In anticipation of the trip I had avidly read all the information I could gather on the wreck. Port Napier was a huge mine laying vessel, some 550 feet long and weighing in at 9,600 tons. On the night of 27 November 1940, she had been berthed at the railhead at Kyle, just a few hundred yards from where we would be launching. At that time, Kyle with its deep water, and easy access to the Inner Sound and out to the Minch, the Hebrides and Northern Isles was a significant naval base.
Kyle was also the railway head, the end of the railway line that snaked here from Inverness. The harbour was deep enough to accommodate large vessels of Port Napier’s size.
For days her crew had laboured hard, loading her with 550 mines that had arrived by rail. They were carefully passed down through the small loading hatch in the deck near the stern. From there, the crew ran the mines along narrow-gauge railways inside the vessel, which ran the full length of her and connected her 6 cavernous holds where the mines would be stored.
The railway lines ended at the very stern where there were four mine-laying doors cut in the hull. The mines, on their trolleys, were simply pushed out of the large doors - dropping down into the water.
The trolley was very heavy and immediately sunk quickly. The buoyant mine, was secured to the trolley by a long chain and cable, which had been cut to exactly the right length for the waters it was to be deployed in. The buoyant mine would be anchored to its trolley about 30 feet beneath the surface, deep enough not to be wasted on small vessels but at a depth where it would only be struck by larger, more precious ships with a bigger draught.
The loading operation had gone smoothly at first but then someone spotted that a fire had broken out aboard her. At first frantic attempts were made to extinguish the flames, but without success. Despite the efforts of the fire fighters the flames spread remorselessly and it soon became apparent to those aboard that the fire could not be controlled. A red glow grew in intensity, lighting up the darkness of the night sky.
The intensity of the fire grew and grew, as the did realisation that if the fires reached her cargo of 550 mines there would be a cataclysmic explosion which would destroy Port Napier – and which would also flatten Kyle.
As a result of the growing danger to the town the priority now became to get the burning vessel as far away as possible. The fire could not be extinguished - and would be left to run its full course. Only time would tell how this drama would unfold - and finally end.
Many of the residents of Kyle noticed the fire and general commotion down at the pier and congregated at the dock curious to see what was going on. As they pressed forward to watch the fire – and not knowing the danger they were in, they had to be held back by the local police.
To protect the inhabitants and buildings of the town, frantic arrangements were made for Kyle to be evacuated. Port Napier was cast loose from her moorings and taken in tow from the town by another naval vessel.
Initially, of necessity, she was towed in the direction of the small village of Kyleakin on the other side of Loch Alsh, on Skye. Hurried plans were made for Kyleakin to be evacuated and for the inhabitants of Portree, Skye’s main town, 30 miles to the north to take in the evacuees from Kyleakin.
Whilst under tow, the fires continued to intensify and eventually in Loch na Beiste, a small bay about a mile south east of Kyleakin and well away from habitation, the burning vessel was let loose and cast adrift.
Shortly afterwards, there was a flash that lit up the night sky momentarily, followed by the loud bang of an explosion which resonated around the nearby hills of Skye. Part of the central superstructure was blown off the vessel several hundred feet in the air and all the way to the shores of Skye about 300 yards away. The superstructure landed on the beach, complete with one gun mounting and a bath. Some of the fragments ended halfway up the hill beyond - where they still sit among the trees today.
Surprisingly, despite the magnitude of the explosion, none of the mines detonated - although her midships area was badly mangled by the explosion.
Port Napier rapidly flooded with water and started to keel over onto her starboard side as she sank. The sea consumed her and she came to rest on her starboard side in about 20 metres of water – complete with her entire cargo of newly loaded mines. Port Napier’s beam was 68 feet, which meant that her port side showed above the water at most states of the tide.
That night, because of some German bombing over Ayrshire, some 200 miles to the south, a strict security blackout was imposed to keep the loss secret. As a result, nothing appeared in any local or national newspapers.
As with many other sea losses in both world wars, rumours of sabotage were rife – and the security blackout probably fuelled these rumours. In the absence of any official explanation people speculated wildly about what had happened and these rumours became more and more exaggerated as they passed around.
After the war had ended, thoughts turned to lifting the dangerous cargo of mines. In 1950, the Royal Navy decided to clear the mines - but things moved slowly. It took until 1955/6 before a Royal Navy salvage team from HMS Barglow started working on her, removing the entire upmost port side plating of her hull and exposing her inner ribs, bulkheads and double bottoms. By opening up her innards, Royal Navy clearance divers were able to rig up a lift system and lift the mines vertically up from the bowels of the wreck to the surface between each of the decks.
In all, five hundred and twenty six mines were removed and 16 had to be detonated in situ for safety reasons. The Admiralty was never sure of the exact number of mines aboard her and rumours had gone around the diving community for years that you could still see the ‘missing mines’ in the deep, hidden recesses of the wreck.
We talked long into the night, before I found a bunk, uncurled my sleeping bag and wriggled in. I lay in the darkness of the cold room, facing the heavily varnished wood logs of the cabin wall, my mind wondering what it would be like to dive a shipwreck for the first time. Gradually, I drifted off into sleep’s warm embrace.
Within what seemed like just a few minutes of going to bed, alarm clocks were going off all over the place; it was 7am – and time to rise.
The six, sleepy inhabitants of my chalet roused themselves and, peering out through single glazed windows, running with condensation, we were greeted by a typical west coast morning, chillingly cold, with a clinging damp grey mist that cast a veil of secrecy over anything more than 50 feet away. I looked at the Zodiac parked on its trailer outside and saw large droplets of water forming from the mist and running down the large grey side tubes.
The cabin seemed cold - with a clinging dampness from condensation pervading everything. I lay in my sleeping bag, not wanting to get out of its warm embrace and risk the chilly inner climate of the cabin - let alone to venture outside. Two dives in a wet suit was going to be interesting in these conditions.
I hopped out of bed as a delicious aroma of coffee and bacon wafted over the cabin - a smell that has become synonymous with dive expeditions for me. I pulled on some thick clothes and ventured into the lounge, which was a hive of activity with everyone trying to cram as much food as they could down them.
I opened the door and stepped outside to see what it was like. There was little wind but it was chillingly cold. Hastily I nipped back inside and very soon I had a bowl of cereal down me and was munching into a bacon roll. Bacon rolls never taste as good as on a cold morning, somewhere remote on a dive trip.
Soon, it was time to get going and we all loaded ourselves and our kit into cars. Car engines roared into life - shattering the silence of the heavily wooded surroundings. Fan heaters were switched up to maximum to dispel the clinging dankness and condensation on windscreens. The two cars towing Zodiacs went off first followed by a succession of other cars in procession.
We meandered in convoy along the narrow single-track