The Liberty Boat: A Floating Taxi Between HMS Glamorgan and Istanbul
During a Mediterranean deployment in about 1973, HMS Glamorgan found herself secured not alongside a conventional jetty but riding on a chained buoy in the middle of the Bosporus at Istanbul. For those unfamiliar with naval routine, this arrangement might seem inconvenient, but it was a practical solution that allowed the ship to remain safely positioned within one of the world's busiest waterways.
It did, however, create an immediate requirement. The ship's company still needed to get ashore and return, and the only practical link between ship and land was the liberty boat. Like many of the small craft carried by Royal Navy ships, it was not a glamorous piece of equipment, but it performed an essential task. While the ship remained at her buoy, the boat became a floating taxi service, carrying sailors, visitors and others between the destroyer and the shore.
On this occasion the boat being used was the 3-in-1 Whaler, a versatile working boat whose usefulness extended far beyond its traditional origins. It was operated by a small crew consisting of a Coxswain, a Marine Engineering Mechanic responsible for the engine, and a Bowman working forward. Each had a defined role, and together they provided the routine but vital service that allowed the ship to function normally while away from a berth.
The work itself was repetitive, but repetition did not mean that it required no skill. The Bosporus was a busy commercial waterway, crowded with ferries, merchant vessels and local craft moving constantly between the European and Asian sides of Istanbul. Every crossing required attention, especially when approaching the landing stage and handling passengers who were sometimes less accustomed to the movements of a small boat than the crew who worked in one.
For the boat crew, a day spent running backwards and forwards between ship and shore provided a very different view of Istanbul from that experienced by those enjoying normal liberty ashore. They did not see the city as tourists. They saw it as a working waterfront, a place of constant movement where boats of every description passed through the narrow channel in an apparently effortless routine.
There was something satisfying about the simplicity of the task. Away from the confines of the ship, working in fine weather beneath a Mediterranean sky, the boat crew were doing a job that was necessary without being particularly demanding. Once the routine had settled, the repeated journeys became almost relaxing. The same crossing was made again and again, with the same careful handling of the boat, the same transfer of passengers, and the same constant awareness of the water around them.
Not everyone shared the crew's appreciation of the experience. The Bosporus could become surprisingly lively, and passengers in the open whaler occasionally discovered that a pleasant trip across the water involved rather more spray than they had expected. For those whose responsibility was to operate the boat safely, such discomfort was simply part of the experience. The crew were working, and the occasional complaints from passengers were observed with the quiet amusement familiar to sailors everywhere.
One unforgettable feature of those days was the sheer number of jellyfish in the water. They appeared to be everywhere, drifting through the Bosporus in astonishing quantities and in every conceivable size. There seemed to be no end to them.
As always happens when sailors encounter something unusual during repetitive work, imagination soon joined observation. It was easy to picture generations of jellyfish beginning their journey somewhere in the Black Sea before drifting south in an enormous family migration, eventually finding their way into the Mediterranean. The explanation was clearly nonsense, but it reflected the kind of humour that made long and repetitive duties more enjoyable.
The practical realities of boat work were never far away, however. Communication equipment existed, but it was not always welcomed by those expected to carry it. The portable radios of the period, commonly known as Stornos, were large, awkward and not especially convenient when a sailor was already dealing with ropes, passengers and boat handling. If a crew could complete the task without adding unnecessary equipment to their workload, there was little enthusiasm for volunteering to find more.
That attitude was not unusual. The lower deck had its own understanding of efficiency. The object was to complete the job properly, and anything that unnecessarily complicated the process was treated with suspicion. Practical experience often counted for more than written instructions.
During one of these otherwise routine boat runs, an Officer of the Day attempted to attract the cutter's attention from the distant flight deck. The boat crew were occupied with the task in hand and, from their perspective, the safe movement of passengers took priority. The misunderstanding that followed, and the remarkable events that eventually unfolded, became one of those stories that survived long after the deployment ended.
Yet the importance of the liberty boat did not lie in such incidents. Its real value was found in the hundreds of ordinary crossings that allowed a ship at anchor to remain connected with the world ashore. These small craft were part of the unseen machinery of naval life. They carried out their duties quietly, efficiently and without much recognition.
For those who worked them, however, they created memories that lasted a lifetime. In the case of HMS Glamorgan in Istanbul, the memory was not simply of a famous city, but of a busy waterway, a small working boat, a sea full of jellyfish, and the everyday routines that made life aboard a Royal Navy destroyer what it was.
Istanbul part 2 - The Small Boats That Kept the Fleet Moving
Primary source: RN-007
RN-E-134
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