Mike Mate

The corners of the hatch lid rest on wooden bearers – an attempt to increase air circulation. The heat inside the hold is suffocating, just standing still produces a sweat. It is noisy down there too, with ventilation fans running at full, trying to make a difference.

For the past 21 years the fish-hold of the former Grampian Fame has been known as the theatre – more recently as the sauna. It is here that press conferences have been held and banners sewn and painted. The projector screen has been packed for shipping but the amplifier and speakers remains to the last – we cannot live without our music. This afternoon a tribute to Amy Winehouse battles against the noise of exhaust-fans.

Inside the hold one gets the impression of a flea market opening soon. There are plastic crates and cardboard boxes piled with stuff – destined for either the new boat or the office. Plastic bottles that once contained ‘pure water’ from Japan, lie scattered amongst this lot, testament to heavy drinking going on down here.

It seems to be disarray but every pile is inventoried and marked. Penny, a former computer programmer then marine scientist, found her wings at sea as a deck hand on ‘the yachts’. She has been boatswain on Rainbow Warrior for the past five years. Her knowledge of the boat and her mind for detail are just what the old girl needs in her final hours.

My eye catches a pile of brightly coloured fabric. The largest banner ever to have been deployed on the Rainbow Warrior is bundled and ready for shipping. There is a picture in the alleyway from its glorious moment in 2002: ‘SAVE THE LAST ANCIENT FORESTS’.

But, in the dark recess of a sail bin, lies one that will be left behind. The peace dove: a worn old jib from a long time ago. It is white and supports the dove of peace flying with the olive branch in its beak. It has served its time.

Save our ancient forests

The preventer lines have been released, their ends coiled and hung from the copper pins on the pin rail. The lines now sag from the boom, giving an air of forlorn abandonment to the Rainbow Warrior.

Lesley and Katie, with spanners and screw drivers in hand, remove the last Anderson winch from the mizzen port side. There is something poignant in watching Lesley teach Katie to dismantle a winch.

Lesley is Rainbow Warrior’s longest serving crew member whose first voyage took place in 2001.

In 2007 she celebrated her 60th birthday on board – an occasion I can never forget. We were approaching an anchorage in the mouth of the Hoogli river on the Ganges delta. A meeting of more than 6000 climate refugees of the Sundabans was being held on Sagar island. Rainbow Warrior was late and I was indisposed to navigate the river and so I sent Lesley and a small contingent of crew ahead on one of the dinghies to represent the Rainbow Warrior.

On the Island she was called upon to address the audience and in the process, mistaken by the crowd to be the Captain. And so indeed Lesley found herself Captain of the Rainbow Warrior for the night of her 60th birthday before a mass of 6000 people, on the Ganges delta. A meaningful image to behold on the mother of all rivers – the Ganga.

Today she is teaching young Katie, who is doing her first trip with Greenpeace. Together they are removing vital pieces of sailing equipment. They are clipping the wings of the Rainbow Warrior.

Luis then removes the coiled line from the pins. The preventer lines sag some more with the movement. He removes the pins from the pin rail and unbolts the structure. When he lifts the wooden rail onto his left shoulder and labours across the bridge deck under its weight, I realise that Rainbow Warrior will never fly on the edge of a storm again.

Lesley and Katie remove the winches

Luis removes the pin rail

It is a long walk for little legs atop the writhing pontoons. The dock is set to life, stirred up by water taxis spinning off the commercial pier next door. Thirty 6 and 7 year olds walk out along that snaking, writhing dock joining the hard land to the Rainbow Warrior. Emotions rise and fall whilst crossing the limen from one reality to another.

When we reach the old lady, I take a position at the foot of the wooden ladder leaning up against her side. I am scholar patrol: watching out for little feet that come too close to the moving steps and guiding each with a hand on their little shoulder; holding some still, pulling others back and prodding a few forward to take their first step up. In this midst of care, I myself am touched by the innocence and acceptance of the children.

Beside the ‘Grampian Fame’s’ wooden-spoked steering wheel, Alex tells a short story about the fate of Tuna. We hand out cardboard cut out Tunas, the remains of recent campaigns. The children, so dear in their uniforms – boys in pink checkered shorts and girls matching checkered blouses – hold the fish above their heads. Some are marked: ‘the last tuna’. I read afresh the message the children reflect back: the last school (of children) – the last school (of tuna).

Oh my gosh! Erik’s mango cake has been left out in the mess room. I am first to enter, followed by an eager group of boys. We all see the cake at the same time, but I am first to respond. I whizz it through the serving hatch to Wili in the galley, out of sight.

The cabins are perhaps the most exciting. How many six-year-olds can a third mate fit onto the top bunk in his cabin? There are screams of joy erupting from Penny and Alex’s cabins, both open for inspection.

When it comes time for the final photograph, we stand on the pontoon beside the rainbow. In rhythmic unison the children repeat after their teacher: ‘thank you Captain Mike’. I then encourage them to say goodbye to the Rainbow Warrior. They raise their hands to wave and 30 little voices in chant ‘bye bye Rainbow Warrior’.

Rainbow Warrior has felt for the last time, the pitter patter of tiny feet across her old steel decks.

Last School (of children)

The last school of tuna