Looters who took goods from beached containers in Devon are as unscrupulous as their 17th-century counterparts, writes Rosita Boland.
Yo ho ho and . . . a container ship of booty. All week, pictures featured in the media of the British-flagged cargo ship, the Napoli, listing off the southern English coast.
To the untutored marine eye, the freight ship, with its load of brightly-coloured containers stacked high over the bows, looked a little like what you get when you put a small, enthusiastic child together with a pile of Lego. By Sunday, over 230 of its 2,394 containers had fallen overboard and were being slowly carried inland to Branscombe Beach in east Devon, watched from the cliffs above by an eager, waiting public.
The 26 crew members had already been airlifted off the ship by the British navy, and an attempt made to tow her to Portland harbour in Dorset had to be abandoned because the hull cracked.
An operation by salvage teams to try to drain her tanks of oil also had to be abandoned, due to high winds, but while some oil reached the beaches, a major environmental disaster had so far been averted. After that, it was only a matter of waiting for the containers to slide over the side and be carried inward by the tide.
This stretch of coastline along Cornwall, Devon and Dorset has always been infamous for shipwrecks, both those shipwrecked by mistake or misfortune or those notoriously coaxed onto the rocks at night in the 17th and 18th centuries by wreckers with lanterns. The wreckers invariably ignored the drowning sailors and concentrated on the business of carrying away as much cargo as possible before first light.
With no lives in danger on the Napoli, all public attention was focused on the containers and the guessing game of what was in them. The Maritime and Coastguard Agency (MCA) warned that some, at least, of the containers held toxic waste, and that the public should not approach the beached cargo.
However, once the containers started to wash up on Branscombe on Sunday evening, the possible threat of toxic waste was never going to come between some members of the public and brand-new BMW motorbikes. As the containers arrived like giant lucky bags on the beach, they were swiftly opened and the contents carted off with alacrity. The 39 BMW motorbikes were first to vanish, with two scavengers tossing a coin over the rights to the last one.
Attempts by the police and the coast guard to close off the approaching roads to the beach proved pointless, with people simply parking their cars beyond the cordon and continuing on foot to the site.
Oak wine barrels, boxes of nappies, women's shoes, steering wheels, exhaust pipes, boxes of perfume, carpets, L'Oréal cosmetics, dog biscuits, camping equipment, Nike trainers and Bibles all emerged from the containers. Everything disappeared.
They were carried away by the armful, by improvised stretchers, in plastic bags and rucksacks. The wine barrels were simply rolled away. One British newspaper even printed a "beachcomber's guide", with a map of what was found where on the beach.
Under British maritime law, the public are legally entitled to gather the cargo from a wrecked ship on condition that they declare it to a government official and hand it in within 28 days.
The owners of the Napoli still legally posses anything washed ashore, but until it actually started arriving on Branscombe beach, they didn't know where it would come in and thus it was some time before private security could be arranged.
In the interim, the police on the beach were powerless to stop scavengers carrying things away, although it didn't stop officer Mark Rodaway declaring on Monday: "Frankly, the scenes I witnessed on the beach late last night were despicable."
While some members of the public may well declare and hand in their motorbikes and Bibles within 28 days, others were less scrupulous and openly advertised their loot on eBay.
They were joined by some imaginative chancers, one of whom asked for starting bids of £10 (€15) or a £30 (€45) "buy it now" bid for a suspiciously pristine-looking scallop shell from Branscombe Beach.
"Hi there," the punter announced, "I didn't get BMWs or nappies. I brought back with me this shell. This shell has no oil markings on it whatsoever. It's in top condition. If you would like to own a piece of history, then don't miss this shell. I also walked over six miles with this shell, so I don't mind selling it on as I will never forget that walk!"
More inventive still was the punter who offered a handful of shingle from the beach, with a starting bid of £1(€1.50). "It contains fine sand and small stones with some broken shells and if you are lucky some glass. This sand was collected from beside the container with the nappies in, so you know exactly where it came from."
Whatever about the public benefiting from the spoils of a faceless corporation, Anita Bokdal turned on her television in Sweden and to her horror saw family heirlooms worth €197,000, which were being shipped from Sweden to South Africa, scattered on the beach.
Among the items were paintings, old embroidery, carpets, furniture and a photograph album. Her name was clearly visible on one of the tea chests that came out of a container. She complained bitterly to the British authorities: perhaps the first time that someone has witnessed theft of their belongings at such a physical distance.
It remains to be seen if any of her possessions will re-emerge within the 28 days, but if history repeats itself, the scavengers of the 21st century are likely to prove themselves to be as shameless as their 17th- and 18th-century counterparts.
