For anyone who travelled around
Europe in the 1980s, the memories are often a vibrant collage of youthful
adventure, new friendships, and the thrill of the unknown. I have my own fair
share of these: dusty train rides through Italy, late-night chats in Spanish
hostels, the buzz of a Parisian market. But one memory stands apart. It isn’t
coloured with laughter or excitement, but with a profound and haunting sadness.
It’s a memory from a single date, etched into my mind forever: the 7th of
March, 1987.
My friends and I were on our
way to a martial arts seminar in Belgium, full of the usual anticipation of a
trip away. We were catching the early morning ferry from Dover to Zeebrugge, a
journey we’d done before. Our ship was the Spirit
of Free Enterprise. As we boarded, coffee in hand, the mood was
light. We were talking about techniques we wanted to learn and the beer we were
looking forward to.
But soon, a heavy reality began
to settle over us. The night before, the 6th of March, the Spirit of Free Enterprise’s
sister ship, the MS Herald of
Free Enterprise, had capsized just outside the very harbour we were
sailing to. The news was fresh, the details horrifying. The car bow door had
been left open, and water had flooded the decks in moments. Nearly two hundred
people had lost their lives in the cold, dark waters of the North Sea.
We were sailing on an identical
ship, on the identical route, less than 24 hours later. The coincidence was
chilling, and the atmosphere on the ferry changed completely. The usual buzz of
a channel crossing – the chatter in the lounges, the clinking of glasses in the
bar, the excitement in the air – was gone. In its place was a heavy, almost
tangible silence. People spoke in hushed tones, or not at all. We stared out at
the grey waves, each of us lost in our own thoughts.
As we drew closer to Zeebrugge,
a crackle from the tannoy system broke the quiet. A calm, respectful voice
announced that for any passengers who wished to pay their respects, they were
welcome to come up on deck. There was no hesitation. My friends and I, along
with dozens of others, made our way up the stairs and into the cold sea air.
On the deck, members of the
crew were quietly handing out single red roses. It was a simple, profound
gesture that brought the abstract horror of the news reports into a deeply
personal, shared moment of mourning. I took a rose, its stem cold in my hand,
and joined the silent crowd by the railings.
We sailed slowly, deliberately.
And then we saw it.
There, no more than a stone's
throw from the safety of the harbour, lay the Herald of Free Enterprise. Seeing the pictures
on the news was one thing, but seeing it with your own eyes was another
entirely. This huge, modern ferry, a vessel of power and motion, was lying
completely on its side. A colossal steel leviathan, wounded and still. Its
bright red hull, now a gash against the water, was a stark and brutal symbol of
the tragedy.
I stood there, clutching the
rose, feeling the sea spray on my face. The sheer scale of it, the proximity of
it, was overwhelming. It wasn't just a wrecked ship; it was a tomb. 193 souls
had perished right there, where I was now looking. The excitement for our
seminar felt a world away, trivial and foolish. In that moment, I felt
completely drained, shocked, and deeply sad.
The rest of that day is a blur.
We continued our journey, of course, but the mood was forever altered. Our trip
went on, but it was now shadowed by the events of that morning.
That sight—the sight of that
ferry lying on its side, so close to home, with the roses clutched in the hands
of the silent onlookers—has never left me. It’s a memory that serves as a
powerful reminder of the fragility of life and the thin line that separates a
normal journey from a tragedy. It taught me that sometimes, travel isn’t about
the places you see, but the moments you are forced to stop, reflect, and bear
witness. It was a crossing I will never, ever forget.
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