forward to form a completely new crew. Because the lifeboat station was never going to close. The disaster helped change lifeboat design forever. T.G.B. was a 47-foot Watson-class lifeboat, and she could not self-right after capsizing. In the years that followed, self-righting designs became central to the RNLI’s newer lifeboats. Salvaged and refurbished, T.G.B. later returned to service in Arranmore, Donegal, rescuing more lives before retiring in 1979. Today, she is preserved at the Scottish Maritime Museum in Irvine. Kevin Kirkpatrick, who lost his father, uncle and grandfather in the disaster, later became coxswain himself. He has since retired, and today the station is led by Scott Johnston, grandson of James Johnston. © Scottish Banter #archaeohistories