A quiet night in

The Bell Rock

The Bell rock is a tower light built on the submerged Inchcape Reef at
the position - 56?26.1' N 2?23.1' W - or roughly 12 miles east of the
Scottish port of Arbroath in the North Sea. The tower has an overall
height of about120 feet and a maximum diameter at the base of about 40
feet. The base of the tower is submerged under 15 feet or so of water
twice a day and because of this, no other buildings exist. The tower
was a self-contained life-support system for the three keepers that
manned it. The granite tower itself contained five rooms, all of which
had a diameter of around 11 feet. The watch room and lens sat on top of
the granite tower and were of a similar size. These rooms contained all
the machinery, stores and equipment necessary to support the light and
the keepers for extended periods of time. Fuel, space and water were in
short supply with the result that life was very basic and cramped for
the keepers. After an internal fire in 1986, the tower, which had been
continuously manned for 175 years, was automated.

A Quiet Night In

I quickly waken when the hand touches my shoulder.

"It's 2 o'clock, are ye awake Charlie?"

"Aye, I'm ok Peter" I answer as Peter the Principal Light Keeper softly
closes the door to my "bedroom". I can hear him climbing the metal
steps to the "kitchen" and carefully closing the hatch cover as I
quickly get out of my bunk. Experience has taught me that it is fatal
to close my eyes again even for a second at this time of the night; I
must get out of bed straight away. I climb down from my bunk and start
dressing. My bunk is the middle one in a tier of three in the "north
bedroom". It's the second half of my month out here so I have the room
to myself. I can indulge myself by being untidy for two weeks. Not that
untidy though; even with only one occupant, the "bedroom" is severely
cramped. God it's cold - it's always cold out here - so I put on my
thermal underwear, two pairs of socks, two woolly jumpers and my body
warmer. There is no heating in the bedroom flat during the night - the
generator does not have enough output to run much more than the main
light and the heater in the "kitchen." I softly close the door and
follow Peter upstairs.

With an unconscious piece of neat footwork, I step off the ladder,
twist my body and carefully lower the metal floor hatch. The hatches
must always be kept closed. If a fire occurred out here, the tower
would act like a chimney. I never want to think of this happening -
where could we escape to? The hatches also reduce the noise in the
tower and, to some small extent, reduce the draughts.

"Morning Peter" I say as I walk the two steps to the sink to clean my
teeth.

"Morning" he replies, "it's a cauld yin this morning"

I mumble an agreement through a mouthful of toothpaste, that it is
indeed a cold day. The kettle, as always, is softly bubbling on the
stove and the teapot is on the table - mugs stand ready to be filled. I
quietly drink my tea as Peter talks. The tea has been made with dried
milk added. Fresh milk (fresh anything apart from fish) is impossible
out here. I'm used to the taste, however, and actually quite enjoy the
slightly odd flavour. Peter talks on. It's the usual rubbish about what
he watched on TV, what Sandy (the other Assistant Light Keeper) is
currently complaining about, what the weather is going to do (a
favourite topic this), what needs painted next. It's just conversation
that requires little more from me than the odd murmur of agreement. We
know each other's habits intimately and Peter is only really talking to
ensure that I am wide-awake. As I slowly come to life so Peter slowly
fades. At about twenty-five past two it's time for him to go to his own
bunk. He's had the most popular watch and will be able to lie in until
nine am, lucky man. Still, it will be my turn for the ten till two
watch in two days time. We count our time out here by the number of
particular watches we have completed and have still to do. A month at
the Bell is only ten or eleven, ten till two, watches. Somehow that
seems better than thirty-odd days. Peter wishes me goodnight as I watch
his head sink below floor level. The hatch quietly closes and I am on
my own.

First things first, I fill the kettles. We have two large kettles; each
holds about six pints. They are not quite identical however, as one has
a wound cord handle that was carefully added by some previous keeper
some time in the past. I take this kettle and fill it from the blue
tap. We also have two taps at our tiny sink. The blue tap is cold fresh
water that comes from the storage tanks above my head in the lens room.
This water is precious. We once worked out that the cost of getting a
pint of fresh water to the Bell gave it the equivalent value of a pint
of whisky. Needless to say, while we would rather have had the whisky,
we are VERY careful with water. The second kettle I fill from the red
tap. This tap is connected to another storage tank that holds
rainwater. The water is collected from the dome of the light. This
water bonus is somewhat reduced in value as the dome, being one of the
very few horizontal (ish) surfaces out here, is a favourite
resting-place for the gulls. The gulls do what they have to do with the
result that the rainwater is heavily polluted with bird droppings. This
gives it a rather distinct smell - especially when boiled. Hence the
two kettles. It's a cardinal sin to get them mixed up but then, no one
ever does - we all live by routine. The kettles on to boil, I have
fifteen minutes to spare before my first duty so I pour another cup of
tea and pick up a book.

Twenty to three and I climb the ladder to the watch room. The hatch is
always left open here. Probably against regulations but we do it anyway
as it allows the man on watch to remain in the kitchen. While the
kitchen is cold, the watch room is freezing. The radios are set loud
enough to be heard from the kitchen and the lens has had a little DIY
addition in the form of a tiny striker and bell. As the lens turns,
protruding flanges move the striker and cause it to hit the bell. The
"tink-tink", pause, "tink-tink", pause sound is invisible background
noise but instantly noticeable when it stops. In this way we can hear
the lens turning. If the light itself were to fail, the power surge
would trip the main circuit breaker and the whole tower would shut
down. We would notice that from the kitchen! I don't need to look to
know that the weather is foul. The force six wind is rattling the north
balcony door and I can hear rain hitting the lens room glass. I pull on
an oilskin jacket, pick up a torch and go out through the south door.
Unlike a balcony at a shore lighthouse, this one is action-packed,
organised chaos. Space is at a premium out here so every square inch is
used. I work my way north into the rain through a tangle of gas
bottles, lashed crates and canvas shrouded shapes to reach the weather
box. This box holds the wet and dry thermometers. It's too wet and
windy to write a note so I memorise the readings and hurry back inside.
Time to "do the weather". The Bell is a major weather station and
accurate readings are required every hour at ten minutes to the hour. I
open the weather log and quickly start coding the readings. Wind speed,
direction, cloud layer, type and cover, visibility, precipitation,
barometric pressure and tendency, humidity, dew point and of course,
wet and dry temperatures. This information is entered as five-figure
groups. My timing is spot-on; the radio comes to life as I enter the
last reading.

"Bell Rock, Bell Rock, Bell Rock, this is Leuchars, Leuchars, Leuchars,
do you read me - over"

Leuchars, Leuchars, Leuchars, this is the Bell Rock, reading you loud
and clear - over"

"Bell, Leuchars, go ahead please"

"Leuchars, Bell, - 00241, 00241; 25192, 25192; 04353, 04353?"

I slowly and carefully read out the groups.

"Bell, Leuchars, received loud and clear, talk to you in a hour,
Leuchars out".

I go back down to my now boiling kettles, taking an empty plastic
provision box with me from the watch room.

Privacy at the Bell is a commodity as precious as the water. I am going
to use some of both now by having a wash. Various laughable attempts
have been made at rigging a shower in the past. They usually involved a
plastic garden pressure-spray bottle and improbable pieces of hose. The
inevitable result was an inadequate wash and almost certain
hypothermia. Standing naked to the world 120 feet above the sea outside
on the balcony is a novel experience to say the least. I settle this
time for the tried and tested plastic box. The box is bright red and
about 30 inches long by 18 inches wide - not much of a bath but it will
have to do. I fold up the table and place the box in the now seemingly
vast space created. I fill this with the fresh kettle and turn the bird
water down to simmer. Adding fresh cold, I wash my hair first before
quickly stripping off and stepping in. The water is gorgeous but it's
far too cold in the kitchen to be naked for long. A quick wipe all over
with a wet flannel and my toilet is complete! I quickly inspect my new
bruises. What a lovely shade of purple they are! Space is so restricted
out here that hardly a day goes by without me bumping into something or
something bumping into me. I pull on clean socks and underwear and then
get fully dressed as quickly as I can. Now I really am wide-awake but I
feel great. I add soap powder to the plastic box, throw in my dirty
underwear and socks and top it up with the bird water. The two till six
watch is also laundry day.

There is not enough storage space at the Bell for numerous changes of
clothing but, then again, there is no real need for them either. It's
not as if we were planning a night out after all. Under the
circumstances, personal hygiene is difficult to say the least. It's now
halfway through my month and I am getting very grubby. This is no real
problem as the other two men are as well. I can't wash heavy clothing
but I can wash socks, underwear and tee shirts. I do this now in the
plastic box and rinse in freezing, but fresh water. I wring out the
clothes and head upstairs. Hanging clothes outside to dry is just a
long-winded way of throwing them into the sea. It would take metal
clamps instead of clothes pegs and even then it would inevitably rain.
No, the only solution is the light room. The light at the Bell is a
hand-made bulb about fifteen inches tall. It is similar to a domestic
bulb except for its size and it's power consumption - three thousand,
five hundred watts! The bulb is very bright but equally important to
us, it also gives out a huge amount of heat. There is a raised platform
round the lens that covers our fresh water tanks. This platform has a
handrail on the lens side and this is ideal for hanging out wet
washing. I push some other drier clothes out of the way and hang mine
up. Should be dry in a few days.

Back to the kitchen and I start to tidy up - pausing only to put the
fresh kettle back on. The logistics of having a bath are such that the
actual wash takes very little time compared to the preparations. By the
time all is straight, the kettle has boiled and I have just enough time
for another cuppa before the next weather. I pick up my book.

Four a.m. and I'm back from the watch room. The wind is veering and
strengthening. Force 7 and now from the north -east -the worst
direction for us. The temperature is falling as well and so I have
switched off the single bar electric heater in the watch room and
switched on an extra bar here. The wind is rattling the balcony doors
upstairs and I strain to hear if anything has worked itself loose. All
sounds normal so I huddle round the heater with my book and another cup
of tea. The weather is worsening but visibility is still good. I saw
the lights of a ship away to the east when I was outside so at least we
will all be spared the need for the fog siren tonight. That IS good
news! This is the time of the morning that we usually get a call from
the "Summer Rose". Chay is the skipper of this small lobster boat that
has fished the Inchcape Reef for many years. We used to wave
occasionally when we saw him but one morning, some months ago now, the
radio burst into life with a new (and very broad Scots) voice. Somehow
Chay had managed to "acquire" a VHF "crystal" that allowed him to
(illegally) use the lighthouse frequency. As VHF signals are
"line-of-sight" this meant that, due to his very low elevation, only we
could hear him. The entire world could hear us though, and all they
heard was a cryptic one-sided conversation. We were all waiting to hear
from the "Summer Rose" as Chay had indicated that he had a big surprise
for us. No matter how much we pestered him, he was only going to tell
us when all was ready. Well it would have to wait for another day
because he wouldn't be out in weather like this - the Inchcape is
dangerous at the best of times. The time passes slowly now and I find
myself looking at the clock more often. Fortunately there is absolutely
no chance of falling asleep in this temperature - if this gets worse I
will need another woolly jumper. The clock crawls round to twenty to
five - time for the weather again.

Oh it was miserable outside that time. I only slipped the oilskin on
when I really should have taken the extra time to button it. I thought
I was going to take off! I got soaked before I could get back in - I
should have known better. The watch room was like a morgue as well. The
single bar heater seems to have no effect until it is switched off -
the temperature difference is really noticeable. Well it will just have
to be cold up there because I have to warm up. I'm so close to the
heater now that "steam" can be seen rising from my clothes. It's almost
daylight; the light is scheduled to be switched off at twenty past five
today. I decide to leave it until half past, as it's a very overcast
dawn. Yet another cuppa and back to my book. I'll be glad to get this
watch over and get back to my bunk - even if it will only be for less
than three hours.

Half past five and it's bright enough to see the horizon. It's
difficult to tell what actually is the horizon though as it is so
overcast - eight parts low stratus, with visibility of about seven
miles. Lots of rain as well. The sea is a field of "white horses" with
driving spray. The kitchen suddenly seems cosier. I go downstairs this
time, three floors down to the auxiliary engine room. This always seems
the most cramped place in the tower. The walls are completely hidden by
machinery, tanks and store cupboards. A small myford lathe is folded up
next to the ladder - my favourite retreat in the afternoons. The room
is dominated by a large, single-cylinder, diesel generator set, our day
engine. I glance at the diesel header tank indicator to make sure that
it was topped-up by Peter at midnight - naturally it was. I adjust the
automatic de-compressor gear, press the starter and the engine bursts
into life. It has a totally different beat to our main engines on the
floor below. These are twin-cylinder units that provide enough power
for the main light. It would be wasteful on diesel to run these through
the daylight hours when the output of the single is adequate. Back up
three floors trying to be as quiet as possible. I've left the single
running to warm up. I put the kettle back on as I pass through the
kitchen and then up the ladder again and up higher to the light room.
The view from here now is really depressing - a 360 degree panorama of
grey sea. I've seen it all before so I waste no time in turning off the
main light controls - bulb then motor. As soon as the bulb is switched
off the Power load comes off the main diesel. I can hear the engine
revs rise as I return down five floors. This time as I enter the
auxiliary flat I put on ear protectors - the noise of two diesel
engines is deafening. I go to the main circuit board and switch the
Power load over to the day engine. This causes the speed of the engine
in here to instantly fall with a corresponding increase from the twin
cylinder downstairs. I adjust the frequency and voltage output in an
attempt to get it as close to mainland power as possible - 50Hz and
240V. It's never possible to be accurate; electric clocks in the tower
are useless at keeping time but the rest of the electrical equipment
seems to work well enough. I go down one more floor to the main engine
room and close down the twin. The drop in noise level is dramatic. We
have two main engines and they are used on alternate nights. I must
remember to note that the indicated hours on number two is reaching the
limit. An oil and filter change will be required later today.

My timing has been good. Switching off the light has taken ten minutes
so it's quietly back up five floors to do my last "weather" - kettle
turned down to a simmer as I pass. A new operator is on duty at RAF
Leuchars and he is keen to chat. We talk about the weather - what else!
I sign off from Leuchars at exactly six am and go down to the bedroom
flat. Into the south "bedroom" where the air is less than wholesome -
it's just too cold to open the brass-dogged window. Sandy is snoring
gently as I give him a shake. I hope that this is not going to be one
of his bad mornings. He grunts something that I presume means "I'm
awake". I quietly leave and return to the kitchen. A quick tidy up
before he appears. The place is always neat but that's only because we
are forever just giving the place a "quick tidy". "A place for
everything and everything in its place" - that's a tower light exactly.
I glance at the clock and it's nine minutes past six. I fill the
teapot, put milk and sugar in the mugs and sit down as Sandy pushes the
hatch open. He's having a good morning as he has responded to my first
"shout". Bad time-keeping causes bad feeling and this is something we
all try to avoid at all costs. There is not enough space out here to
fall out with someone.

"Morning Charlie" he says as he walks the two steps to the sink to
clean his teeth.

"Morning" I reply, "it's a cauld yin this morning"

Sandy quietly drinks his tea as I talk. I talk the usual rubbish about
what Peter (the PLK) is currently complaining about, what the weather
is going to do (a favourite topic this), what needs painted next. It's
just conversation that requires little more from him than the odd
murmur of agreement. We know each other's habits intimately and I'm
only really talking to ensure that Sandy is wide-awake. As he slowly
comes to life, so I slowly fade. Another watch ends at the Bell.

Copyright

Charlie Riding - March 1998