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The grounding of SS Runic on Middleton Reef

As I sat at home watching news footage of the pride of Her Majesty’s navy scarred by a 160 ft hole stretching down the side of the vessel, I couldn’t help wondering to myself how a highly trained Royal Navy crew couldn’t navigate past Australia without hitting it? Just then, my uncle John – who had popped in to my home for a brief visit – chipped in, “That’s very near to where my old ship ran aground back in the ‘60s.” Thus, I learned the tale of how the SS Runic – the largest refrigerated cargo vessel in the world at that time – was lost under similar circumstances back in the early 1960s.

John - or ‘Seonaidh an Irish’ as he’s known locally - was one of countless Hebrideans who joined the Merchant Navy throughout much of the 20th century in search of adventure and to send some money back home to help support parents and family. Just about every island home had a member or relative sailing ‘deep sea’, employed by such illustrious commercial shipping names as the White Star Line, Blue Funnel, Shaw Saville and the New Zealand Shipping Company, to name but a few.

John was one of four Hebrideans who boarded the Shaw Savill & Albion owned SS Runic in Liverpool on 14 December 1960; all of whom were from Ness in the Isle of Lewis. The others were: Donald MacDonald (Dòmhnall Thomain), The Bungalow, Skigersta, who was the ship’s bosun; Donald Nicolson (Dòmhnall Beag an Fhiosaich), 13 Lionel; and Donald Morrison (Dòmhnall Alasdair an Tiger), 49 Cross Skigersta Rd.

The sea conditions were “flat calm”, according to John, when the vessel, travelling at a brisk 17 knots, hit the edge of the reef and slid up over it for about 25 metres before finally coming to a juddering halt. The crew were mostly in their bunks, resting before docking in New Zealand, and John vividly recalls the moment of impact when he tried to rouse a still slumbering Dòmhnall Beag with the news: “Siuthad dùisg, a Dhòmhnaill.  Tha sinn air na creagan” (Wake up, Donald. We’re on the rocks”), to which the disbelieving crewman responded, “Dùin do chab, agus cuir às an solas!” (“Shut up, and switch off the lights”).

The freighter had hit the reef bow-on, leaving only the aft quarter of the vessel in deep water.  Lifeboats were prepared in readiness for an evacuation, but were not used: there was no panic, just a sickening realisation that they were stuck fast with no immediate possibility of escape. 

A mayday call was sent, but the ship was resting on the reef and did not appear in imminent danger of sinking. The ship’s officers quickly surveyed the vessel for damage: the hull appeared largely undamaged. However, as the wind and seas picked up over the next few days the unladen vessel began to rock and pitch on a submerged ridge.  Fearing that this action might tear the plating, the captain ordered that the ballast tanks be filled to improve stability and reduce further damage to the hull. A storm subsequently descended on the area and the captain finally gave the order, “Stand by to abandon ship!”

The strategy adopted by the salvage team was to cut holes through each of the vessel’s holds to allow several strong wire cables to be carried up through the length of the ship, which were then secured to the powerful winches positioned at each of the Runic’s holds.  Anchors were then attached to the other ends of the cables and dropped a few hundred metres off the ship’s stern. The Runic’s own anchors were also employed in this operation: they were gently lowered down on to two lashed lifeboats decked with hatch boards and carried towards rescue vessels lying in deeper water, which then dropped the ship’s anchors onto the seabed.

The Royal Australian Navy’s boom defence vessel Karangi had also been hired to support the salvage operation. However, after helping to lay the anchors around the Runic’s stern, Karangi was forced to head back to Sydney after developing boiler trouble.  With powerful tugs hauling from seaward and the Runic’s own winches pulling at the cables running through the length of the vessel, the crew managed to turn the boat so that the stern was once again pointing towards open water. However, the Runic steadfastly refused to slide off the reef.

Throughout this, the crew still had to be fed and accommodated aboard Runic. A makeshift kitchen was set up in one of the holds, using halved oil drums to fashion a barbecue style cooking arrangement; burning dunnage (timber packing) for fuel. With the freezers not working, frozen food had been wrapped in table cloths from the dining room to preserve it for as long as possible. Fresh water was strictly rationed: seawater was used for toilets and for showering.  Several of the stewards and greasers – who had a bit more time on their hands than the busy engineers and deckhands - would occasionally fish for shark and grouper from the boat using baited meat hooks. The coral-encrusted reef was easily accessible during low water, and some of the crew regularly went ‘walkabout’, exploring the vast marine shelf that was Middleton Reef.  However, these forays away from the ship were suddenly curtailed after they were advised of the presence of stonefish (a tropical scorpion fish that discharges deadly poison from dorsalfin spines) that sheltered among submerged rocks and crevices.

Approximately five weeks after the freighter had been grounded on Middleton Reef, the cables were all set out and secured to the seabed as the tugs remained on standby in preparation for a concerted effort to float the Runic at the next spring tide.

However, luck would deal the salvage team a final cruel blow when a tropical storm warning suddenly arrived, forcing them to finally abandon any hope of successfully refloating Runic. The cables, anchors and other equipment were hurriedly retrieved and secured before the tugs retreated to the relative safety of Lord Howe Island. The cyclone soon enveloped the reef, with huge waves crashing over the helpless ship; smashing portholes, sweeping away the gangway and tearing lifeboats off their fixings, leaving them dangling precariously from their davits.  Not permitted to shelter down below because of the danger of capsize, the crew huddled together in a corner of the deck.

Despite the ballast that had been taken on board, the heavy seas lifted the Runic and once again turned her parallel with the edge of the reef, pushing the ship a further few hundred feet further in, scarring the coral as it ploughed a path. The hull’s steel plating was torn open on the seaward side by the movement of the boat on the reef and the relentless high seas pummelling against it. The noise of yielding metal and crashing water was deafening, and the engine room soon became flooded, cutting power and light within the ship. The crew could do nothing other than try and stay as safe as possible until the cyclone eventually receded two and a half days later, when calm finally returned. On 22 March 1961, the SS Runic was finally officially declared a ‘constructive total loss’.

The following day, with no power for heat, light or equipment, the crew set about salvaging whatever could be dismantled and carried off the ship, such as small items of plant, tools, ropes, canvas, paint, charts, wheelhouse equipment and, of course, the ‘bond’ (the crew were each allowed three cans of beer per day).

The saved items were ferried across to another Shaw Savill vessel, the ‘Arabic’, for onward shipment to Sydney.  During one occasion, while the Arabic’s lifeboat was alongside the Runic to evacuate some of the crew, the sailors below soon found themselves diving for cover as beer cans began raining down on top of them: one enterprising, though inebriated, Hebridean had somehow managed to relieve the bond of some of its stock, but failed to secure it properly about his person before descending down the precarious rope ladder.

Of the seventy-two crewmembers that had left Brisbane, sixty-nine had stayed on board until the fifth week of salvage. In the sixth week, John was one of a handful of men who remained, while the rest were taken off by the Arabic. The skeleton crew was on Runic until the Karangi returned to the reef for her equipment, and to support Shaw Savill’s right of salvage. Then Runic’s entire crew were taken to Sydney, where they were accommodated at the city’s Naval Barracks.

Fortunately, no one was badly injured throughout the six weeks the crew had been stranded on the reef, despite the atrocious weather conditions they sometimes faced and the dangerous salvage work they were engaged in.

After a week’s rest, a plane was chartered to fly the crew back to the UK. As luck would have it, this journey would also be far from routine.  Flying from Sydney and stopping briefly at Darwin to refuel, the crew finally left Australia for home. However, shortly after taking off from Karachi, enroute to Calcutta, one of the aircraft’s engines suddenly burst into flames in mid air. This latest incident proved too much for one member of the Runic’s crew – a Polish exile - whose nerves had already been severely tested by six weeks of hell on Middleton Reef.

Struck by a severe panic attack, the sailor had to be forcibly restrained and lashed to his seat by the plane’s cabin staff. The aircraft successfully made an emergency landing at Calcutta, but had to return to Karachi for a replacement engine, before the Runic’s crew eventually managed to resume their journey back home to the UK.

On 27 March 1961, John and his three Hebridean colleagues finally received their discharge papers after six eventful weeks desperately trying to save their ship.  Unfortunately, John is the only one of the Niseach contingent on Runic to survive to this day, while the slowly disintegrating hulk of the once-proud ship remains a clearly visible and celebrated feature on the western edge of Middleton Reef – today, a National Nature Reserve.

The 13,587-ton SS Runic was one of a trio of Shaw Savill & Albion twin-screw steamships commissioned around 1950. Launched from Harland & Wolff, Belfast, she entered service in March 1950. Her sister ship SS Suevic also left the Belfast yard in July 1950, with the 13,594 ton SS Persic launched earlier in June 1949 from the Cammell Laird shipyard in Birkenhead.

HM
(This item originally appeared in Fios)