The Apparatus

How the Irish Coast Guard Has Evolved Over the Years:

Nowadays, the Irish Coast Guard (IRCG), the nationwide emergency organisation, is a division of the Department of Transport, Tourism and Sport. It is a civilian agency made up of paid employees and volunteers. They attend emergencies at sea and on inland waters, mountains and caves. The Coast Guard also promotes safety and security at sea, monitors marine traffic and protects the ocean from pollution.

To this we may add that the modern Irish Coast Guard has become a multi-faceted organisation, far removed from the simple life-saving units of the past. Its members are called upon to respond not only to the dramas of shipwrecks and cliff-top rescues, but also to pollution events, missing person’s searches, and even medical evacuations from offshore islands. It is now seen, quite rightly, as a guardian of the entire coastal environment, standing as the first line of defence for both human life and the natural world.

The Coast Guard also has responsibility for Ireland's system of marine communications and surveillance infrastructure. This includes the maintenance of radio and transmitter sites and a national digital paging system. The complex web of aerials, transmitters, and digital networks scattered along Ireland’s coastline are not as immediately visible as a rescue boat or helicopter, but they form the nervous system of the organisation. Without them, the swift co-ordination of rescues would be impossible.

The IRCG was formerly known as the IMES, Irish Marine Emergency Service, until it was re-named in January 2000. It was interesting to note that the spelling differed from the British service, which adopts the single-word spelling. This seemingly small detail reflects Ireland’s desire, at the turn of the millennium, to assert its own distinct identity in maritime matters — an independence of language as well as of policy.

In 1922, Tom Casement, brother of Roger Casement, tried unsuccessfully to establish a new Irish coast guard service when the HM Coastguard ceased with the establishment of the new state. What did evolve was a reduced organisation known as the Coast Life Saving Service (CLSS), with Casement as its first Inspector in late 1923. About fifty life-saving stations were initially set up around the Irish coast. One of these was based in Dunmore East. The CLSS stations inherited some of the buildings and lifesaving equipment of the former service.

The year 1922 was a momentous one for Ireland. With independence came the disbandment of many British state structures, HM Coastguard among them. The loss was felt keenly in fishing villages where generations had grown accustomed to the familiar figures of coastguards in their dark uniforms, patrolling the shoreline and ready with ropes, rockets, and rescue boats. Into this gap stepped Tom Casement, who, drawing on both his maritime knowledge and his family’s patriotic spirit, proposed a national service. Although his initial vision did not materialise, his persistence led directly to the creation of the Coast Life Saving Service the following year.

The equipment consisted of ropes, breeches buoy and rocket launching apparatus. In many localities, the new service was referred to as ‘the rocket cart’. In Dunmore East, it was simply called the ‘apparatus’.

The ‘apparatus’ consisted of a tripod rocket launching apparatus, line-carrying rockets and a huge quantity of ropes of various thickness. A light line attached to the rocket would be fired to the ship in distress to become entangled in the rigging. The crew would haul a heavy line and a further light line into their ship using this first line. Block and tackle, instructions and a breeches buoy were hauled out to the distressed ship. The victims would be hauled ashore one by one, sitting in the breeches buoy, a rescue device consisting of a life buoy from which is suspended a canvas sling, similar in form to a pair of breeches, in which the shipwrecked were hauled ashore.

To picture such a rescue is to step back into a world where mechanical ingenuity and raw courage had to substitute for the speed of helicopters or the power of modern lifeboats. On dark and stormy nights, the firing of the rocket was itself a spectacle: a streak of fire against the sky, followed by the hope that the line had reached its mark. For the sailor clambering into the breeches buoy, the swing through the spray towards safety was a terrifying ordeal, but also a lifeline. To the watching crowds on shore, each successful haul was greeted with relief and sometimes with applause.

This writer can recall the excitement generated by practice sessions held by the ‘apparatus’ in the years of my childhood. While not quite as dramatic as call outs for the lifeboat, the practices, which were held at the ‘gut chute’ close to the Flat Rocks and Shanoon, always drew a crowd of curious onlookers.

These community gatherings were more than simple drills; they were local theatre. Children scrambled over the rocks to get the best view, while older villagers, many of whom had stories of real shipwrecks in their youth, offered commentary on the proceedings. Practice days kept alive the awareness that the sea, though a friend and provider, was also a capricious and often deadly neighbour.

The person that I can best recall being associated with the ‘apparatus’ was Peter Roche from Lower Dunmore. Peter was one of the great legendary characters of the village. In 1967, RTE reporter John Skehan interviewed Peter for a TV series called Discovery. Peter, who had been born in 1883, recalled in the interview how he had spent time in the Yukon during the Klondike Gold Rush and how Dunmore East had changed over the course of his lifetime.

Peter Roche embodied the link between the global and the local. He had ventured as far as the Yukon in search of fortune, only to return to his small fishing village and dedicate himself to a life of community service. His memories, preserved in that interview, remind us that the men of the apparatus were not only local heroes but also men of wide experience, whose lives spanned oceans and eras.

The interview may be viewed at the following link:
https://www.rte.ie/archives/2017/0403/864804-klondike-pete-from-dunmore-east/

Ringo Regan has made a very colourful online contribution, recalling his experiences as a member of the ‘apparatus’ team during the 1970s and it makes for fascinating reading. His reminiscences bridge the old and the new: tales of the rocket cart being hauled by Enda Flynn’s tractor sit cheek by jowl with stories of a changing Ireland, where traditional methods were being replaced by helicopters and radios, but where the spirit of volunteerism remained undiminished.
(Ringo's piece can be read at the bottom of this article.)

The rocket cart that was used at Greystones in Co Wicklow is now on display in the National Maritime Museum, Dún Laoghaire. Another one may be seen at the Visitor Centre, Hook Head Lighthouse. These surviving relics are not merely museum pieces; they are tangible connections to the courage and ingenuity of those who went before.

In 1980, the name was changed from the Coast Life-Saving Service to Coast and Cliff Rescue Service. In 1991, the service was renamed the Irish Marine Emergency Service, better known as IMES. In the year 2000, it became the Irish Coast Guard, which better denotes the service provided.

An extract from an article written in the Irish Times in 2001, elucidated Ireland’s disregard of maritime matters down through the years and how it took a lobby group to highlight the necessity for a new style search and rescue service:

British retention of the Treaty ports in the early years of the new State virtually "absolved" early governments from having any maritime policy.
The lack of priority given to dedicated search-and-rescue became the focus of a lobby group set up on the west coast in 1988. The West Coast Search and Rescue Action Committee was initiated with a public meeting in Killybegs, Co Donegal, by Dr Joan McGinley, then a busy mother of four from a fishing family, and now a fisheries researcher. The group was so effective that a Government report was commissioned, which recommended setting up a new division of the Department of the Marine to run the MRCC, the coast radio service, and coast and cliff rescue. A medium-range helicopter base was established at Shannon within two years. Initially, the base was served by the Air Corps.

This passage highlights just how slow successive Irish governments had been in recognising the necessity of a coherent maritime rescue policy. That a mother of four from Killybegs could galvanise the state into action is both a remarkable testament to local initiative and an indictment of national neglect. The helicopter base at Shannon, born from community activism, symbolised a new era in which the coast communities themselves demanded and shaped the services they required.

The present-day service of the Irish Coast Guard (IRCG) is a far cry from the days of the ‘apparatus’ and the rocket cart being drawn through the village by Enda Flynn’s tractor. The modern service is a highly efficient operation, whose main roles are to rescue people from danger at sea or on land and to organise immediate medical transport and to assist marine activity within the country's jurisdiction. Each year the IRCG co-ordinates the response to thousands of incidents at sea and on the cliffs and beaches of Ireland. It does this through its Marine Rescue Centres, which are currently based in Dublin, Malin Head (Co Donegal) and Valentia Island (Co Kerry). Each centre is responsible for search and rescue (SAR) operations.

On Saturday, September 30, 2000, Minister of State at the Department of the Marine and Natural Resources, Hugh Byrne TD, opened the refurbished facilities for the Dunmore East Coast Guard Unit. The Opening Ceremony was covered extensively in local newspapers. In his address, Minister Byrne said:

“This building spans three centuries of marine emergency response, having been built in the 1880s for the old Coastguard Service and it has seen service since 1923 for the Coast and Cliff Life Saving Service and IMES, the forerunners of our modern Irish Coast Guard. Its complete refurbishment uniquely gives the Coast Guard Unit an ultra-modern base with a long history of involvement in that most noble task – saving life at sea and on the coastline.”

The Minister also paid tribute to the men and women of the Dunmore East Unit, led by Area Officer, Martina Brett, and her Deputy, Richard Foley, and told them that as members of a coastal community, the Dunmore East team are keenly aware of the perils of the sea and its shores. He went on to say:

“You serve your community in the most hazardous environment, performing tasks that are always physically demanding and often emotionally charged. The Dunmore East team was involved along with neighbouring teams in many harrowing incidents in this area including the search for the crew of the Jenalisa lost in 1996 and for the two young people lost in a canoeing incident in 1995.”

The Minister concluded his remarks by paying tribute to the Dunmore East Unit for their involvement in the search for the Air Corps helicopter Rescue 111, which crashed down into a large sand dune near Tramore in July 1999. Tributes were also paid to the crew, who lost their lives having saved others. The four crew members were lost when they were returning from a successful rescue mission. The Dauphin helicopter had only commenced operating from Waterford Airport that day, in order to give the region a 24-hour rescue service. It replaced an Alouette, which only flew during daylight hours. It was the very first crash of an Air Corps helicopter in active service in the history of the state.

The tragedy of Rescue 111 underscored the risks faced by all those who dedicate their lives to saving others. It remains etched in local memory as a sombre reminder that the Irish Coast Guard’s work, while vital, is carried out in environments where danger is ever-present.

From rocket carts and breeches buoys to state-of-the-art helicopters and digital paging systems, the evolution of the Irish Coast Guard is both a reflection of Ireland’s maritime past and a testament to community resilience. What remains constant across the decades is the courage of men and women — paid and voluntary — who, regardless of era or equipment, have always answered the same call: to save life at sea.

“The Apparatus” consisted of an old horse-drawn carriage on iron wheels, built in the days of sail. The carriage was fitted out with all kinds of gear—grass rope, old stepladders, lanterns, and wicker-basket helmets that looked like something from Roman times. It lay hidden behind the doors of the Coast Guard Shed for years, and was crewed in its time by some notable Dunmore characters.

The idea behind the apparatus was to provide a coast rescue service whereby shipwrecked mariners could be hauled ashore by the “Apparatus” crew standing on the cliffs above. It was unique in its day. If a ship was driven ashore in a gale and the lifeboat was unable to reach the stranded crew from the seaward side, it was time to call “the Apparatus.” A team of horses would pull the carriage through the village to the disaster site. The volunteer crew would unload their wooden rope-filled boxes high on the cliff above the wreck, or else on a long sandy beach.

They had a very powerful rocket attached to a rope, which could be fired over and beyond the stranded vessel. The crew of the vessel would then tie the rope to the mast of the ship. The “Apparatus” crew would winch out a “breeches buoy”—basically a swimming tube with a pair of canvas trousers attached—and, one by one, the ship’s crew would be hauled to safety by the men on the cliff or strand.

Yes, the wonders of modern technology—in 1874. But I joined the Apparatus in 1974, and things were slightly different. Firstly, the glamour had gone from the job. Who cared about the auld “Apparatus”? All the glamour was with the lifeboat. Everyone wanted to crew the lifeboat—yuppies, farmers, Emmets, shopkeepers, townies—but no one wanted to ride through the streets of Dunmore sitting high on an Irish version of a Wild West stagecoach, being pulled by Enda Flynn’s tractor.

God, the mortification of it: clanging and banging along the dock road, a couple of aulfellas sitting up front as the senior men, and the rest of us long-haired youngfellas perched at the back. Young Aiden Flynn, with his seriously powerful new tractor, pulling the bejaysus out of the “Apparatus” wagon—getting it to speeds horses could only dream about. Other young lads giving us the finger, and stop the lights, if a young wan you fancied happened to see you on top of that spectacle, your chances with her were ruined forever.

To make matters worse, some fool had invented helicopters—which had the uncanny ability to winch injured persons to safety from stricken vessels. Not to be outdone, we always continued to the scene, where we would stand and watch the flash lifeboat or the helicopter completing the rescue. “Back to the shed, boys,” would come the order from our No. 1 Man (just in case anybody missed us going through the village the first time). “We were here if we were needed” was the usual consolation.

I joined in 1974 because me aulfella was the No. 2 Man and he press-ganged me into volunteering my services. Willie Dunne was No. 1, and Billy Hearn—“The Saint”—was No. 3. We had a few other aulfellas and youngfellas from the village to make up the crew. The youngfellas joined because every three months on practice days we received one pound and seventy-five pence, which we promptly drank in the Butcher’s Pub immediately after payment.

The money was paid to us out of a suitcase by a Mr Jeffers. He was an old ex-Navy man whose job was to travel around the different stations to ensure that all apparatus crews were trained up to speed. Times were hard in 1974. Dunmore was not as wealthy as it is today, and any auld pound was welcome.

There was one episode that stands out in my memory. We were forever holding mock training sessions up on Shanoon, where everything was simulated—including the firing of our rocket. One day in the spring of 1975, Mr Jeffers announced to us that we would actually fire the rocket on his next visit. Upon hearing this news, all of the younger fellas were delighted. We would show the flash lifeboat guys what a rocket should sound like (it was reported that the Apparatus rocket was ten times louder than the one used to summon the lifeboat crew during an emergency).

The day finally dawned, and we left the station and made the trip to Shanoon on our wagon—once again the source of bemusement to all who saw us pass by. “Never mind,” we thought, “within the next hour ye’ll be so deaf from our rocket that ye’ll hold us in high esteem for the rest of yer lives.”

We reached Shanoon and unloaded our boxes, ropes, rocket, rocket launcher, and tripod. The rope for the rocket was contained in two coffin-like green boxes. It was intertwined around pegs sunken into the bottoms of the boxes. The sides of the boxes could be removed when firing the rocket, allowing the rope—attached to the rocket—to unwind automatically as the missile sped into the sky.

We were getting ready to fire. We had already dispatched a man to warn the convent nuns and other villagers that what they were about to hear was not the beginning of World War Three, but simply the Apparatus on manoeuvres.

We had our rocket in its launch pad, connected to a rope leading from one of our green boxes. All was ready. The launch sequence began as follows:

11:00 – “Over to you now, Number 1,” said Mr Jeffers.
11:01 – “Stand behind me now, men,” said Number 1, “and put yer hands over yer ears.”
11:03 – “In pigtail, Number 2,” said Number 1 (the “pigtail” being a type of electric plug attached to the rocket and to a battery hanging from Number 1’s neck).
11:04 – “Ready, men,” says Number 1.
11:04 – “Yes,” came the response.
11:05 – BANG!!

It was the loudest explosion I have ever heard. Shanoon shook. Seagulls left Creaden Head, never to be seen again. Slates flew off the convent roof. The nuns all dived for cover beneath tables and anything else they could find. We couldn’t see a thing for a few seconds because of the smoke, and we didn’t hear properly again for three days.

When we looked up, we saw our rocket streaking through the sky, carrying some strange object in its wake. It hit the sea about a quarter of a mile off Shanoon at a speed of around 900 miles an hour, almost removing the bow of a salmon punt that was steaming ashore to Dunmore Harbour. The crew probably didn’t even hear the explosion on account of the racket from their outboard motor.

A hushed silence fell upon us when we realised the strange object behind our rocket was nothing more than one of our coffin-like boxes. In our haste, we had forgotten to remove its sides and, consequently, it had been launched into the Celtic Sea—never to be seen again.

Number 1 was devastated. Number 2 lit a Woodbine. Mr Jeffers lit a Players.

“Begod,” we heard Mr Jeffers say, “we launched our box full of rope, men—not the thing to do when we’ve a ship on the shore. I’ll have to order a new one from Courtmacsherry.”

We then returned to camp and ended up in the Butcher’s, analysing our misfortune.

Meanwhile, in another bar in the village, the crew of a salmon punt were attempting to persuade a sceptical gathering that they had witnessed the strangest burial at sea that anyone had ever seen. They reportedly told the men that, while steaming ashore about an hour earlier, someone had launched a coffin into the sea not far from Black Knob, about a quarter of a mile from shore. The coffin had hit the water at a tremendous velocity, nearly cutting the bow off their punt. They believed it had hit the water so fast it could only have come from a passing aircraft. This just gave the salmon fishermen one more to think about in 1974. They now had to be beware of flying coffins, as if the job wasn't bad enough.

This story was first published in 2005 on: http://dunmore-east.net/