Gentle summer breezes.

In contrast to last months post I thought with the severe winter weather we are experiencing in Scotland I would warm the keyboard of my computer recalling the unusual days at sea when the surface of the ocean was flat clam shimmering like glass on a wind free sunny summers day.

The summer days are long in Scotland with the sun rising between three and four in the morning and setting around eleven at night with hardly any darkness in-between.

We would leave port at midnight on the Sunday night when darkness had just fallen, but if the moon was at a point in its cycle where it shone large and bright in the sky, it appeared as if it was still daylight and you could see for miles over the silvery sea.

When I was on watch on mornings like these I used to soak up in amazement the beauty and variations of colour mother nature could conjure up to create the fantastic sea scape that lay before me as we sliced our pathway across the sea of glass to the fishing grounds west of Pladda lighthouse at the southern tip of Arran.

It was the fishing grounds there, that Hake were caught in the warm summer months when they came into the shallower waters to spawn, providing us with rich pickings as they were one of the most expensive fish we landed, being savoured by the Spaniards who travelled all the way to Scotland to buy them in bulk and ship them back home.

The crew were rallied when we reached the fishing grounds just before daylight appeared in the eastern sky and the dhan would be thrown over the side where two miles of rope were shot out, then the net, as we turned and shot out two more miles of rope on our return to pick up the dhan and begin our first haul of the day.
It took two hours to complete the tow and once the net approached the stern of the boat we would stop the winch, tow it along the surface to assist the cod end that held the fish to float on top of the water before we started hauling it aboard.
It was when we came astern to haul the net aboard that the cod end would reveal its contents by floating a silvery blanket of bloated hake bellies along the bag and as we pulled it towards us they would rumble down into the cod end, then be lifted aboard by the derrick, spilling into the pound where we would quickly box them ready to gut.
In the case of the large Hake we would gut them straight from the pound once the gear was shot again as the majority of them were usually longer than the boxes and with their girth it did not take many to fill a box.

We would still be working with the fish as the next haul was in progress, and the mud from the ropes coming in would splash all over us and the deck, covering all in its vicinity with a thick layer of brown clay as it dried in the now rising sun which became warmer with every passing hour.

As early as 9am it would get so warm that I used to cut down an old oilskin and make an apron out of it, tie it around my waist to keep the lower half of my body as dry as possible while I stripped to the waist and let the sun beat down on my pale skin, hidden from the elements all winter beneath layers of clothes during the cold stormy days that was more normal to us than the balmy weather arising from the few hot summers days we might be blessed with.
All day I would work like that only donning my full oilskins whilst hauling the net to protect myself from the scaulders that fell on our heads from the net as it was drawn through the power block (scaulders are red jellyfish that appeared during the hot weather and had a sting like vinegar or salt hitting an open cut)the term scaulders coming from the burning feeling they gave you when they landed on sensitive pieces of skin around the eyes or open cuts.
(SCAULD meaning to burn in Scots lingo)


By the end of the day when the sun set below the horizon my back was as red as the scaulders, and also would sting in a similar way, having had too much sun at one go, and even though this happened every year I still never learned from it, always desperate to grab some sun while the chance was there and willing to suffer for it, as after a couple of hours sleep at night it seemed to cool down enough to start the process all over again if we were lucky enough to have sunshine two days on the trot.

The job was so much easier and less tiring on calm seas, no rolling and pitching about or holding on to boxes of fish as the boat was thrown violently in all directions, and calm seas also allowed us to stand without having to think about where to place our feet or correct our balance as we did in storms during every lurch our vessel took.

As the sun rose in the east it would paint a different picture of colour every morning depending on the atmospheric conditions or slight cloud formations that might feather the pale blue sky. At night when it sank like a giant red ball of flame beneath the west horizon into a flat calm sea you almost expected it to sizzle and steam when it appeared to touch the surface as it flickered shades of pinks and lilacs that danced among the few ripples stirred up by the tide and evening breezes, cooling the night air slightly, giving us a short respite from the heat that would soon burst upon us again come morning.
As the day wore on I would drench myself with the cold salt water pumped from the sea through the hose that led to the deck just to cool down a bit, and come the end of a trip my hair was like wire when I went to wash it,having to use handfuls of shampoo before I could work up enough lather to cleanse the salt from it.

Wonderful sights of mother nature to behold during the long days of summer in Scotland, but as the calm days dragged on with steam rising from the decks and the fish too as they lay in wait to be gutted, by the heat of the sun beating down, mingled with the build up of heat on the deck from the engine room, meant we had to be quick attending to them and get them in ice before the heat affected the freshness of them, losing us money come landing time.

We had a good crew in those days so the problem of rotting fish never arose and we always got top money for our fish no matter what the weather threw at us, but once the calm days turned into weeks the novelty began to wear off and we would wish for a stiff breeze at least to liven things up again.

When the calm days became tedious I used to think that it must have been the same for sailors of old who, when lying becalmed would have been bored as they waited to move forward having had to rely on wind and sail power to drive them onward to their destination. Whereas they would be willing the wind to blow for that reason, we began to wish for wind to relieve the boredom the calm seas and the heat caused us as we toiled under the burning sun all day.

Then one morning you would sense a change working in the weather, as the sun rose with an angry looking sky, and the gentle cool summer breeze getting colder instead of warmer with each foot the sun rose above the now grey horizon, whipping up the once calm sea into the turmoil we were more used to.

The boredom had passed, the long oilskins were donned for the day and the now tanned skin on my back was once again hidden from the elements leaving only my hands and weather beaten face uncovered, where the spray from the rising waves would leave its mark as it hammered across the deck with each dive we took into the deepening troughs.

The long summer days were over, the fishing had its good points, and the beautiful visions of mother nature I witnessed during these special sunsets and rises will never leave my mind, a wonder to behold indeed.

The days would get shorter as the sun rose later and set earlier, displaying a different kind of beauty through cold angry winter skies, but as our vision was impaired by lumps of sea crashing around us and our concentration focused on the dangerous task in hand of casting our nets, clearing the decks and keeping our balance, making sure we were not thrown overboard, we could not take the time to appreciate them so much, but then again that was what we expected and looked forward to when we signed up, a bit of excitement and adventure that helped to keep our wits about us,preserving our lives as we unwittingly collected stories along the way that might come in handy to tell our grandchildren some cold snowy December night gathered around the glow of a warm log fire before we watch them snuggle down to sleep to dream of the gifts Santa might be bringing them through the storm.

I have retired now as my regular readers will know and although I have no grandchildren of my own to relay my stories to, I do have my followers, and I am sure some of them might just be reading this before they fall asleep to dream of the gifts Santa will be bringing them regardless of their age, so I hope when you awake your dreams have come true.
If they don't you must have been naughty ha ha.

MERRY CHRISTMAS AND A HAPPY NEW YEAR.

I wish to thank all my readers and followers for their loyalty, and for their fantastic comments during the past year.
I wish you all great time on Christmas day and all the very best for the year ahead.

For those in peril on the sea.

Image via WikipediaYou would think that the vast open sea could handle all the ships of the world and would be safer than a busy motorway, but the consequences of a collision at sea can have more serious results than a fender bender ashore, and in certain channels shipping gets quite congested at times.

In the busy shipping lanes of the world great care is taken by the coastguard and the captains of the ships to avoid any such event, but they do happen, normally in rough weather or fog, hence the need for our valuable rescue services like the lifeboat, coastguard and air sea rescue helicopter units.

In the quiet waters off the west coast of Scotland, the few ships that pass by are made up of coasters, ferries, the odd oil tanker heading up to Greenock, and on the very odd occasion a cruise liner will visit the beautiful area in and around the Firth of Clyde.

Gone are the days of John Browns shipyard turning out ships and them seen doing their trials along the measured mile where the great Queens, Mary, Elizabeth and Elizabeth 11 graced the waters of the Firth before heading off to travel the world providing luxury cruises to all who sailed in them.

There are still some navy ships being built at another shipyard on the Clyde, and they still do trials out there, also the Royal Navy does exercises in the suitable deep waters around Arran at times adding to the traffic, with some submarines to be had too, so all in all, as at anytime and anywhere at sea strict vigilance is required at all times.

Sadly even though we have many modern navigational aids the human element is still the most reliable but also the one that makes the most errors, and is the cause of most collisions or tragedies at sea.

Taking your eye off the ball even for a second, as on the roads, can mean life or death as you have to be wary off all around you,like weather conditions that can change at the drop of a hat, or shipping appearing from the horizon that has to be noted and its course, speed and direction observed as it could interfere with your plans before you realize it, especially if you are towing fishing nets astern of you which makes manoeuvrability almost impossible, so you have to anticipate the hours and minutes ahead not just the seconds that are needed on the roads.

On more than one occasion I was unfortunate enough to be at the mercy of the human element in command of a ship, or small coaster as was in these cases, but none the less scary than a tanker when it is bearing down on you on a collision course, us unable to take evasive action while fishing and able to see the man in command having a conversation with his shipmate unaware they were heading straight for us and contact only seconds away.
Shipping is supposed to give fishing boats a wide berth and every fishing boat has signals to show it is working and cannot manoeuvre, a rule of the sea, just as you still give way to a boat under sail.

Having sailed on fishing boats from forty foot up to over seventy, I always thought the boat was big, in comparison to what, I am not sure, but when you are aboard it seems that way, so you think that you are clearly visible to any passing traffic who should be keeping a look out, "WATCH" being the operative word as it is called a watch when its your turn at the wheel when steaming or towing whatever the case.

Obviously the man on watch in this case had never looked at his radar never mind looked out of the wheelhouse window as he was completely oblivious to us. It was the seconds before impact that you realize how small your boat really is, and it is also amazing how quickly your brain works when you are put in such a predicament.
My first thought was to jump on the anchor dangling from the bow of the coaster, it looked easy at the time, but with hindsight, foolish, everything seemed to go in slow motion the nearer the coaster came to impact us and it gave me time to run forward to the winch and release the brakes, letting our gear run out and giving us enough forward thrust to slip under the bow and into the wash of sea it was pushing in front of it.
As soon as the man on watch noticed our mast he took evasive action by turning the wheel hard to port and scrapped past our quarter with inches to spare, avoiding the collision that would have halved our boat in two.
Without even an acknowledgement he sailed on and over the horizon without a care in the world leaving us to recover our nerves, haul the gear back to where it should be and continue fishing, although it took a strong cup of tea and about ten cigarettes before my nerves settled.

That was the closest call I had, one other being an idiot in a small but larger coaster heading straight for us, aware of what he was doing, his way of giving us a fright, which worked, but I would like to have seen his face when the Board of Trade officials boarded them when they docked as we reported the incident, and it would have been taken very seriously, punishment also dished out to idiots and law breakers at sea, just as on land.

There were a few other times when we had to take evasive action with arrogant captains not wanting to stray from their course to avoid small fishing boats that would seem only an irritation to them but had we not anticipated their actions the consequences would have been severe, not only to the crew on the fishing boat who would have landed in the water, maybe even drowned, but for the irresponsible captain who would have lost his rank, which would have been more than irritating to both parties.

All my near misses happened in clear weather, but some of my colleagues were not so lucky, some lost their lives, which I would rather not go into, but will tell you of one particular boat with close friends of mine aboard who were run down and sank one foggy day.

It was a small coaster, the same one that gave me my closest call, obviously a lesson never learned, although fog is one of the worst things you can experience at sea even with all the modern equipment like radar.

My friends had been fishing at the west side of The Alisa Craig, a notorious place in fog where the island disappears and the haunting sound of the foghorn can be heard for miles around.
They had their gear aboard and were steaming between tows so both skippers were to blame, but nonetheless both skippers got a shock when the coaster appeared out of the fog ramming the "RANDOM HARVEST" amidships sending her to the bottom in minutes.

One of my friends was in the wheelhouse with the skipper and told me, "He appeared out of nowhere, never showing up on the radar nor his foghorn heard."
Strange, but fog does have a weird effect at sea and strange unexplainable things like that do happen.
Another friend of mine who was in the hold packing fish at the time, felt the impact and when he scrambled up the ladders to get to the deck, the boat was going down as fast as he was trying to get up.
Thankfully, after a short swim, all were rescued by the crew of the coaster, "THE SUNLIGHT" of all names, but I often wondered what would have happened to me had I been on the Random Harvest as I could not swim all the years I was at sea only learning some years later.

Storms were not the only factors to create danger at sea, fog and the human element were another two, the human element being the one that should never be in the equation but is most likely to be the worst offender when it comes to collisions.
Accidental the collision might be, but negligence is most likely to be at the root of it, and as on the roads, that split second can mean life or death even though there is a vast expanse of ocean.

"GOD BLESS HER AND ALL WHO SAIL IN HER"
Is the quotation used when a ship or boat is launched, and every sailor I know have needed God's blessing at sea at one time or other, be it through storms or stress, rough and ready we might be, we have all turned to him at some point, some luckier than others, some living to tell the tale, some not.

I have great respect for the sea, and after all the years spent on it, knowing what it can throw at you, I have every respect for all the men and women who still go down to the sea in ships, but more so for those of the rescue services who put their lives at risk to save us should we flounder in any way.

Although there is a vast expanse of ocean, with many open spaces, it still provides much more danger than any of our congested roads ever will.

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In the footsteps of my grandfather.

For as long as I can remember I always wanted to be a fisherman, following in the footsteps of my maternal grandfather and his father before him.
The sea was in my blood, enhanced by regular visits to the harbour during my summer school holidays to watch as the family boat came home from a trip loaded with fish and observe as my uncle and his crew went about the task of landing them.

My grandfather had by this time retired, and my uncle was now skipper of the "Olive Tree," a job I hoped to do in my later years, as I was the only member of the descendants that had any ambition to carry on the family tradition.

Other things that might have inspired me or drew me to such a dangerous occupation was watching my grandfather mend nets, cotton nets that had been torn during fishing, which was a regular thing in the early days with only land marks, early forms of echo sounders, and the experience of the skipper to keep the gear clear of sharp objects, wrecks or rocks that lay on the bottom of the sea.

I used to stand in amazement and watch as my grandfather would fill the needles with cotton twine then proceed to cut the torn pieces out of the net and join the remaining squares with the twine, bringing the net back to its original form.
The torn nets would be brought to his home for him to mend while the boat fished on using many nets in the process,and as they were made of cotton, he was never short of work, the newly mended ones being swapped for torn ones each time the boat docked.

He used to encourage me by giving me a piece of stick with a little twine hanging from it and place me beside another part of the net with a small hole, to pretend I was mending too and contributing to the finished article, then shout my grandmother out when he stopped for a cup of tea to show her my handiwork and compliment me on such a fine job.

I knew it was only pretend but we spent many a great day together like that, which might not have been as much fun for him, as it was hard work trying to piece together some of the badly torn nets, and as the summers came and went I eventually learned to fill the needles for him which was some help at least, and gave me a feeling of being of some real use at last.

My grandfather died before I left school and never got to see me working on the boat or mending nets myself, but I know he knew I would succeed at it one day, as the sparkle in his eyes, when he showed my grandmother my pretend work told a story of memories when his enthusiasm overflowed helping his own grandfather.

The day I was told I had a job on the Olive Tree, I immediately pictured myself in yellow oilskins, sou'wester and long white rubber sea boots just as my uncle and grandfather wore (the older fishermen would have had long leather boots) and it was that vision I wanted my own descendants to remember me by when the old photographs were handed around the family long after my departure from this earth.

The yellow colour was an aid to spotting and recovering any men who were unfortunate enough to fall, or be swept overboard, although, spotting and recovery in cold rough seas was very slim, with far to many good men being lost at sea, my great grandfather being one.

This never deterred me, and it was with great pride the day I walked into the ship chandlers and asked for a pair of boots, size nine, a long yellow oilskin, sou'wester, and a gutting knife, the uniform of my heroes.

You can imagine my disappointment when the man behind the counter told me the yellow oilskins were out of stock and as the new regulation oilskins were to be a "luminous pink," supposedly bright enough to see even better should I be swept overboard, he had plenty of them in my size.

I had no other option, I was sailing on Sunday at midnight, and this was Saturday morning, so I sauntered dejectedly down to the boat and hid my new gear under the other YELLOW oilskins belonging to the crew, where they would stay until the very last moment, when I had to wear them.

When the time came to don this monstrosity I expected some teasing remarks from the older crew members but none was forthcoming, maybe because it meant nothing to them or that they were more intent on getting the job done rather than pay any attention to the rookie cook come deckhand, who they would have to teach the tricks of the trade to in the weeks and months to come.
Nonetheless I cringed then, and still do to this day when I think of that garment, the only one I can ever remember seeing, so much for it being the new regulation oilskin.
I think it was a one off, a trial for it and me, and we both failed, it on colour, me on having a face brave enough to wear it as it was off my back as soon as its use was over, and I was never seen wearing it in port no matter how heavy the rain was when we were landing.

To make matters worse, my other uncle, who was a chartered accountant, had decided to take some time off work and come to sea with us to live the dream he once thought he would be living, until his ambitions took another turn, and after years of study had his own successful business.

He brought with him a cine camera to record his trip, which I never thought much of until he started to film all of the crew going about their duties on deck, them in their yellow oilskins and ME in a luminous pink number that looked even brighter when I saw the replay of it in colour.

So much for my descendants seeing me dressed in the attire I hoped I would be wearing when I was first snapped for posterity, what kind of impression would this make a hundred years from now I thought, ME, IN A PINK OILSKIN!
We were supposed to be rough and tough, not running around in colours that were for women only, but then I was only about to turn fifteen and at that time the look was as important to me, as the adventurous job I had chosen.

I was so proud that at last I was on my way to becoming a real fisherman, and at the end of a trip I could be seen walking around the harbour in my flecked polo neck woolen jumper, barky, (canvas top worn over jumper that blocked the freezing cold winds from reaching our skin) long sea boots, rolled down, then turned up slightly, even though it was mid-summer, and the rest of the crew had long since gone home.
I was at last emulating my ancestors, and even they might have posed the way I was when they were young, though I doubt it.

The pink luminous oilskins never caught on, and when it wore out it was replaced by the traditional yellow, which pleased me more than I can tell.
The film of that embarrassing garment has been shown to many members of the family, but thankfully now I can laugh at it, as there are more photos of me in the attire my forefathers wore, the attire I always dreamed I would wear one day while following in their footsteps.

The dreams that little schoolboy had while helping his grandfather mend the torn nets had finally been fulfilled.

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Relics of the Scottish fishing industry

Image via Wikipedia

Here as promised is the updated photo of the "Watchful" with "yours truly" standing beside it, two old relics of the Ayrshire fishing industry, still around to tell the tale.
I spoke to the guy who restored it, and he told me that for all the work he had done, there was still plenty rotting wood in her, mostly on her top rail,also in and around the deck area that is hidden from view to the public given the high position of her on the concrete cradle.
She looks good from a distance, proving that a lick of paint can cover a multitude of sins, just like the T-shirt I am wearing.
Hopefully she will stand proud there for many years to come and that the council will see fit to care for her in the delicate years of the life in front of her, a fitting memorial to a once thriving industry, and if they can find some compassion for the old bloke in the photo, perhaps they could take care of him in his old age too.
"Shiver me timbers" OoooArrrr! ha ha.

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The dreaded overhaul.

When I was taking my stroll along my usual haunt at Ayr beach, where I go on nice days, not only to get some exercise, but to look out to sea to find some inspiration for my next post, I passed the hull of the Watchful (mentioned and pictured in a past post)and was pleasantly surprised to see that she had been given a nice new coat of paint, paid for by the local council.
Having been standing, as a tribute to Ayr's once thriving fishing industry since her purchase by Ayr county council, on a concrete cradle where Ayr's old slipway once was, having been neglected and sore in need of some loving care and attention, I was glad to see her sitting more proudly than she had been for some time, looking more like her old self.

The site of her beaming in the sunlight, fresh paint glistening, and the smell of it's odour still hanging in the air brought back memories of the times we spent caring for the vessels we sailed in, slipping them at least once a year to overhaul the engines, repair any woodwork (or metal if that was the case) that had been damaged, worn or rotted through its working year, and get all the safety equipment, from life rafts to lifebelts and flairs checked to ensure as best as we could our safety in the coming year.

Although every fisherman knew this work was essential, we would rather the shipyard workers carried out the maintenance, mainly to allow us a well earned holiday, but also to escape the work and smell of a shipyard that held no pleasant memories for us, as when these smells hit our nostrils all we could think of was scrapping keels, hulls, wheelhouses, and getting covered in all sorts of paint, more going on us at times than the boat, such was our incompetence and hatred of the job.
Arrrgh! The thought of it still haunts me, with the smell of wood, wood shavings, paint, putty, and hot metal, along with the sounds of electric wood saws cutting away, metal grinding and hammering by an army of men amid a flurry of organized chaos as soon as you entered the yard, and to think that these men do that every day of their working lives and think nothing of it.

There were times when we left the boat in the capable hands of the shipyard workers, but more often than not, to save the owners money, the crews would be left to do the jobs, which were done as quickly as possible so we could get back to sea and earn some real money, doing the job we loved, our holidays being staggered during the summer months with one crew member at a time on leave, being covered by a temporary crewman while the boat worked on.

We would go through the ritual of clearing the decks of all our working gear, sail to the nearest available yard, (Girvan mostly) which allowed us to travel home each night to sleep easy in our in our own cosy beds before carrying out the drudging depressing duties that although necessary were dreaded by all of us.

The scraping of the keel was one of the worst jobs then, with barnacles and green slime glued along every quarter, but that has been made more easy now with the help of power washers and new chemicals that take away the tiresome manual labour, although great care has to be taken not to remove any of the caulking between the planks on the wooden vessels when using the power washer,(no problem on the steel boats) a lesson learned when we first started using them.

As I said, it was as quick as we could get the job done and back to sea which did not always meet with the approval of the manager of the yard who took great pride in the work carried out by him and his workers, and was as proud as we were when we seen our boat take to the water again, shining like a new pin.

One day with only the deck to be painted, the launch due next day, the manager happened to walk past me as I was covering my part of the deck with the thick grey paint that provided us with some grip underfoot in storms thanks to a sandy element mixed in with it.
He noticed, to his disgust, that I had not brushed the deck before I started to paint, and was painting over a bundle of sawdust left from some woodwork carried out by his men, which brought out his remark, "who's this making porridge on the nice clean deck" to which I replied "ach it will help with the grip, anyway it will be worn off in a couple of weeks."
Not the words he was wanting to hear, as it was his intention to make me clean it up and give it a smooth clean coat of paint, living up to his standard of perfection, and was disappointed when this young fisherman just carried on covering everything in sight. If it was on the deck it was painted grey, and I knew the deck paint was the first thing to go once the hard graft of fishing began in earnest, and any other bits of the boat missed, like the parts that were covered by the ropes attached to the cradle we could not access at the time, and were supposed to be painted after we were off the slip would never be completed, but would tone in soon with the new paintwork as the sea and the elements took their toll in the weeks ahead.

The most important part of the overhaul was the engine and the safety checks, the paintwork, although helping to preserve the wood was only decoration to us, and the gloss would soon fade, not so the shipyard manager's memory though, as the following year he caught me doing exactly the same thing, and remarked, "still making porridge I see."

No chance of me getting a job here if ever I leave the sea I thought, as I carried on covering everything in sight.
He did not know that I too was a bit of a perfectionist, and think I still am, but there are limits to what even I would consider worthwhile, and paint that is going to disappear before long is not one of them, although my standards in other departments do not slip, and are still as strong, unlike the non-skid paint we were issued with.

The sight of the Watchful brought mixed emotions, but every time I pass a shipyard, the smells that enter my nasal passages stir memories of dreaded times spent away from my beloved sea doing unfamiliar jobs that are best left to others.

AH! "Give to me the life I love, the lonely sea and sky."

The small picture "top" is Girvan shipyard.
The large picture is the Watchful in need of a paint, I'll try and get a picture of her as she stands proudly now.

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Man the pumps.

The jobs on a fishing boat are not all about catching fish, we all have our designated jobs to do, to maintain the efficient running of the boat.
We have to know about the engine, and how to do repairs at sea, on all the machinery, keep the bilges dry by pumping them out on a regular basis,(normally a man is designated to look after the engine, which could mean any one from the skipper to the main deckhand, as long as he has enough knowledge of them, which most fishermen do anyway.)
Everything is kept clean in the galley (the cooks job) the hold is always scrubbed with disinfectant after landing (the hold mans job) and the deck and surrounding areas are scrubbed after the last of the fish has been stowed, as we set off for the nearest port to land. (the deckhands job)

In this particular case it was the skipper/owner who, rather than trust any of the crew to look after his pride and joy, chose to do it himself.
He would start the engine each time we put to sea, stop it when we finished our trip, change the engine oil, and do all the necessary maintenance the engine needed, and checked the bilges on a regular basis, pumping them out when needed.

There is quite an accumulation of water in the bilges at times, especially after we have landed and the hold man has finished scrubbing, but normally the bilge pump is running during this operation so, by the time he is finished the water will all be pumped out.

Among other sources of water entering the bilges, you also had ice melting from the tons of ice carried to keep the fish fresh, so a close eye had to be kept on them at sea to keep the water level down.

One lovely summers day,on the first day of a new trip with only a slight swell running, we had just cleared the decks of fish from our second haul when the skipper shouted in a panic out of the wheelhouse window "MAN THE PUMPS WE ARE SINKING!"


There was two manual pumps worked from the deck of this particular boat (all boats having hand pumps that were worked from the deck) so at once, one man began pumping the small pump aft, while the other two men on deck rigged up the bigger pump, and in no time at all the water was flowing out of the boat.

As we were towing at the time the gear steaming from our stern would only hamper us should the circumstances get worse, so the next order from the skipper was to let the brakes off the winch and run off the gear, which would give us maneuverability at least.
The wires we used to tow our gear were tied onto the winch with rope, which made them easier to ditch should an event such as this occur, but we had to stand clear, as the skipper, in such a hurry never slowed the boat down when we came near the end, bursting them away rather than cut them loose, making them spring about the deck in a very dangerous way as they rumbled over the side.

Thousands of pounds worth of gear dumped at sea, but it might save our lives if we couldn't get the flow of water stopped, and we had the position of it charted with our "DECCA" (decca navigator) allowing us to retrieve it should we survive.

The skippers next move was to steam for the nearest fishing boat, which, lucky enough was only a couple of hundred yards away, and tie alongside it while we kept pumping the bilges, but the slight swell on the sea seemed bigger when the two boats came together, which could inflict damage on both boats, so we untied the ropes and dodged beside them, keeping them close, "just in case."
Having already experienced some dubious decisions from this skipper, and with everything seemingly under control, I decided to check out the source of our announced sinking.

When the skipper saw me heading for the engine room he said, "its not a panic, the water is gushing up under the engine," and sure enough, once down in the engine room, when I looked at the source of the panic, water was spraying up from the bilges.

On closer examination, I noticed the water level was up to the propeller shaft and it was a coupling on the shaft that was throwing the water up, not a leak in the hull as we were led to believe by the skipper.

When I pointed this out to him, he tried to cover his panic by saying that it was better not taking any chances, as soon as he saw the water squirting up, his thought was for the safety of the crew.

Aye whatever, I thought, all it would have taken was to look more carefully and all this panic, and dumping of the gear could have been prevented.

When I went back up on deck and broke the news to the boys, they were very relieved at first then shook their heads in disbelief at this fool of a skipper who was supposed to be the most responsible man on board, and who had also undertaken the job of keeping the bilges dry, but through his negligence had let them fill up to this level.

Panic over, and the bilges pumped dry we went back to retrieve our gear before we could start fishing again, but during his denied panic the skipper had lost the decca readings of where the gear lay, and we only had a rough idea where it was.

We towed for hours with the creeper over our stern in the area where we thought it was until finally we felt a pull, the rope leading from the winch to the creeper began to strain, a sure sign that something was on the end of it.

At last we had found the thousands of pounds worth of net, trawl doors, sweeps and wires that we had dumped hours ago, but after being in the water so long the tide had tangled them together quite badly, and it was well into the night before we managed to get it all aboard and sorted out ready for shooting again.

Through the stupidity of the skipper we had feared for our lives, lost half a days fishing, and went without sleep all night trying to prepare the gear in time for daylight breaking, nonetheless, as all good crews do, we had everything ready for the morning, and once the gear was shot we all lay down for a well earned rest, grabbing a few hours sleep while we towed away, except the skipper of course whose job it was to stay in the wheelhouse and do the job he is supposed to do.

As I drifted off to sleep the days events ran through my mind, and I thought to myself that it was time to move on, there are skippers and there are skippers, this guy had blundered once to often, and in my mind, had a long way to go before I would class him as a Skipper.

The rest of the trip went by, thankfully uneventful, but I never felt safe with that skipper in command again and moved on soon after to a prosperous boat with a reliable man at the helm.

The sea is no place to be with people you can't depend on, one of the places where your life depends on trusting the people around you, none more so than the skipper, and when faith in him is gone it's time you were to.

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My return to Ayr.

Image via Wikipedia

We managed to scrape a wage in the three remaining days, but as expected we changed back to the seine net that weekend, and as one of the crew had packed up the skipper sent me to Ayr in the boats van to try to recruit a good seine net fisherman thinking it would speed thinks up on deck, especially if we found ourselves among the expected big hauls of whiting that was being had up the west coast of Scotland.

It takes about five hours by road from Campbeltown to Ayr when you are driving your own transport(an hour less if you drive a fast car)but the journey has some beautiful scenery, which helps to make it more pleasant, making the trip seem to pass quicker.

On my arrival in Ayr I headed straight for the harbour to catch up on the news, only to be told that the Olive Tree had been sold suddenly, with the crew being given no notice whatsoever.
My uncle, rather than spend money on the boat had been made an offer from an Irish fisherman, and realizing that I had no intention of coming back, decided to accept.
The deal was completed in no time at all, and the Olive Tree had already sailed for its new port by the time I arrived giving me no time for a last look, and the next time I was to set eyes on her was in Peel, on the Isle of Man about ten years later.

She looked completely different with her new tripod replacing the thick foremast, giving ample room on deck for the trawl winch and gallows I had suggested, plus a few other small improvements around the deck, and a new, more powerful engine.
Her name had been changed too (to what I can't remember)but there was no mistaking the lines of her hull, and the wheelhouse that had taken me through so many adventures, and introduced me to the life I had chosen as my occupation.

It was a lucky break for me in the fact that I new one good man I could rely on who had been made redundant by my uncles unexpected move, and so after contacting "Davy," and spending a night at home, the two of us journeyed back the route I had just came over the day before.

The Girl Margaret, and crew were lying alongside the quay ready to sail as soon as we arrived, and in no time at all we were sailing down Campbeltown Loch, round the Mull of Kintyre,and up the west coast to chase the whiting that had been reported by other seiners working among the islands on the rugged west coast of Scotland.

The first day proved pretty fruitless with big hauls coming aboard but most of the catch thrown back because they were well undersize, so we moved further north in the hope that we would come across the shoals that had been reported.

The skipper was one of these guys who thought he was better than he really was, having big ambitions above his station, and expected to compete with boats who's skippers were far more experienced than him.

There is no harm in being ambitious, but it was the arrogant way he went about it that I did not like, and a thing I had noticed about him during our spell at the herring, which had led to some of the crew packing up then, and being replaced by other Campbeltown men who thought the same as I did but were just glad of the job.

My temper had been held in place a few times, but when he asked me to pack the fish a different way in the hold which was not only unnecessary, but totally stupid, and would have made it almost impossible to land them in any sensible order, I gave him a piece of my mind.

I pointed out the flaws in his ridiculous idea, added a few other things that had been gnawing at me, and after a good clearing of the air, normal service was resumed on deck, and in the hold, but I was becoming very unhappy with the setup, and almost dreaded the thought of coming in among the big hauls of whiting that we were heading for.

Even though Davy was a great deckhand, it would take more than the two of us to handle catches like that, with the other two deckhands never going above their own slow pace, so as fate would have it, our winch packed in just as we had the last coil of rope to come.

This meant hand hauling both sides of rope until we reached the net, trying to keep them even, and as many fish in the net as possible.

All went well enough, but it meant us steaming to Oban (the nearest port)to get an engineer down to fix the problem as quickly as possible so we could continue with our trip.

We were told it would take a day, so as most fishermen do we headed for the pub where a good dram was had by all, but things got heated when I tried to explain what was needed from all the crew if we were to hit these big shoals.
It's the wrong thing to do when drinking as the brain never thinks in a logical way, so the Campbeltown men took offence at my suggestion that they speed things up a bit, and me telling them they had been at the job long enough to know the urgency of the work in hand.

It never came to fists but I could see that there was never going to be any harmony aboard this boat again whether drink was involved or not, and that the crew were never going to get any better.

The winch was fixed, or so we thought, because after only two hauls the next day the same thing happened again, so it was back in to Oban to find out what was causing the problem.

On the way ashore after boxing the fish we had caught, I decided I had, had enough, and went into the wheelhouse to tell the skipper that I was packing up, and would be taking the first train out of Oban when we berthed.

He knew my reason without me telling him, but with his arrogance he did not want to accept the fact that I was packing in during a trip, and threatened me by telling me he would see to it that I would never work at the fishing again.

How arrogant is that I thought, he really has got well above his station, so I left the heavy atmosphere behind me in the wheelhouse, and packed my gear ready for a quick departure on our arrival in Oban.

He had plenty time to replace me with another man from Campbeltown before the repairs were carried out, and Davy thought he would see the trip out, but packed up at the end of it, realizing how bad things had become on board without the experience needed for the job.

The Girl Margaret never made a success after that and was taken off the skipper who went back to the prawns with an old boat, plugging away at what he knew best, with a crew that worked their own way, at their pace, which was good enough for the prawn fishing.

Me, well I had a lovely train journey home, and could have kissed the ground I set foot on at Ayr railway station late that evening, arriving home unexpectedly to the family I had barely seen in the last months, and now I could be at home to share christmas with them, which was only a few weeks away.

I had no problem getting another berth on an Ayr boat which I am sure my ex-skipper knew at the time of his threat, and I went on to much better things that I will write about in future posts.

The picture above is Oban.

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We are sailing again.

It might have been the fact that my happiest days at sea were on the Olive Tree, and that this short part of my life on the Girl Margaret, although holding some adventure, while bringing the modernization of the fishing that I desired within my grasp, was not the happy place I wanted to be, hence maybe the hesitancy of continuing with the blog, but with my readers support here goes.

The short periods of time I had at home were not the happiest either, and it was no hardship when I had to return to the sea, and leave my wife and son behind.
So many changes had been made in my life over the last couple of years as I was following my instincts to make a better life for myself, with not much thought of my family.
The sea was my life, and I was selfish when it came to the crunch, choosing the sea above all else.

The second last week at the herring aboard the Girl Margaret saw quotas coming in, meaning we were only allowed to land a certain amount of fish for each nights fishing, and if you were lucky enough to get your quota early in the night it meant you were back in port long before the market opened, where we would sell our catch to the highest bidder.

It happened to us on one such occasion, when we had our quota aboard before midnight, with so much herring that we passed some onto another pair of boats to help them, rather than throw the fish back into the sea dead.

We were only an hours steam from Tarbert, and by the time we moored up it was around 1am, so I thought I had a good nights sleep ahead of me until it came time to discharge our catch, but as usual the boat was spied coming in and two or three folk, even at that time of the morning had come down to see us.

The crew new the folk here as it is not all that far from their home port of Campbeltown, so true to form in these places, we were invited up to one of the men's house for a drink owing to the fact that the pubs were shut.

Only two of us accepted, me of course and another guy called Kenny, who enjoyed a dram even more than me.

When we entered the house I noticed it looked very plain, and it was clear that this man lived alone, (lacking a woman's touch was putting it mildly.)

A bottle of whiskey was produced from a cupboard, which between the three of us was downed rapidly during the conversation about the fishing, (what else) and on seeing the bottle was empty I stood up ready to head back.
No sooner was I on my feet when another half bottle appeared from under the seat cushion our host was sitting on, and when that was finished another was produced.

It was daylight when we set off back to the boat to land our catch very drunk but able to manage the work that lay ahead of us, and by the time the landing was over and the hold filled with boxes again the drink had almost worn off.

The cook had our dinner ready for us, and once it was scoffed, we had two hours sleep before setting off to try for our next nights quota, which did not come so easily this time.
Maybe it was punishment for the night before, but it took us all that night, into daylight hours, taking four tows, before we reached our quota.
No rest for the wicked, ran through my head as we finally set off for the market, with no intention of anymore drink that week.

Well my intentions were good at least.

There is no denying the hospitality of the people in these ports, which is second to none, but sometimes it is better to refuse, rather than be sociable type of person I am, or glutton for punishment as the case may be, because sleep is one thing you can never catch up on no matter what you may think.

After another poor nights fishing, and word of herring at the Isle of Man, another adventure loomed.........or so I thought.

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Wooden boats and iron men.

Although the sea, and the fishing is in my blood, I don't go near the harbour very often when the boats are landing their catches, as the call of the sea is so strong sometimes, it leaves me with a strong urge to attempt going back even though I know I am not fit.
On Sunday afternoon, however I found myself at Troon harbour where the boats now berth between trips, as the fish market is now based there having been moved from Ayr a few years ago.
The fleet has been cut drastically too since I last sailed, due to the unnecessary rules brought out by the European Union, supposedly for the benefit of the fishermen, but has done more harm than good, which is not unusual of any ruling brought about by them.
The whole structure of the boats have changed since my day, utilizing every inch of deck space, while becoming broader and higher to accommodate a safer working environment and labour saving machinery, plus the fact that most of them are being built of steel now instead of wood.
While leaning on a railing that surrounded harbour, my mind went into another world as the familiar smells of my past began to invade my brain bringing back memories, good and bad, of my years spent at sea.
I studied each boat, and as my eyes lingered over the net drums, shelter decks and other modern equipment that made the job so much easier than it was in my day, a saying I heard one of the old sea dogs come away with when I was young sprang to mind, "In my day it was wooden boats and iron men, now its iron boats and wooden men" and even though in these days there were few steel boats his words ring true of every new generation that comes along, having the benefit of more modern inventions than the previous one.
When I was young the boats appeared to me to be big and capable of anything the weather threw at them, and we were fearless every time we ventured out on another trip regardless of the weather conditions, having full trust in our boat, crew and skipper, while still having respect for the mighty ocean that could eliminate us in one foul wave.
Standing looking at them that Sunday afternoon, I realised just how small and vulnerable they were when I knew what they went through in comparison to the peaceful setting of the safe haven there were in now, and I am sure that most of the holidaymakers standing gazing onto the same scene as me, thought that the fishing held romance and adventure without realising the true horrors a raging sea can hold.
I knew, because I had experienced it many times, and although I had relayed the saying (jokingly) of the old sea dog down to some of the young boys that I trained, I also knew that regardless of what the boat was made of, it still took men with strength, courage and hearts of steel to man them, because as another saying goes "as long as men go down to the sea in ships" lives will always be lost no matter how safe or big you think your boat is, as the sea is more powerful than any of them as many a sailor has learned to their cost.
No matter how modern or how large you vessel is you still have to give the sea the respect it deserves, because just one small mistake can mean life or death and no matter what kind of vessel you are on, or how many people are on it with you, if you are miles away in the middle of nowhere, you are on your own with little hope of rescue.
The Titanic was an example of how disastrous things can turn out when you get too confident of your abilities to conquer the sea, and its these sad lessons that we should always remember when we DO go down to the sea in ships.

By the time I left the sea, more and more boats were of this new design pictured above, built of wood or steel, with not much to see from the outside but with plenty changes under the sheltered decks.

The best laid plans.

Image via Wikipedia

I consider myself to be a law abiding citizen but once or twice I have fallen foul of the law although not in the way you might expect, and thankfully I can look back on them with a touch of merriment rather than guilt.
It was at sea of course, where my offences took place, and my crimes were collectively by my uncle the skipper, and the crew of the "OLIVE TREE" of which I was by this time, chief deckhand.
There were two fishery protection vessels, (the police of the sea) one called "RHONA" and the other was called "VIGILANT."
The Rhona was an old relic that looked like it had survived the first world war never mind the second and still had its steam engines which burned coal, billowing out thick black smoke from its funnel that could be seen in the horizon, long before the boat became visible. This gave the fishing boats plenty warning of its presence and gave them ample time to haul their fishing gear and scarper, if they were fishing inside the three mile limit or breaking any other rule.
The VIGILANT on the other hand was a new boat built to take the place of the RHONA but as they had a wide area to cover and an ever increasing fishing fleet to police they both worked together until the country could afford another modern vessel.
Being new, the VIGILANT had diesel engines and although it movements were tracked by the fleet it was so fast that it could sometimes catch you unaware especially if the fishing fleet was working close together, as would happen when large hauls were being caught in one small area.
At the time of our first offence we were trawling, alone, and at that time it was illegal to trawl anywhere in the Firth of Clyde, the main methods of fishing being, "RING NET" (for herrings) and "SEINE NET" for white fish, the latter of which was what the OLIVE TREE participated in, but both had their lean times when you could barely make a living.
Prawns were becoming popular, especially in the European countries like Spain and although plentiful in our waters they were despised by the fishermen as there was very little profit in them, and when we were working through the deck fulls of white fish they would jag our bare hands or grip our fingers as we tossed them back while clearing the decks. We got so little for them that it wasn't worth landing them, but we would keep some of the large ones for our self and have a feed of them if we were steaming any distance.
The price of them rapidly increased once the Spaniards came across and started bidding against the local buyers, so then, trawling for them became an alternative when the white fish and herrings took off and although illegal, we all eventually were forced to do it to make a living.
It was on one of these occasions that the Rhona's smoke was spied on the horizon and as we were not only trawling we were fishing inside the three mile limit, my uncle decided to drop the gear and head to Ardrossan harbour, about one mile away, where we could watch the movements of the Rhona, then once it took off we would go back, retrieve our gear and continue fishing.
WELL! As Rabbie Burns quoted " the best laid plans "o" mice and men."
We ran the gear till it came to the end and tied it to the smallest float we had, making the sighting of it almost impossible for the crew of the Rhona to spot and steamed away to observe the antics of the sea police as they tried to find our net, sweeps, trawl doors and two hundred and forty fathom of rope each side that was tied by a thin piece of twine to our small float.
They knew we were trawling AND fishing inside the line so if they could retrieve our gear, they would confiscate it for evidence, and on the case going to court we would receive a hefty fine, and if we wanted our gear back an additional sum would be agreed by the magistrate.
We were able to watch them through the binoculars from Ardrossan pier as they steamed up and down searching for the gear they knew we had dropped, and as the skipper of the Rhona was an old hand, and knew all the tricks the fishermen got up to, he would have also known that we were watching him from Ardrossan, as on his approach he would have observed all our movements, and seen where we went, but could do nothing about his slow speed or do anything about us, unless he could find our gear.
He was determined to make an example of someone because the trawling was becoming more and more rife, and if he could catch us then he would be seen by his superiors to be doing his job, but after about two hours, frustrated, he eventually gave up and steamed away.
Once his smoke disappeared over the horizon we knew it was safe to ventured out and retrieve our gear which was an easy task for us as we could sail directly to it with the Decca navigator guiding us to the exact spot we dropped it.
Sure enough there was the small silver float we had tied our gear to, so it was just a case of hauling it aboard and carrying on with our task of catching prawns..............or so we thought.
During the two hours we were laughing at the crew of the Rhona, the tide was twisting and spinning our ropes so much so that all our gear came back aboard in one big tangled mess and between the time it took us to struggle, just to get it on board, and the fact that we had to end our days fishing and head back to port to haul it onto the pier before we could untangle it, I think the Rhona's crew had the last laugh, although they did not know it.
We had been punished after all, but that did not stop us as the prawn fishing became an important and prosperous industry to Scotland, and it was not long before it was made legal.
There were other ways to break the laws of the sea and we were caught red handed too, in an amusing way, but that could be my next installment if there are any interested parties out there.

Above is a vague diagram of a trawl net on the bottom of the sea.
The two hundred fathom of ropes I mentioned was used by us as a temporary measure before wires and trawl winches, or dual purpose winches became the norm. (dual purpose being suitable for trawling and seine netting)
The ropes were attached to the trawl doors and the sweeps mentioned were warps that went from the doors to the net. The doors keeping the net open and the sweeps allowing the allocated height of the net and keeping them a safe distance from the said doors.

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We got the call that they had caught a MINE!

The weather conditions were not the only thing to create the adventurous situations we found ourselves in at sea and if we got too many calm days on the trot we became bored but something else would always crop up to ensure we were not bored for long. There were never two days alike at the fishing, between the weather, other ships or fishing boats near at hand to distract us, a big haul of fish or something more deadly, but exciting none the less.

Debris from the war is scattered all over the oceans (planes, bombs, vessels of various kinds to name but a few) and are a hazard to fishing boats by the fact that they can damage our gear, or if it sticks hard enough (the term we use is "coming fast")we could lose thousands of pounds worth of gear. Worse still, boats like the big side trawlers of the fifties and sixties have been known to capsize with loss of life because of the sudden stop while towing at speed.
Once Decca navigators were installed in fishing boats these objects (fasteners) were marked down on a chart and we could avoid them in the future but before we knew where they were we had to come fast on them first which caused a lot of damage and expense in the early years. Before Decca navigators my grandfathers generation used land marks to pin point them but if it was foggy or the land marks, like telegraph poles he used at one of the fishing grounds were taken away they had to rethink and find new ones. (The way land marks worked was, you steamed until the marks lined up with a certain other mark on the land which gave you the position of the fastener. When you came fast you had to chose these marks for future reference, and each skipper had his own marks.)
One fine day with good hauls coming aboard, we were fishing in the vicinity of the "EXCELSIOR" a fishing boat, skippered by my uncles brother-in-law, when we noticed that he was spending longer than necessary getting his net aboard but thinking it was just a big haul of fish we carried on working until we got the call over the radio that he had caught a MINE!
As our boat was bigger with heavier lifting equipment we steamed over to assist, thinking nothing of it as mines were nothing new to us and when caught were either returned back to the spot they came from "hurriedly", or sometimes by bursting through the net, or the other option was to tow them near shore and dump them, taking the readings of where they were and the Navy would come and blow them up (if still live.) The problem was that we did not know whether they were live or not and once we got alongside the EXCELSIOR we noticed, this one did not have any prongs which was just as well because with the rising swell it was banging dangerously against the side of the boat as it hung inside the net.
We took the weight of it on our lifting equipment with the intention of making it easier for the crew of the EXCELSIOR to cut it free or bind it to the side of their boat and tow it nearer shore, but they had other ideas. As soon as we had the weight they released the net on to us and steamed away to a safe distance to watch as WE struggled with this old rusty explosive remnant of the war.
Once we managed to strap it to the side of our boat, we headed slowly in towards the shore with the EXCELSIOR following at a safe distance astern of us while my uncle contacted the naval divers to warn them of our predicament. After two LONG hours we were close enough and in shallow enough water to drop the mine to the bottom where we then steamed away as quick as possible in case it exploded on impact with the bottom.
We survived without any thanks to the crew of the EXCELSIOR and when we spoke to them ashore they (half jokingly and whole serious)told us that they kept a safe distance so if anything happened to US they would be on hand to report it or pick up the pieces IF ANY, "after all there was no point in us both being blown up." Speaking to the Navy later, they informed us that it WAS live but it was a magnetic mine so it was lucky we were in wooden boats. PHEW! Another day another dollar, another adventure, another lesson learned but one we could have well done without. On saying that fishermen always help each other as most times they are the quickest and nearest option on hand when far out at sea, having to contend with difficult situations, like breakdowns, mines or reporting the consequences when a mine blows up. (AHEM!)Ha Ha.

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My first real taste of the sea.

Image via Wikipedia

As I am delving into my sea adventures I had better go back a bit to how it all came about.
I have explained why there is salt water flowing through my veins and told about the first time I went to see how the fishing worked on the SUSTAIN, but I haven't said much about my first experiences on the OLIVE TREE.
Long before I left school I knew I was going to be a fisherman but with the SUSTAIN being sold and the OLIVE TREE having a full crew, I walked through the school gates in 1964 for the last time with some trepidation, wondering what was going to kick start my career but thinking I had the whole of the school summer holidays to contemplate it. I could not legally start work for another four weeks yet anyway as my fifteenth birthday always fell mid summer break so I thought I would have to wait until then at least, before I started to look for a berth on any of the local boats.
One week after leaving school, having settled down to relaxing with more of the same, my mother broke my illusion by telling me that a berth was coming up in a fortnight "and guess what boat it is" she gleamed. Thinking it was too good to be true, that it could be the family boat, I started to name some of the other boats I would have liked it to be but before I could reel out too many her enthusiasm got the better of her and she blurted out "NO! Its the OLIVE TREE."
I might have given you the impression that I took to the sea like a duck to water (or a seagull more like) but this was not the case as I was about to find out.
I decided to go to sea with them the following week and learn as much about the job as possible before I had to do it in earnest, so it was at 2am on a Monday morning with the wind howling from the south west that I left Ayr harbour to experience my first real taste of the sea.
The boat lurched and heaved tossing this way and that as we punched our way to the fishing grounds, not straying too far from our home port due to the unseasonable bad weather and with my stomach being totally unused to this pounding, I sat at the galley door to try and get accustomed to it as I gulped intakes of fresh, sea air between lumps of ocean crashing down around me. This continued for about an hour and a half until we finally slowed down to start fishing and as I moved away from the door to let the crew out on deck I had to hang on for dear life as the boat pitched and rolled even more because we were just lying with the engine idling until we began to shoot the gear. I took my position at the galley door again as the crew went about there business on deck, walking forward as the boat dived into the large seas that were roaring towards us and just ducked their heads as the sea crashed and sprayed all over them making me wonder how they could even keep their feet without being washed overboard, never mind walk and work without holding on.
Once the gear was in the water and the winch started, to begin the seine net process of fishing, the boat, towing through the wind, with the ropes at the stern slowly being dragged in, we steadied enough to allow me to stand without holding on, and, on seeing this my uncle (the skipper) asked if I knew how to make a pot of tea.
Keen to prove my worth, I took a step inside the galley and reached for the teapot he was holding out but as soon as the fumes from the engine, combined with all the other nauseating smells hit me, my stomach reacted immediately, sending me scurrying out to the rail of the boat where I brought up the contents of my guts and spewed them into the sea, continually wrenching until there was nothing left to come out.
Anyone who has ever been seasick will know that it did not end there, because my brain obviously did not know my stomach was empty and kept trying to get me to bring up stuff that just wasn't there, making it feel as if my guts were turning inside out. I lay, half kneeling and half standing, depending on the way the boat was heaving, and between the wrenches of my stomach I gazed with hatred at the seagulls bobbing quite happily up and down in the water without a care in the world,spreading their wings and gliding over the breaking crests with ease, looking at me with scorn as I wrenched again, bring nothing up that they could pounce on and eat.
When the net came up and the small amount of fish landed on the deck, the process for the next haul began again, and took the same course as the first, with me lying a green wreck on the side deck absolutely no use to man nor beast, but when the net came up again my uncle decided that it was too rough to be fishing for so little and announced (much to my delight) that we would head back to shore. We were running before the sea which made the passage slightly less violent so I thought I would attempt the galley once again and this time I managed to make it to the wheelhouse without any need to rush for the open deck again but my stomach never recovered for about twenty four hours after that. My uncle thought it was quite funny and told me he had to suffer that for six months before he stopped being sick. SIX MONTHS! I thought, will I ever be able to survive that? I jumped ashore to tie the mooring ropes and felt the pier move with a gentle sway, before it dawned on me that my brain was still playing tricks with me and the pier was NOT moving, it was my equilibrium trying to adjust to the Terra Firma beneath my feet again.
I went home that night and wondered if the fishing WAS going to be my choice of work and fell into a deep sleep with the thoughts of the day running through my dreams but with the salt STILL in my blood when I awoke, rested and refreshed ready to go through it all again. Thankfully that was the only time I was seasick and I went from strength to strength working my way up through the ranks rapidly, having earned my first two weeks wages before I was legally registered to work, giving me at least two weeks wages tax free.
Before I end this post I will try and explain the nauseating fumes I experienced in the galley that contributed to my seasickness.
The galley as you all should know is where the food is cooked on a boat and this one was just off the deck attached to the same casing as the wheelhouse, which is situated above the engine room. The red hot exhaust from the engine runs up through the galley right beside the cooker and out through the roof of the galley where on a stormy day salt water pours down evaporating on the exhaust which mingles with the diesel fumes coming up from the engine room, mingling with the smell of old fish, food and stale cigarette smoke that lingers behind when the crew go on deck.
My uncle new what was going to happen when he handed me the teapot that stormy day and it was his way of putting me to the test to see if I was going to be up to the job. He knew how dangerous the job was, and would rather I had chosen something safer, but the sea was in my blood and I eventually proved my worth. He successfully put his own son off, of making the fishing a career years later, by similar methods and HE went ashore never to return again but carved out a good career ashore.
Sometimes when I was being battered by seas far off shore, I would wonder who had done the right thing, my cousin or me, but deep down I knew no mater what the sea threw at me, the thrill and adventure it gave me could not be found on shore, and so, I continued, to gather up the stories that hopefully you will enjoy in future blogs.

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