The relief of lightships Kish and Codling

Model of the Cormorant lightship, Codling Bank. 

The following article appeared in the Irish Press of 21st June 1955. Words by Dominick Coyle. Pictures by Bill St Ledger. Although parts of it are quite interesting, I feel the journalist could have done so much more with the opportunity he got!

Just imagine it – you can walk through the waters of the Irish Sea nine miles from Dun Laoghaire amid 90 feet of water. That is, you can....theoretically. The sausage-like chain of sandbanks running from the Kish Bank with breaks down to Wexford shows its face occasionally at low water.

The benefit to Ireland of these banks is negligible; their nuisance value is considerable.

Yet their nuisance value can certainly outweigh their usefulness, even in time of war. Their presence is a menace to navigation; and in themselves they are an expensive liability to the Commissioners of Irish Lights.

This liability is efficiently met in many ways, not least among them being the lightships at Kish, Codling, Arklow and Blackwater.

Photographer Bill St. Ledger and I joined the Irish Lights vessel Isolda at Dun Laoghaire. With Sligo-born Commander Capt. Christopher C. L'Estrange in command, we left for Kish and Codling with supplies for the lightkeepers –eggs, milk, oil, fruit, potatoes, butter – and relief keepers for the men who had held the watch for the past month.

Kish relief  from 1961

The Kish is a new lightship celebrating its first birthday on the banks on Thursday. Electrically equipped throughout, she is anchored on a 210 fathoms cable of one and three-quarter inch diameter studded link with a four-ton anchor. She's there to stand guard over the dangerous Kish Banks to keep the light showing the way ahead.

Life on a lightship is a lonely one. When you're anchored in a small ship way out in the St George's Channel day and night for a month running, there's no great variety of entertainment. But entertainment there is... of a class.

It's different out there. No postman on his rounds – except once a fortnight when the relief ship comes along. No milkman – supplies are kept in the 'fridge'. The 'noisy din of crowded cities' for the keepers unfortunately absent as the swollen waters throw and toss the lightship in a constant reminder of 'water, water everywhere'.

But, unlike the tale of the Ancient Mariner, there is plenty of water about, plenty of fresh water to drink. When the Isolda called on relief we pumped into the Gannet hundreds of gallons.

A crew of eleven are on the Kish lightship, seven of them always on board. The Master, coming 'on liberty' when we arrived was Lieut. J. P. Cunningham, a man born beside the sea in Clogherhead in Co. Louth. And it was from him I heard something of the life of a keeper on a lightship.

But getting on board the Gannet was a problem ion itself. The small rowing boat lowered from the Isolda was like a toy duck in a troubled pond. Experienced sailors all – except St Ledger and myself – we were tossed about relentlessly on the short journey over to the Kish lightship.

Skipper Cunningham gave a hand to pull us on board and within half-an-hour all supplies were unloaded, the relief men settling down to a lonely month on the Kish bank and Master Cunningham and his mates glad to be going home for a while.

Full steam ahead then for the Codling lightship where we took off Master Michael Meskell; lamplighter Malachi Duggan from Wexford; fog signalmen Charles Bright and James Roche; and Able-Seaman John Lawlor, the only unmarried man of the five.

The procedure was the same – supplies put on, men put on and others taken off, mail exchanged, last-minute gossip between the arrivals and those going 'on liberty'.

Back on board the Isolda again – not sorry to have left behind that rowing-boat crossing between the ships - we heard of life on the Kish and the Codling.

It's a tough job... but the crew way out there find consolation in the fact that it must be done, that those dangerous banks must be guarded. A lightship is one place on this earth to disprove the theory that it's 'a woman's world'.

These boys look after themselves – all the way. They light the fires, cook the food, do the darning (often knitting), polish the floors, make their beds and, in fact, do everything a woman normally does in a home PLUS their own work as well.

And how are the long, lonely hours whiled away? Greatest time-killer is the radio. A considerable supply of magazines, old papers and books are taken on board by all the keepers – a man can do a whole lot of reading in a month. Then there's the lightkeepers' craft – making woolen mats. And radio contact can be made with colleagues on other lightships and rock lighthouses around the coastline. 

Although anchored, these lightships are not stationary – in best seana's language they 'sail around their anchor'. The worse the weather, the greater amount of cable is put out. Says Master Cunningham; 'These ships are like goats – the shorter they're held, the more they'll pull'.

But time, valuable time, was wasted telling stories, even to the Press. The fortnight's mail had to be read and greetings exhanged between themselves and Captain L'Estrange's crew on the Isolda, including the oldest and youngest sailors - John Knight, coxwain and fifteen-years-old Fred English, both from Dun Laoghaire.

Indeed, for most, Dun Laoghaire is 'home away from the sea'.For the remainder, it's Wexford, and a few scattered throughout the country.

These men of Irish Lights carry on a tradition of standing guard over Ireland's coastline. The ships must come home in safety; these men with their lonely watch know they do a good job. Perhaps it's this knowledge that makes lif on the ocean worthwhile. On board they're on duty, on 'liberty', they're on call. Altogether they live on the ocean to ensure that the sea shall not have others.

The Gannet, slightly older than when she was at the Kish. She can now be seen in the great maritime city of Basel, Switzerland