The George Elmy was unsinkable, the events of November 17, 1962 unthinkable

Little more than half an hour later, the George Elmy lifeboat was alongside and at the third attempt hauled aboard four men and a nine-year-old boy from the stricken fishing vessel.

Seemingly safe in the lifeboat, someone says, the rescued men must have been thinking they’d be home in time for tea. The George Elmy, after all, was unsinkable.

Probably it was, but just yards from the shelter of the harbour, the Seaham lifeboat turned over. All five crewmen lost their lives; only Donny Burrell from the coble somehow survived.

It was November 17, 1962 and within four days another group of Seaham men had volunteered to take the lifeboatmen’s places.

That night’s terrible events were remembered last Tuesday when a film about the tragedy had its premiere in New Seaham Conservative Club.

Ed Pickford, whose song about the George Elmy is reprised in the film, was among the invited audience. “You just can’t imagine it,” he said. “The courage of men who’d go out in a small lifeboat into a sea like that is simply beyond comprehension.”

THE 42-minute film is the work of Seaham lad Michael Johnson – Mick thereabouts – a London-based freelance film and television editor who spent two-and-a-half years making it. “A passion project,” he calls it.

It’s narrated by Sir Thomas Allan, international opera singer and himself a Harbour lad. “It was a tragedy,” says Sir Thomas, “which shook the nation and broke the hearts of Seaham.”

Mick Johnson’s film isn’t just a tribute to those truly heroic lifeboatmen, however, but to a later generation of Seaham lads determined that the boat should finally come in.

They’re men like Brian Scollen, much given to raking around – as he puts it in the film – on eBay.

“Aye, that’s right, he is” comes the voice of Audrey, his wife, from the back of the Conservative Club lounge.

Brian, a founder member of the East Durham Heritage Group, discovered the better-days George Elmy for sale in 2009 and, in amazement, rang his mate Geordie Maitland, the group chairman.

Cut back to the film. “You won’t be able to put this bit in,” says Geordie, “but I just said ‘Let’s buy the bastard’.”

It cost them £1,900. Painstakingly restoring the lifeboat at Fred Crowell’s yard on the Tyne meant raising fifty times as much.

The community held countless events; grants helped. On June 23. 2013, more than half a century after it was launched, the George Elmy finally crossed the harbour bar to home.

The boat is now in a heritage centre on Seaham’s smart new marina, has attracted 63,000 visitors and compelled 15,000 volunteer hours. Brian Scollen and Geordie Maitland, lovely lads, never tire of going down there.

“People still get a bit emotional about what happened; it still brings a tear to the eye,” says Brian. “They were brave lads, all of them. We did it for them.”

NEW Seaham Conservative Club is a friendly sort of place, perhaps unused to film premieres, but still with a turn on Saturday nights.

A notice apologises for price increases and explains that the minimum wage is up by 70p an hour; another warns gravely about backing horses on the premises and is signed, “Regards, the committee”.

The bar sells rusty nails for £2.70, not something left over from the joiners’ cabin at Vane Tempest pit but (apparently) a cocktail for men.

The room’s chocker. “Coonty cooncillors at the back,” says the doorman, mistaking me for someone who matters.

Mick’s 42-minute film took two-and-a-half years to make – “it didn’t take that long to restore the boat” he says – and has been self-financed. It’s poignant, powerful, draws from the deep. He hopes that it’ll become familiar around County Durham, and perhaps be shown on BBC4.

The audience loves it. “They laughed in the right places, mebbe had a few tears in the right places,” he says afterwards. “The funny thing is, I’m just relieved.”

Unready for take off

Wackiest excursion: Alex Nelson, with megaphone in hand

THE machine at Darlington station has to have three attempts before printing the ticket, day return to Teesside Airport. It’s as it it’s trying to say “You cannot be serious, man.”

The train’s at 11 05 on Sunday, a direct service to Hartlepool, the journey time to the airport just nine minutes. The return’s at 12 35. Miss either and you wait a week.

For reasons apparently to do with expensive parliamentary procedure, the direct train to Hartlepool is also the only one of the week.

So on Sunday a “mass visit” was planned, an attempt to double in a day the number of passengers that Britain’s least used railway station usually attracts in a year.

Had they been football followers, they’d have sung “What’s it like to see a crowd?” In the event they wondered instead if Teesside Airport would ever again take off.

The trip was organised by Alex Nelson, who runs the independent ticket office at Chester-le-Street station and by David Million, his opposite number at Bishop Auckland.

“The wackiest railway excursion ever,” said the ever-jaunty Mr Nelson, wearing a rather splendid tie that depicted the sights of New York.

“That’s Staten Island, that’s the Empire State Building, that’s a bit of soup spilt on Eighth Avenue,” he explained.

Twenty eight joined the elderly diesel multiple unit, numbers boosted by just one other. “A real passenger,” said Alex, who handed out badges proclaiming “I visited Teesside Airport by train” and promised they’d be on eBay next day.

The station has two wooden platforms, a bridge upon which travellers are urged not to stand – “Northern Rail are bricking themselves,” said Alex – a single shelter, an inoperative telephone and sundry notices forbidding this and that.

Alex produced a megaphone, announced that Darlington station had had 2,257,000 passengers in the last year, Chester-le-Street 200,000, Bishop Auckland 108,000, the almost inaccessible British Steel Redcar 1,570 and Teesside Airport 32 – 16 alighting, 16 joining, none in a hurry to catch a plane.

The airport terminal is almost a mile’s walk away, no chance of a taxi. Between the two, temporarily grounded, was an air training school. “Horizontal visibility,” they said.

“You mean fog,” said Alex.

The terminal was utterly deserted, one small departure screen covering two days flights, Aberdeen and Amsterdam the only destinations. From Teesside Airport you can’t even fly from A to B, simply to A.

Its railway station is an anachronism, in truth, about as relevant to 21st century aviation or to integrated transport as a Tiger Moth in a tailspin.

Alex Nelson merely thought the enjoyable exercise “a bit of daft”, talked of doing it again in five years time. Wouldn’t the presence of 28 people on the same day jeopardise the station’s sole claim to fame, its place at the top of the unpopularity poll?

“I wouldn’t worry,” said Alex, “it’ll be back there again next year.”