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.

White horses.

Image via WikipediaThe past couple of days have seen cold easterly gales blowing across Britain which brought back memories to me of numb hands, spray from the salt water, freezing as it landed on the deck, stinging my face as it battered into me while fishing off the west coast of Scotland.

It was mostly south westerly winds that we had to contend with which blew from the open Atlantic Ocean causing huge waves to build up as they journeyed across that vast expanse of water making our job all the more difficult and dangerous than it already was, so you would think that when the wind blew from the east it would make life more bearable for us,.................. not so.

Southwest winds reach us on the Gulf Stream, coming from the region of the Caribbean Sea and although they bring plenty rain and storms they are quite warm in comparison to easterlies, as the easterlies come from the frozen Baltic climates mostly in winter bringing snow and ice.

It shows that there are hazards to fishermen regardless of which way the wind blows, as while some shelter can be gained with the wind blowing off the land creating smaller waves, these waves have what we called "white horses" at their crest which break constantly over our bows and across the deck when steaming and carrying out our tasks on deck, so much so, that we spend the day soaked to the skin with freezing water running through us even though we have oilskins and sea boots on.

The day begins in the early hours of the morning when we are about to sail, hauling in mooring ropes that are thick with ice and cannot be coiled, so we have to manage them as best as we can until we leave the fresh water of the river Ayr and reach the salt water of the sea where the ice slowly melts enough to allow us to coil and stow them safely.

The icy wind will be howling and the rigging rattling and shuddering as we plough our way through the sharp seas with spray and spindrift blinding our view at times, but with the reasonable shelter we get from the land, the seas are workable, so another day of hell begins.

Although you are not diving into deep troughs, the boat ploughs on into the sea like hitting brick walls, throwing the icy spray across the deck and when it hits your face it feels like nails being hammered into your skin, so you try to keep your head down as much as possible, but it is not so easy to do when you are among shoals of fish that need gutting and washed just like any other day.

Our hands, like our faces become leathery and hard, which is just as well, but that did not prevent the blood to stop reaching our fingertips or other extremities when it got extremely cold, leaving our fingers numb when standing gutting the fish, our feet, feeling as cold as the lumps of ice relentlessly thudding into us each way we turned, as if bullets from a machine gun were being fired at us from the constant freezing spray that showered over us and swirled around our feet.

When our hands are as cold as this you feel no pain, barely feeling the knife you are holding, so it is easy to cut you fingers which happens on a regular basis and the blood, if any, is mingled with that of the fish, so it is not until you wash your hands allowing the blood to flow freely again, once the decks are clear that you see blood pouring out of a wound that might need attention.
Our hands are always covered in cuts, the cuts are usually in the same places where the knife cuts the guts of the fish against our thumbs, or on the opposite thumb where we hold the fish by the gills slicing down its belly turning the knife back up to scoop out its innards after severing their stomachs,sometimes slicing our own fingers along with it.

Justice some might say, but as long as people want to eat fish, mankind will catch them.

Even with badly cut fingers the work goes on, and during the winter months when the easterlies blew, haddocks were the mainstay of our catch.
The haddocks fed on shellfish that lay on the seabed which meant that their stomachs were full of sharp pieces of shell still digesting in their bellies, and during gutting the shells would rub away the skin between our fingers until they too bled, and at the end of the day our hands were in a sorry state.

When your hands warmed up between hauls the blood would slowly come back to the tips of your fingers which brought pain of a different sort, not knowing whether to laugh or cry or where to put your hands to ease the agony somewhat, which was nigh impossible anyway. It was a pain that is hard to describe but if you have ever smacked an object hard with an open hand, or received six of the best with a strap from your teacher at school, multiply that pain a hundred times.
If you don't believe me and want to experience it, lift a block of concentrated ice,(not really advisable) and if it doesn't stick to your hand the blood will immediately rush to your fingers, to combat the sudden cold, creating a burning effect and as it surges to the tips it will give you the excruciating pain we went through every day when the easterly winds blew in winter.
(I was stupid enough to lift a block of concentrated ice when I was young, so I know what I am talking about.)

Gloves might have been a good idea, but they slowed us down too much when working with the fish, even so, your hands still got numb in them anyway, and as it turned out, our hands became tougher then any glove we tried.

When sailing time came again, we tumbled out of our cosy bunks straight into the icy blast of wind howling through the rigging, the corrugated iron roof of the fish market rumbling in the wind as it threatened to take flight. Our hands were stiff and sore as they had dried out overnight leaving them tender to the touch until they were saturated in water again, and when we let go the iced up mooring ropes we could hardly bear to touch them as we hauled them aboard, then out into the white horses where the torture would all begin again.

My party trick when I was ashore among landlubbers was to stub cigarettes out on my hand to show how leathery they were which always proved popular, and drew gasps from the ladies.
Yes I was proud to be a fisherman, following in the footsteps of my grandfather, and I knew I had to take the good with the bad, be it high seas with deep troughs or cold easterlies with their white horses, we consoled ourselves thinking of the warm summer days ahead, or the thought of downing a stiff whisky when we hit the pub.

I had to live and work in conditions that horrifies shore workers and in conditions that I would not be allowed to work in if the strict health and safety laws ashore applied, but then again if ever they were applied there would be no fishermen, because there is no way we can beat the elements regardless of human laws.
Most new boats have decks that are covered over in the working areas making the job much easier, but even shelter decks, though they might divert the freezing wind from your face, won't prevent the cold from penetrating your body when the easterly wind is screaming through the rigging.

I have been retired for some years now, given up smoking and trying to impress women, but my memories of those cold stormy days are still vivid, and are rekindled when the easterlies blow. Sometimes even when my hands feel cold when working at the sink under the cold water tap, I begin to wonder why my face is still weather beaten and leathery whereas my hands have softened somewhat, but you still will never get me to wear gloves, especially the yellow marigolds that the women wear.
I might not be as tough as I used to be, but I have not gone completely soft. ha ha.
I would rather grin and bear it just like the old days, and although I don't cut myself so often, my hands still bear the scars from yesteryear, a reminder to be careful when using knives.

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The shoals of cod.

Image via Wikipedia

There was still a cold winters chill in the breeze that blew off the sea on this March afternoon as I strolled along my usual haunt at Ayr beach, bringing back memories of the cod fishing around the Ailsa Craig at this time of year.

Although there was a breeze blowing the sea was calm, and had been for weeks now, something that did not seem to happen during the cod fishing when I was at sea, as I remember vividly getting tossed about every day with lumps of sea crashing down around us as we gutted cod continuously from daylight to dark, our hands freezing from the icy blast that whipped up the waves.

It was always after a cold winter that the cod were at their thickest, and as this was the coldest winter we have had for years, I was wishing I could get down to the fishing grounds to see for myself if there was any cod left to catch, as a few years ago, the European Union put a stop to fishing for them during the spawning season to try to replenish the stocks that had seemingly depleted over the years.

The cod came into the Firth of Clyde every year at this time to spawn bringing boats from all the fishing ports around the coast of Scotland to cash in on this bonanza.
For around three weeks of March the cod were at their thickest, small catches appearing just before the main flood, and then again, after they returned to the deeper water, making the season last for about six weeks in all.

Each night Ayr harbour was full of fishing boats waiting to squeeze into a space at the quay to unload their catches to the eager buyers who, although the cod was plentiful, would try to out bid each other to acquire the green gold that could make or break their year, also for the fishermen whose livelihood depended on the shoals, and getting the best prices possible for their fish.

It is hard to believe that these shoals do not come here anymore, because even though they took a slaughtering, year after year they would return in greater numbers to go through the process all over again, until one year the numbers started to decline.

The winters had been getting warmer, and we had started to catch the cod in the deeper waters where they returned to after spawning, but we always believed that there were plenty more fish in the sea, so we carried on regardless, after all we were there to make money and that was what we were doing.

As I mentioned in an earlier post, we began to catch cod with both male and female reproductive organs inside them, and I often wondered if that was natures way of making sure they survived.

The grounds around the Ailsa Craig where these cod used to shoal, have not been fished for some time now, and given the conditions of this winter I would love to be able to have a couple of experimental hauls just to see if the warmer winters was one of the reasons the cod started to dwindle, or if it was the damage caused by us that depleted the stocks so much so that there came a point of no return.



















Having kept all my hunting instincts even though I left the fishing years ago, I still think there are plenty fish in the sea, and that the cod found another place to spawn during the warmer winters, and now that we have had a cold spell just at the right time, my instincts when I walked along Ayr beach yesterday with the chilly breeze hitting my face told me the cod were there.

Whether it was just the smell of the cold sea air bringing back memories of the good old days, or my instinct I'll never know, because I'll never get to prove it one way or the other thanks to the laws of the European Union, which in this case might be good or bad. Who knows?

The yearning for these days, and their memories will never leave me, and no matter how many walks I take on a cold March day, this year or in years to come, I will be down at the fishing grounds around the "Craig" catching large hauls of cod, and there is nothing the European Union can do about that.

Cold, hard winters.

This being the last day of 2009, and with Scotland going through one of the coldest spells of weather for some years, my mind started wandering back to the first winters of my working life as a commercial fisherman.

I had started work during the warm summer months, long days working almost round the clock with only a couple of hours of darkness in our part of the world, a couple of hours to grab some sleep before it all began again, the hard slog of catching fish for a living.

If I thought the long hours of summer was to be the worst part of the year, then I had another think coming when the harsh winter of 1964 set in.

It began with hard frost in early December, with no let up all that month, getting colder each day, with ice forming on the river during the night, being broken up every morning when the fleet set sail, but also getting thicker, and more difficult to break as each morning brought temperatures well below zero, with little thaw during the day.

This being my first winter, and my sixth month at sea, my hands were still in the process of hardening up, so each time I was out on deck gutting my hands became so numb that all feeling left them, but as we had to keep on working, every deed was almost automatic, and no thought was given to how cold we really were.

It was only when we stopped for a break, a cup of tea or a quick bite to eat did the feelings return to my hands, with very painful consequences.

Firstly, as the blood began to flow to my fingertips the pain was equivalent to placing your hand into a furnace, burning and tingling with the hot blood rushing back to my extremities, making me double up with pain, and wondering how I could stop this agony, but there was nothing I COULD do but grimace and bear it every time we had a chance to heat up.

Once the blood began to flow freely again it showed up all the places where I had cut myself during gutting, my hands being so cold that I never felt my knife slice into my thumbs, or the sand from the fish wear away the skin between my fingers.
(The sand coming from inside the stomachs of haddocks from the shells they ate)

All my years at sea I had permanent cuts on my thumbs where the knife had left its mark, but as the years went on my hands were like leather so I never felt any pain.

That first year, at the end of the day when my hands dried out, they became hard, with the salt water drying into them, but in the morning they were tight and very sore to the touch until they got soaked again, so when we were hauling in the mooring ropes I could barely touch them, using my arms from the wrist up instead.

I would stand with my hands in a basin of water on the way to the fishing grounds to try and soften them, thinking it was better than the method used by the old sea dogs, which was urinating on their hands every time they went to the toilet, the toilet being whatever sea we were on at the time.
If only we had the sense to be less manly, and use hand lotion that done the job properly, and was used by the younger generations years after, who thought nothing of it.

The drying out of the hands was just like tanning cow hides, and by the end of the winter I could stub a cigarette out on the palm of my hand without leaving a mark, and the cold having no effect on them whatsoever, but that didn't stop me slicing my thumb.

It was well into the new year before the ice began to thaw, with thick flows of ice coming down the river being our next problem, as it cut into the wooden hulls of our boats, so we had to take great care when we sailed down the river, with the crews standing around the deck with poles trying to shove the ice clear as we edged slowly out to sea.

Sometimes even the mooring ropes were so iced up we could not coil them until we ran sea water over them, and on some of the coldest days even the salt water froze on deck with the spray from the waves turning to ice as soon as it hit the deck.

The fjords in Norway used to freeze during these winters, so whether it's down to global warming or not, that we don't get so many harsh winters I don't really know, I only know that the modern world seems to find them harder to contend with than we did, even though they are not so harsh, regardless of all its new technology.
Then again perhaps it because they rely too much on the new technology that they can't cope.

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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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This was a new kettle of fish. (nice pun)

We sailed down Campbeltown Loch at one o'clock on a beautiful Monday morning, the darkest hour before the dawn, as they say, the familiar lights of the marker buoys flashing on and off guiding us down the channel, and rounding Davaar with its powerful lighthouse beaming and shimmering, silvery across the rippled sea.

Davaar was the Island at the mouth of the Loch, and helped to shelter the Loch and harbour, sights and scenes I had come to know so well during my fishing career on the Olive tree, having had to use it as a safe haven many a time.

This morning was special though, I was on a strange boat with a crew I knew only from socializing with them ashore, which is completely different from working with them, and a new layout of working platform, plus the synthetic ropes to conquer (a story for another day) before I could settle down to a new routine.

An hour out to sea and daylight was beginning to break, the fishing grounds for the hake were close to Campbeltown, and as the first rays of sunlight appeared over the eastern horizon, we were ready to shoot the gear for the first haul of the day.

Not only was the boat new to me but this crew also, and the seine net fishing was a job they hated because it was hard work right from the word go, until the last fish was iced and packed, last thing at night.
During the summer months in Scotland it could mean working at sea from two in the morning until ten or eleven at night, not counting steaming times, and with the long days it could mean lying drifting between the darkening hours, grabbing a little sleep, before the next sunrise, all new and despised by this crew who were more used to trawling or drift netting where sleep was more plentiful and work less so.

The boat was like a new toy to the skipper too and as the first side of rope was almost out, and we reached the time to turn and make our bight to shoot the net, I saw a grin come from his face as he exchanged glances with another member of the crew.
As he turned the wheel hard to port the boat lurched to starboard, catching me off balance, and making me hold on to prevent myself falling on my butt.
The sheer power from the Bodwin engine combined with the higher wheelhouse had made the boat heel over as we turned full speed, and although the Olive Tree had been fast it could not match this power.
I was aware of the skippers tricks from then on and was always prepared for the lurching of the boat after that, but I was glad to see the crew had a sense of humour.

The first catch of the day burst to the surface as we towed the net up ready to haul it aboard with the hydraulic power block, and as we placed the sweeps into the wheel the big fat, air filled bellies of the large hake could be seen floating all the way down the bag.
As we hauled away we watched as they slid down to the cod end, which bulged and filled, as they packed in.
The cod end was swung round and emptied into the deep pound, situated above the engine room, and as it was brim full we started gutting the big fish straight from there, and throwing them onto the forward deck to be washed, a procedure common when working with big fish, while working with smaller types they would be boxed first, making it easier for the crew to work with.

Although the crew were good steady workers they were not going fast enough for my liking, them being used to the more relaxed pace of the jobs they had become accustomed to, which put more work onto me, and after the gear was shot again, we still had plenty to do, in the hour and a half before it was back up again.
It was when we reached the bottom of the pound I noticed the fish were getting warm, some beginning to stick to the deck, and it was then I realized one reason for their fish being condemned the week before.
Between the heat from the rising sun, and the searing heat coming up through the deck from the 500 horses the Bodwin engine was throwing out,the slow pace of the crew,(another reason for condemned fish) the fish were beginning to cook on the deck before we reached them.
I managed to salvage them all, but two large hake, and then went down into the hold to box and ice them as the cook washed and threw them down to me,the two others by this time needed at the rope bins to guide the ropes in a neat pile ready for shooting again.

I just managed to box and ice the catch when the net was up again, big silver bellies floating all the way to the cod end once more.
This time we boxed all the fish as quick as we could, and at last I saw some haste from the crew after I pointed out the cost to our pay packets if we allowed the fish too much time on deck.
Their gutting got faster but not as fast as I was used to, so it meant more work for me, but I took it in my stride and the day went on much the same, me gutting, shooting gear, boxing and icing in the hold, taking a spell at the bins now and then, non stop until the last haul was aboard.
I was used to it but I was also used to the workload being shared a bit more evenly, and never had time to think about my athletes foot throbbing inside my sea boot until it was time to rest and eat something, before grabbing some sleep.

When I lay down, every bone in my body was aching, and my foot red hot with pain, I thought to myself "this was supposed to be easier with all the mod cons, not harder" but it was not long until I was sound asleep, helped by the gentle swaying of the boat as we drifted on the tide. (not that it was needed.)
The watch during the three hours drifting had been shared by the other members of the crew, an hour at a time, allowing the skipper and me a full three hours.
At least I had been spared taking a watch, perhaps they had appreciated my hard work after all.
The Bodwin engine droned away all night but the noise faded into oblivion along with my pains, and in no time at all it was all go again.
The big fish came aboard from the start and all I could see were pound notes, with every fish that passed through my hands, which was every fish we caught, as I gutted most of them, and boxed them all, but all the crew could see was hard work.

We had less hauls the second day as we were heading to Ayr market to land, giving me a chance to grab another hours sleep after the decks were cleared during the three and a half hours steaming time.
The market at Ayr took place between the hours of five in the evening til seven in the evening, two hours in all, but it gave us ample time to get some good hauls in then go and land.
Land we did, the biggest catch of hake landed from one boat, at one time ever in Ayr,(at that time) and not one fish condemned.
The buyers knew I had changed boats and knew my fish would be in good order, hence the top prices that night, which put a smile on all our faces, and renewed my strength, plus the fact I had laid my hands on the cream the skipper ordered (ship to shore)for my athletes foot.

I had no time to visit my wife, but managed a couple of drams before grabbing another nap, and after covering my toe in cream, did just that.

The next two days ran along the same lines, with the crew going at a steady pace and me breaking my back, but the cream was working a treat even though the crew weren't, and the weather was perfect.
We landed a bumper catch on the Thursday night again, and after loading up with boxes and ice, I left the crew to moor up while I went to fetch the "docket," a statement of the prices and what we had made for our catch.
I was handed a bottle of whisky along with the docket, and told it was for smashing the port record, a big contrast to the previous week when they had half their catch condemned.
I couldn't hide the grin on my face as I held it aloft on approaching the boat, where the roar could be heard the length of the pier from the crew when I told them the news.

The neck was screwed open as soon as my feet touched the deck, it was downed among the five of us rapidly, before we hastily adjourned to the pub where we celebrated until closing time. (ten o'clock in these days)
A carry out was purchased to drink on the boat, but as the clock neared half past eleven, I took my leave and headed home in a taxi to spend a couple of days with my family before it all began again.
The Girl Margaret left Ayr and headed back to Campbeltown in the early hours of the morning once the crew had sobered up enough to sail, and I rejoined them this time at sea on the Monday morning, having hitched a lift on another boat, "The Alkaid," a boat from the east coast who fished our waters during the hake fishing, and who's crew travelled back and forth from home to Ayr by car, leaving their boat in Ayr over the weekend and left for the same fishing grounds I was headed for to start all over again.

(Try as I might I cannot find a suitable picture of a boat like the "Girl Margaret", But "The Wanderer" pictured above, a boat I sailed on in later years is the nearest I can get, although it is bigger than the Girl Margaret, but the same design.)

Bottom picture) Davaar Island, at the mouth of Cambeltown Loch

No rest for the wicked.

Image via Wikipedia

Harbours are normally known as safe havens for boats and shipping of all kinds, but sometimes things can go wrong in these places too, depending on wind direction, and the way the harbour is built, be it on a river or a walled area in a bay, or inlet of many shapes and sizes. There has to be an entrance, and with that entrance, you have to take into consideration which way winds and tides are going to affect them, some being closed during gales that blow from certain directions, making the so called safe haven a dangerous place to be if there is no protection across the entrance.

Ayr was one of the harbours built on a river with the main dock for the fishing boats, on the actual flow of the river, with one fairly large dock built to one side away from the flow to accommodate the larger cargo vessels, where coal and timber were the main freights.
The fish market was built in the sixties down along the berthing facilities where, when a heavy fishing was to be had around the waters of the Firth of Clyde a large fleet of boats would land their catches. Boats from the north east coast of Scotland all the way down to the South Firth (the South Firth being the Firth of Forth) would gather at Ayr for the cod fishing in the spring, when these large fish would come into the warmer, shallower waters to spawn. Likewise in the summer months a good hake fishing was to be had in the waters between the Ailsa Craig and the Mull of Kintyre, which also attracted a large fleet of boats mainly from the North East around the Moray Firth area.

When these large fleets were in port, after landing their catch, you could almost walk from one side of the harbour to the other, all the way down the length of the pier, so you can imagine what it was like when a North Westerly wind blew strong gusts straight up the river, creating a large swell, and sometime a strong spate to contend with, turning a peaceful river into a torrent, that rocked the fleet every way imaginable, damaging some in the process.
The North Westerly wind was the worst wind you could wish for in Ayr as it blew right into the harbour with no breakwater across the mouth to prevent the seas from raging in.
When the fleet was in danger of doing severe damage some of the boats would run for Troon, (a better harbour which has now taken over as the main fishing port on the Clyde)leaving the rest to battle, standing by with engines running all night,keeping an eye on the mooring ropes in case they broke, which happened often, and with the wind easing at dawn,and the seas calming, the boats left for another heavy days fishing, with very tired crews.

Even in port, rest was never guaranteed, we could have dodged at sea but we would still have to stay on watch, or we could all have gone to Troon, but by the time we all shifted and got moored up it would have been time to leave for the fishing grounds again.
This did not happen too often when the harbour was full, but many a night during the winter, when there was just a few local boats, we had to stand watch all night in Ayr harbour, because old habits die hard was the motto of the skippers, and while they were tucked warm and cosy in their beds at home the crews slept aboard,ready to face the day ahead even if they had been up all night.

It wasn't just heavy fishing and gales that kept us from our bunks, we had a short but happy time ashore when we got the chance, and in my younger days the only sleep I sometimes had was the couple of hours it took to get to the fishing ground, (if it was not my watch) making the most of my shore leave in one way or another. (of which I would rather not go into)(if it was my watch I had no sleep, sleep being a luxury anyway.)

One calm night on returning to the boat early enough to grab some sleep, after a few drinks, I turned into my bunk which was in the aft most part of the cabin with three other crewmen sharing the same cabin, (but not the bunk, you'll understand. Six bunks to this cabin)

They were fast asleep as I crept aboard, as not to disturb them, and managed to reach my bunk in the dark, climbed in, pulled the covers over me and began to drift into a deep sleep. Ahhh just the job.......... suddenly BANG! CRASH!.... the boat rocked violently, and before I could gather my wits about me, one of the crew jumped out of his bunk, not fully awake, shouting, WE'RE SINKING.....WE'RE SINKING, as he made a dash for the steps leading to the galley and safety. Alan, the youngest member of the crew somehow, through fear of drowning, and being wakened out of his sleep to this nightmare managed to creep in between the legs of the first man, reaching the galley well ahead of us all, taking the steps two at a time.
I, watching from my bunk, and the nearest to the point of impact, rubbed my eyes in disbelief, at the scene I was witnessing, and thought, well if we are sinking I am last ashore, but at this moment I don't see, hear or feel any water gushing in.

By the time I reached the galley the other three were standing on deck, looking at the boat that had just rammed us in the stern, smashing the planks beside our stern post and splitting our mizzenmast in two,as its bow hit it full on, but thankfully, all the damage was above the waterline.

The "UTOPIA" had come in late, and tried to moor up behind us, but when the skipper went to put the boat astern to slow it down, the gears jammed, and we were the only thing left to stop it.
Damage surveyed, and excitement over, we all turned in again, my plan of a decent sleep hit on the head again, and when sailing time came a couple of hours later, a quick repair job was done, enough to let us carry on fishing until it could be repaired properly.

The job is hard enough when you get sleep, and when your night is disturbed by gales, you can accept that, or if you stay ashore until sailing time its your own fault, but when you try to be good, and turn in at a decent time, expecting to waken up refreshed, and your slumber is disturbed by a boat ramming you in the stern, you have to wonder, "why God," what did I do to deserve this.
Perhaps my question would have been answered if I thought about the things I got up to when I was ashore.
I was no angel, I smoked, drank alcohol and had many girlfriends around the ports we used to call in at, I was rough, tough and ready for anything, and ME brought up in a brethren household.
Tut Tut no rest for the wicked.
Its a true saying.
I get plenty rest now, so there's hope for me yet.

Lives at sea should not be put at risk by stupidity.

Image via Wikipedia

The Olive Tree was looking like new, just off the slip, with her fresh coat of paint, as if she was trying to impress me, and wanting me to stay this time.
Its crazy, but boats sometimes seem to have their own personality, and like certain females attract a mans affections by the way they look, their attributes (in a boats case the equipment aboard)or in the Olive Tree to me, the years we had been together, and the adventures we had been through.
New adventures lay ahead for me and the Olive Tree, but would the bond between us prevent me from straying to one of the many new or younger models of fishing boats that were beginning to take her place?

The first day back at sea after my two weeks as a safetyman driver, and what could have been classed as a holiday in comparison to what lay ahead, only brought a sense of excitement, rather than trepidation, although the excitement that lay ahead was brought about not by our doing, but by the inexperience of someone else.

Being our first day back we decided not to stray very far, so we steamed over to the "HOLY ISLE" area of "ARRAN" where there is deep water with the chance of good fishing on a day such as this.
It was sunny with a slight breeze blowing from the south west which had been constant all weekend, but the forecast told us it was to strengthen to force 9 as the day went on, so we thought if we could get a day in here, we could go to Ayr and land our catch and let tomorrow take care of itself.

Sure enough the fishing was good, and after two hauls my uncle pointed out a small boat in the distance that had been bobbing about close to the ferry lane that runs between Ardrossan (on the mainland,) and Brodick (on Arran.)
The next time we shot our gear, it took us closer, and we could see a man waving at us, but thinking nothing of it we just waved back, as small vessels of this kind sometimes ventured this far out to try a spot of sea angling.

As we were towing, the ferry passed close by it, and we could see the man waving more frantically, so once the gear was aboard, we decided to go for a look, as the wind was beginning to freshen, as forecast.

When we approached the small craft we could see the look of desperation on the mans face, and we heard him shout, "Thank God." I've been here all night,that ferry nearly ran me down, and never even seen me."
We edged as close as we could without doing any damage so we could attach a tow rope, and as soon as it was fixed the man almost begged to come aboard our boat.
The sea was starting to rise, and the little boat was bobbing about quite ferociously, but as soon as he got the chance the man grabbed our rail and somehow struggled aboard.

It turned out that he had bought the boat in Ardrossan, and had left on the Sunday to sail round to the east coast, by way of the "Mull of Kintyre" up through the Inner Hebrides (small islands off the west coast of Scotland)to the Caledonian Canal, out through the Moray Firth into the North Sea, and down to Montrose, which is half way down the east coast of Scotland.
The main problem with that was, other than the fact that the boat was only about fourteen feet, and he had no food, other than a thermos flask, and a few packets of crisps, he only had a road map, (YES A ROAD MAP) to guide him all that way through treacherous tidal currents at the Mull, and in-between the islands all the way up to the canal, not accounting for the wind that was freshening to gale force as we towed his little boat behind us, or any other hidden obstacles or drawbacks on the way, such as the engine failure he was now faced with only a couple of hours from his departure point.

He still never saw the error of his ways after we pointed all these things out to him, and when we informed him we were taking him to Ayr, (just under two hours steaming) he had the cheek to ask if we would take him back to Ardrossan, which would have been very inconvenient for us, but never bothering about us he was quite annoyed when our course never altered and we headed for Ayr.
Instead of thanking us he moaned of the inconvenience to him, until I lost my rag, and shouted. "Do you realize that we have just saved your life" "If we had not come along you would be sinking now, with not even a life jacket to save you" "Its just as well your engine broke down or you would be getting swamped at the Mull by now" pointing to the waves breaking with white water by this time..

After my outburst it seem to bring some reality back into his life, and he began to talk about hiring a lorry to transport his boat to Montrose, and as I looked over our stern his little boat was beginning to take on a lot of water, between the speed we were towing it, drawing its stern down into the waves and the rising seas.
I sort of giggled as I thought to myself, if I don't point out to my uncle what is going on he won't have a boat to worry about.

We got him safely back to Ayr and the next the next day the boat was lifted out of the water, until it was picked up for transportation the following week, probably at less cost than it would have sailing it round (especially when you take his life into consideration) and the fact that it would only take hours by land compared to over a week by sea in that little boat.
I shudder to think what happened to him once he got it seaworthy again, as the North Sea is one of the last places an inexperienced person should be carrying out, self taught, seamanship.

This was one lucky man, escaping certain death if his engine had not broken down, and for the grace of God who must have guided us there that day, so when he shouted "thank God" when we picked him up, he just might have been thanking the right person, as he never got round to thanking us.

Even experienced seamen get caught out sometimes, but they give themselves a fighting chance by having all the correct equipment aboard, Radio, check with forecasts, and coastguards, and an added protection the fishermen have is each other,as they are always in contact, working near each other, and are usually first on the scene should anyone need assistance.

The fishing boats are all over the sea, and have saved many a life by being near to the scene of what would have been a tragedy had they not been there.
If the fleet is cut down to the numbers the European Union would like, more lives could be lost at sea than there are now, something that the landlubbers in that Union never think about, having never done anything more exciting that get stuck in a traffic jam on the way to their warm cosy office.

Anyone going to sea should, at all times take the utmost care, learn as much as they can about the area they are sailing in, take proper charts to determine depths and rocks, as the sea is one of the most dangerous places to be in any weather, and although we have a great lifeboat service in this country, we should not have to call them out through sheer stupidity, and put other lives at risk needlessly.

This boat was not the first boat I towed in, (the stupidest, YES,) and not the last, but how many other adventures, would I share with the Olive Tree, as the new generation of boat began to enter the harbours and hearts of fishermen?

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"Graham" the Gannent.

Helgoland" style="border: medium none ; display: block;" width="300" height="373">Image via Wikipedia

This is just a story I made up one night I was babysitting, and after mentioning it to "sashindoubutsu" who also has a great blog http://www.snappingpanda.blogspot.com, she inspired me to write it in here. Just a story to keep you occupied until my next post on Wednesday, and one you can tell your children, or grandchildren on a cold winters night when you tuck them up in bed.

It is dedicated to my loving partner Pat, who I missed for 38 years until she came back into my life, making it possible to write the stories I now place on the Internet for all to read should they so wish.


Donald was so used to the various seabirds that flew around him when he was fishing that he never gave them much thought.
Sometimes some of the large hake Donald fished for in the summer months would escape from the net, and with the air in their bellies they would float on the surface allowing Donald and his crew to retrieve them after the net was hauled aboard.
Each fish counted, as being so large they were worth a lot of money, especially when the buyers from Spain and countries far away came to purchase them.
As soon as the big hake drifted clear of the net, the small fulmars would scurry round it, pecking at the belly to feed on the liver, and as one pierced the stomach, another would grab the liver, and gobble it down, costing Donald and his crew lots of money, because the big hake, having no air to keep it afloat would sink to the bottom before Donald could maneuver the boat close enough to rescue it.
Sometimes they could scare the fulmars away by shouting and waving their arms, but, the poor fulmars, being so hungry ignored the crew and more often than not the large expensive fish would sink from sight.
Being a kind hearted person Donald took the attitude of "live and let live" and would sometimes throw the insides of the fish he was gutting towards a sad looking fulmar swimming alone, all wet and hungry on the stormy sea that was whipped up by the strong summer breeze.

During the day as the fish came aboard it attracted the seagulls who snatched the food out of the fisherman's hands before they had time to release the guts into the water, or jump all over the deck, stealing fish here and there when the crew were otherwise engaged, or dived in flocks, pouncing on the guts that had the chance to hit the water.
The crew hated the seagulls as they were thieves who stole from them, but they had a soft spot for the little fulmars who tackled the large hake ten times the size of themselves, just to get a bit of food,all because the evil seagulls chased them away from the easy gotten food thrown away by the fishermen.

Another seabird was the graceful Gannet who flew around and around circling high above the boat when the net was being hauled, diving straight into the water at the speed of a bullet when they spied the small shiny fish swimming out of the net deep beneath the waves, catching their supper before the greedy seagulls could get them.

The Gannets have sharp eyes that can spot the fish clearly even though they are so high in the sky, and the fish are so deep in the water, but as they get old their eyes get damaged, owing to the speed they hit the water, and by keeping their eyes open as they swim deep down under the waves to catch their food, which eventually leads to blindness.

The Gannets came to nest on The Alisa Craig, an island in the middle of the waters Donald fished, and each day as the net came up the Gannets would dive deep to catch enough food to carry back to their babies tuck warmly in the nests high up on the cliff face, hungry mouths wide open waiting until their parents caught enough fish to return and feed them.
Every day each year during the summer months Donald witnessed this amazing sight, not realizing the damage the older birds were doing to their eyes, until one day he heard a thump on the mast high above the deck, and on turning round saw a Gannet landing in a clump right on top of a box of fish.
"Whats going on here" Donald said aloud as he walked cautiously towards the stunned Gannet, and thought he was hearing things when the Gannet spoke back to him saying, "please help me Donald, my name is Graham, I am old now and my eyesight is so bad that I failed to see the mast of your boat, and crashed into it." "I have two hungry children waiting to be fed, and I am all they have left." "My wife drowned only last week, caught up in a fishing net as she dived too close to the fish in the net, her eyesight failing her to." "This was to be our last year here before we flew south to a warmer climate where we planned to retire and reminisce about our happy memories of our life together up here in Scotland." "Alas it is not meant to be, but if I can only feed the children until they are old enough to look after their self, I can then fly south and spend my last days alone, happy in the knowledge that, at least I saw my little ones fly from the nest,strong enough to look after their self."

Donald, although amazed at the talking Gannet, understood, telling the Gannet that he too was retiring, in just two weeks time, and that he had a nice sixty foot motor cruiser all loaded up ready to take him south to a warmer climate where he could sail around the warmer parts of the ocean and enjoy his retirement, but he would feed the Gannet every day until he stopped working.

True to his word, Donald kept a look out for Graham the graceful dad, and grampa Gannet, making sure he had enough food for, not only his young ones but enough to feed himself too.
The day Donald retired Graham came to the boat one last time, and told Donald that the young had flown the nest, and the only food he would need was enough to give him the strength to fly south, giving him about six weeks to accomplish this.

It was then, Donald reminded Graham that this was his last day at the fishing and as early as next week he was taking off on his new adventures.
Graham, sad that he would never see Donald again, thanked him for all his help and flew back to Alisa Craig, and the empty nest vacated by his last two children, who were by now off hunting their own fish along with their older brothers and sisters, of whom, some had children of their own.
The large family were too busy foraging for food to feed their self and their young that they forgot all about their graceful dad, and grampa Graham.

Too blind and too old to catch much fish on his own Graham became quite weak, living on the few meagre scraps left behind once all the other birds had fed, until the day came when they all had to fly south before winter set in.

It was six weeks since Donald had left, and as the other Gannets began to take off, bellies full of fish and enough strength to last them until they reached their destination in the warm climate of another country, Graham tried one more dive as he spotted through his misty eyes a fish swimming near the surface.
Sploosh! Straight into the water he went for one last meal before his long flight, but all he came up with was one small fish, not enough to give him the energy to fly all the way south, and the only hope he had now was to catch something on the way.
When he surfaced, through tear filled eyes, he watched the flocks disappear into the distance as he placed the little fish between his beak, saving it,knowing it would be needed later on during his long journey.

Owing to that last dive, all the other birds had flown far ahead of him leaving him to struggle on alone, thinking, "if only Donald had retired a few weeks later."

He was a brave Gannet though, and battled on south becoming weaker and weaker as the miles went past, until nearing the equator, with his little fish eaten days ago, and now on his last legs, he spied through tear covered eyes, blinding him even more, something shinning in the water beneath him. A fish he thought,if I can catch this I might just get enough energy to last me the final miles to retirement.
The sun was high in the bright clear sky over the equator, which made his target sparkle and shine so strongly that he thought he could not fail.

Woosh! he dived down at speed just like the old times, but on approaching the shiny object, realized that it wasn't a fish after all but the sun reflecting on the bald patch of a mans head, all too late though as he crashed onto the deck of a boat.

Stunned and dazed, as he slowly opened the hazy eyes that had failed him so often in these latter years, he thought they were now playing cruel tricks on him when the vision before him cleared.
It was Donald, he had landed on Donald's boat of all places, and no, his eyes were not playing tricks on him as he soon realized, because the familiar comforting voice of his old friend rang in his ears as he rallied once more on the deck of Donald's boat.

Donald recognized him right away, and speaking in a soft voice said "I think its time we cracked open a tin of sardines before you get any worse Graham."
Once again Donald had come to his rescue, and as the boat continued south, Graham became stronger with the tinned fish Donald fed him with. As the days passed, and Graham had recovered all his strength, Donald told him that although he was now strong enough he had not to go off on his own again, and that they could travel the rest of the way together, keeping each other company along the way.

One night a fierce storm blew up, with hurricane force winds screaming through the rigging, whipping up gigantic seas, but the skill of Donald kept them afloat as they dodged through the huge waves that crashed around them.
All of a sudden the sky went black as the light was hidden by an enormous wave that towered above them, "save yourself" Fly away" Donald shouted to Graham as the sea burst over the small craft smashing it to pieces, but Graham owing so much to Donald stayed with him until the bitter end.

End it was, Donald's body was found floating among the wreckage of his boat, with a dead Gannet drifting nearby on the by now calm sea two days later.

None of them had fulfilled the dream they had set out to achieve of retiring to a warmer climate, and both of them perished just a few days away from reaching their goal, both of them had kind hearts, but that never saved them from the stormy sea.
All these years battling against the elements, both Graham and Donald, only to perish so close to their dream by the cruel sea that gave Donald and Graham so much pleasure, and had been the source of sustenance throughout their lives.

They do say though, on a clear sunny day near the equator, when the Gannets, old and young, are flying south, a bright reflection can be see from the air, coming from what looks like a motor cruiser, and the smell of sardines floats across the sea as the old Gannets with fading eyesight dive for one last meal.

Maybe, just maybe, although Donald and Graham are dead and buried, their kind hearts are there to carry on watching over the good people of this world.

So if you are ever flying over the equator, or sailing near to it, on a clear sunny day, or floating through a sea of dreams anywhere in the world, watch out for a reflection in the water it might just be them looking out for you......... but only if you are good.

Don't think of this as a sad ending because when a good person dies it means there is another angel in heaven to watch over us.
That's where Donald and Graham are.
Donald is watching over us, while Graham the graceful Gannet is watching over the birds, especially the old Gannets with failing eyesight.


The last part was added for the sake of Tricia.
http://www.thegirlwhowearsmyshoes.com/ Another touching blog.

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I saw the tail of a shark flail within the codend.

Image via Wikipedia

While writing about basking sharks last time, another incident concerning them sprang to mind, so I thought I would share it with you, and try to install some humour to the post this time in contrast to the sad story previous.

We were on the last haul of our two day trip, with a good catch in the hold, and everything, including the weather had been perfect all the way through, so our spirits were high when the net came up for the last time, as we knew we were heading home with a good pay coming, and the opportunity to grab a couple of hours in our cosy beds at home before we had to set off again.

When we towed the net up ready to haul it aboard the cod end burst to the surface again, although there didn't seem to be as much fish in it as the previous hauls.
Not giving it much thought we continued heaving the wings of the net until we reached the bag leading to the cod end, and on seeing a large black area further down my heart sank as I thought we had torn the net, which would have meant me having to spend most of the time mending it on our way ashore.
As we carried on the suspected hole in the net seemed to be moving down instead of coming out of the water, until we saw the tail of a large shark flail madly as it tried one last desperate attempt to escape.
At first I was relieved that the net was OK, and then I realised that this shark must be over fifteen feet long, and was going to cause us plenty trouble before we could release it from the net.
When the cod end came alongside the tail of the creature reached far above the safe lifting rings we used to judge, and lift our catch aboard, so we had the problem of whether to attach a rope around the cod end and let it slip down far enough to bring up the end, allowing us to reach the cod line, which we then could open, and let the shark AND all our fish away, or heave everything aboard from both ends using our two derricks, saving our valuable catch but having the problem of what to do with the shark.
My uncle decided on the latter, and after a tremendous struggle we finally managed to heave everything aboard, releasing our catch on the deck, and the shark, which covered most of our side deck.
It was practically lifeless, so we worked around it getting the catch cleared up, tidied, and scrubbed the boat in preparation for landing, then set about the problem of the shark.
At one time shark fishing was a profitable industry, so my uncle decided we would land it to see how much it was worth now, and as was usual, when something untoward happened in a fishing port, a large crown had gathered on the pier.
My uncle had called ashore to alert the buyers and salesman of our uncommon addition to the evening sales, and of course the word spread like wildfire, creating this crowd, who, normally got in the way of any task we were carrying out, but this time they were going to come in handy for once.
We tied up alongside the pier on our starboard side, with the shark lying along the deck on the port side, in full view of all the spectators, and as we landed our fish it was quite amusing to hear the remarks of some, as they tried to guess the size and weight of it and others, discussing the ferocity of these creatures, (basking sharks being harmless with no teeth) but little did some of them know that they would have a better chance to guess it's weight and ferocity when we came to land it.
By this time the local newspaper "THE AYRSHIRE POST" had arrived on the scene with a photographer in tow who immediately began to snap away, getting some good pictures of our basking shark. while the reporter attempted to interview us while we weighed our catch, and ran back and forth into the market, breathless, carrying seven stone boxes at a time, in preparation for for the sales.
We turned the boat around, putting the port side to the pier to make the discharging of this monster easier, and with a rope around it's tail, engaged the winch and began to heave it up towards the harbour wall, but our landing derrick wasn't high enough to clear the wall so the shark had to be lowered again until we figured out another way to deal with it.
One rope round it's head where it would grip, then lead it down to it's tail and tie it round there, then attach the hook to the middle of the rope, would solve the problem and with the crew pulling it ashore it would land on the pier no bother...........we thought.
Success, it lifted and cleared the wall no problem, but we didn't bargain for the shear weight of it as we tried to pull it towards us. We managed to pull it about two feet before it swung back, nearly pulling me and the other two crew into the water, so as it swung, suspended at the top of the derrick we utilized some of the the men from the crowd, adding another then another until there was enough helping hands (about ten) to finally land this beast.
The struggle over, and the salesman ready, the potential buyers rallied round to view this object that was on offer, but much to our disgust no one even bothered to put a bid in, and just wandered round it nonchalantly to get a closer look, then strolled off again. It was then that we knew our next task would be to dispose of it on our way back out in the morning.
We did get our picture on the front page of the local newspaper that weekend with our tale of woe to go along with it, but the reporter never got to know about the last twist of the tale, ( no pun intended)
We had an old Polish man aboard (Frank) who had been with us for years and had even sailed with my grandfather, settling in Scotland after the war, but he wasn't the brightest button in the box, and when it came time to tow the shark back to sea to dump safely where it would not be caught again, he supplied the last amusing part of the story.
The rope was still around the shark, so it was just a case of tying the end of it to the boat, pulling it gently off the pier until it was safely in the water, and setting off.
I jumped ashore and let our mooring ropes go, then threw the rope attached to the shark aboard, where it was caught by Frank, then I jumped back aboard and began to coil the forward mooring rope when I heard Frank shout to my uncle "OK Alex, away ahead." Its a good job my uncle looked out of the wheelhouse window before he did so, because Frank was standing with the other end of the rope wrapped around his hands, instead of tying it to the boat.
Not realising that he was about to be pulled overboard with the weight of the shark holding fast to the pier and the forward surge of the boat, he thought it was just a case of holding the rope in his hands and letting go when we reached the place it was to be dumped.
Ah! If only the newspaper new the full story, I thought as we headed safely out to sea with the shark securely tied to the boat and Frank safely down below out of the way.
We would know the next time we caught a shark to let it go, as it would have been better to release it along with the other fish saving us a lot of hassle, even though it's carcass might have caused a problem for some other poor fishermen.
The only consolation for our trouble was making front page news in the local paper, which brought us neither fame nor fortune, but would have made a bigger splash if Frank had got his way. (pun intended)

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