Ex-Press journalist JIM KELLY looks back at his time aboard HMS York as she celebrates 25 years at sea.

HMS York sailed from Weymouth on a brilliant summer’s day in 1985, but the Falklands War must have still cast a long shadow for its crew.

The ship was heading north to Rosyth, in Scotland, for ceremonial duties – including her official christening.

But she was still a warship. Two similar Type 42 destroyers – the Sheffield and the Coventry – had been sunk just a few years earlier by Argentinian jets. The men who had died then had once set sail, like us, aboard a gleaming and cheerful ship.

The Press team for the trip – myself and photographer (now picture editor) Martin Oates – got a taste of the real life at sea almost immediately. Ferried out across the blue expanse of Portland Harbour by a small boat, we were invited to climb aboard using rope webbing thrown over the side. The 5,200 tonne ship towered over us; and the ordeal managed to dovetail nicely two of my own specific fears – heights, and water. I stood on the deck, finally, with shaking knees.

A third fear – claustrophobia – was promptly provided once we had gone below to find our quarters. The ship was extraordinarily cramped – one of the reasons why the follow-up Class 45 destroyers are so much larger. York may have been 460 feet long, but it was only 50 feet wide. I could not believe my “cabin” – although I knew it was the height of luxury compared to those for almost everyone else. It appeared to be a horizontal aluminium cupboard, with a short stretch of curtain providing privacy.

That first night the ship edged up The Channel and we watched in awe from the bridge after dark as we sliced a route across the busiest shipping lane in the world. You could see the blinking lights of Dover and Calais. Between them stretched a kind of maritime motorway, criss-crossed with vessels of all sizes, tracking too and fro. Slipping the warship through them was like threading a needle. The added frisson came from knowing that one mistake could have been lethal.

The next day, as the ship entered the North Sea, we toured the York checking out the weapons, the on-board helicopter pad, and the subterranean depths of the stores.

One interview which sticks in my mind was talking to a young seaman on Deck 2. He showed me the precise spot where the Exocet missile fired by an Argentinian jet had pierced the hull on HMS Sheffield, before exiting through the opposite bulkhead. Since that day, he said, procedures and kit had been improved to make ships like York far less vulnerable to such an attack. After lunch, most of the ship’s company of nearly 300 were given a few hours recreation. We watched in some astonishment a game of hockey on the deck played with a small circle of rope for a puck. The pace was frenetic, and no quarter was given, despite the fact the edge of the pitch was simply the guide rail between deck and the North Sea.

Later on we were treated to drinks and food in the officers’ mess – the guest that evening was the captain, invited down from his own solitary quarters to join the party.

There did not seem to be any TVs on board and, if there had been, they would have been unlikely to get a signal. So the really big, world event of that day – July 13, 1985 – passed us by like the distant ships on the horizon. Live Aid – the most sensational rock concert on the planet – may have attracted an audience of 400 million, but it did not include us. We slipped down a few decks to join the middle ranks for a few more drinks, and the beginnings of what looked like being an heroic party.

Next day we woke to find York in the Firth of Forth under a wet, grey Scottish sky. We slid under the great bridges in the dim light and into Rosyth Naval Base. The crew, which had been working for months to get the ship ready for commissioning and christening, were straining at the leash to get home on leave. We left the ship with them to catch trains in Edinburgh. As we travelled south at high speed our new found shipmates concentrated on maintaining the honour, if not the dignity, of the Royal Navy – by drinking the buffet dry before we crossed the border into England.

• Jim Kelly now writes crime thrillers. His latest – Death Watch – has just been published by Penguin Books.