Insights of Nostalgia

My new command

2011-11-20T03:58:00.000-08:00

This is the little boat I have purchased to relax and fish for fun in perfect sunny weather for a change, instead of having to battle with the elements as I did in the past.
She is only 14 feet but she is big enough to handle on my own when launching and retrieving to the trailer at the end of the day.
Hopefully I will manage to acquire a permanent mooring at Maidens for the season which will make it even easier for me.
The adventures might not be so enthralling but I will write about the fun I have.
She had no name when I bought her so I have named her "CHASCA" after the Celtic goddess of the dawn and twilight.
As I have, albeit against my wishes been called DON it seemed appropriate when I came across her name.
I am sure Chasca the goddess will protect her namesake and all who sail in her.
You are welcome to read about our adventures together when the time comes, so catch us here when the winter months have passed.

Reflections

2011-09-13T03:25:00.000-07:00

Image via WikipediaSince I have been back at sea albeit in a small way thanks to an old shipmate of mine I have had a strong urge to buy a small boat of my own.
It is only to go sea angling, a sport I thought I would never do as I thought of all the boring hours spent waiting for a bite. ........... Well that was the impression I got watching the fishermen every time I passed them sitting at the side of the river that flows through my village.
They just seemed to sit there hour after hour swiping the midges away while staring into the water, and never once have I seen any of them landing the fish they were after or spoke about while standing in the pub with their arms extended as far as they could go.

After experiencing the sport first hand at sea, with fish biting so constantly it was hard to keep up with them and of course the bad times when all we did was stare at the ripples gently rocking the boat, and its distorted reflection in the sea as we swayed back and forth.
It made me do some reflecting of my own of the good times spent seine netting and trawling in good times and bad, but never boring, then I realized that far from being bored I was actually relaxing and enjoying myself with no worries of having to make a pay at the end of the trip.
My mind could wander over past big catches and Robbie and I would sometimes seem to be thinking the same thing when one of us would recall one of the adventures we shared together.

We did not need to worry about storms anymore, we had done that, got the T Shirt and worn it out, all we had to do was to bob about on the sea at our leisure and hope a bite would come along and disturb our thoughts.
After all we had been through during our working lives you would think we would want to get away from that kind of life but no, we were both born and bred to the sea and it never releases its grip on you.

Even as the tail end of hurricane KATIA roared through southwest Scotland I sat at Dunure harbour watching the small boats swing violently in the storm, tearing at their moorings as the swell from the raging sea outside surged into the confines of their safe haven.

Even then the reflections in my mind went back to the days when I would have been out battling the storm instead of being a restrained spectator watching from the shore.
Thoughts of punching through the mountainous seas that I was observing, and turning on the broadside to haul the net among spray, heaving decks, and wind screaming through the rigging as it tried to throw us off our feet wasn't enough to put me off, it only kindled my longing to be back out there.

Sadly for me those days are long gone along with the able body and my health.
These hindrances will not permit this willing mind to go through it all again, so I will have to content myself with a rod over the side reflecting on days gone by as I watch my reflection distort on the calm seas I have to settle for now.

As for adventure and excitement, well it might not come close to what it used to be, but its better than sitting at home writing about it, and you never know, someday that big one might just take my bait and I will have another story to tell you.

Hopefully not about the one that got away.

Life saving changes.

2011-06-15T01:15:00.000-07:00

The black and white photo above is in this years calendar printed for "Scottish Fishermen's Organisation LTD.

It is in for the month of June and I have been looking at it every morning when I come to my computer.
The boy standing aft is me in my teens on the family boat Olive Tree which at the time was a modern fishing vessel, but each morning this month as I look at it I always notice something that has changed drastically, none more so than the life raft.

The oblong box on the galley roof just aft of the wheelhouse is where the life raft was situated at the time, which meant that if the boat was sinking two men would have to clamber up there to release the raft.

Their first task when they reached the wooden box would be to unhook the four hooks at each corner that held the lid fast, dispatch of the lid, grab hold of a handle situated on each side of the bag the raft was encased in and haul the heavy object out.

The rafts in those days were not made of the light materials modern day vessels carry, but of heavy waterproof canvass type stuff covering a heavy rubber compound and encased inside a canvass bag which made the task of removing the bag difficult in the best of conditions, e.g. when it was taken out in the harbour when its yearly check was due, and its survival contents renewed. (food chocolate tobacco flares etc.)

This was done when we went for our annual overhaul of the engine and a paint to smarten the boat up for the summer fishing, and I had to struggle along with another strong member of the crew to get the raft out of its box, then lowered onto the deck for collection with the help of our lifting derrick. It was then that I thought, what chance would we have if we were in a raging sea sinking, or on fire?

Time would be of the essence, a matter of life and death situation, and our task would be to struggle to get this heavy life raft into the sea which would have been our only chance of survival.
Clamber on top of the wheelhouse go through the motions I just described, then we had to tie a cord to a secure point on the sinking boat and throw the raft into the sea where on its contact with the water the cord should have by then been pulled with the throw and automatically opened and inflated the raft.

If by that time we still had some of the boat to stand on, or for that matter still alive, we then had to try to get on to that raft.

Many lives were lost because of the conditions I have described, with some but a few saved, where conditions might have been more favorable.

Thank goodness for the progress on vessels of today where the raft or rafts (some have and need two) are situated in easier accessible positions, made of lighter materials, and all you need to do is release the plastic casing with a quick release clip and throw.(A long cord was already attached to where the raft had been secured on the boat. This of course was needed to haul the raft into a position that would enable us to board it.)
The raft inflates in seconds, has a roof and provisions, as did the old ones, (minus the roof, which would have added even more weight) in case rescue was delayed for some reason.

The new ones also sends out a signal that can give your position and in some cases even inform the coastguard which boat is in distress.

That to me was one of the more important changes, not only to the fishing industry, but to all mariners who have had to abandon ship.

More emphases is put on safety every year on all types of craft, but to me when I look in horror at the box above the galley, I am so glad that we never had the misfortune to need its contents as I might never have been able to describe the most important life saving change I witnessed during my time at sea.

One thing to remember is that lives will always be lost at sea no matter how safety conscious we become as we will never tame the sea and there will always be a need for the brave men and women in the rescue services who never let us down in our time of need.

A big thanks always goes out to them.

I never thought I would end up as pin-up boy on a calendar. ha ha.

You can make out the new type raft in the first photo, just forward of the wheelhouse, and there would most likely be one on the side opposite.

Click on the photos to enlarge them and give you a better view.

Quite a contrast.

How times change.

2011-04-25T07:31:00.000-07:00

I placed some photos in "http://www.trawlerpictures.net/index.php," a sight where I can go to view pictures from the past and present of fishing boats that can usually conjure up memories that had been lying dormant at the back of my mind for years.

After receiving a comment on a photo I placed in it, of me throwing the dhan away while I was on the Olive Tree in the sixties, with the seine net ropes stacked on the deck from stem to stern on both sides, I had to think again of the changes I saw on the boats during my time at sea.

The guy had remarked on the ropes, and the work involved in stowing them, and how hard the work must have been for us in comparison to the present day and his time at the seine net.

We went from standing at the coiler in all weathers watching the ropes pile up underneath it, then haul them away and stow them along the deck, or if we were among fish, running between the coiler while gutting and washing fish, lowering the baskets into the hold, and in some cases where I was concerned, jumping down the hold to box and ice them, to reels that hauled and stowed the ropes for us.

On the odd occasion, cog wheels in the coiler would break and we would have to coil the ropes by hand until the net came up, them we would have to take the coiler to pieces and fix the broken part before we could continue fishing.

At the time we never gave it much thought, as it was all in a days work then, but as I have mentioned in earlier posts, I did used to imagine some of the new inventions and methods that came along which made the job much easier.

No longer are the ropes manhandled or nets hauled by hand, nor are the crews, in most of the new built boats at least, working on open decks.

There are still breakdowns and the crews still have to do as many repairs as they can manage, as there are no garages or engineers out there that they can call into to get things fixed, and a long steam home to get repairs done means wasted fishing time.

When I was at the sea and some of these changes were taking place, although welcomed, we took the progress more for granted, like watching a baby grow. The stages came one at a time, or in some cases when you crewed on a more modern boat the equipment was there and although accepting the benefits you never really took much notice of the change as you were among it all the time.

It is only now, when remarks are made, like the comment in regards to my photo that I can look back in amazement at just what we really went through in comparison to the fishermen of today.

The boats are all closed in, and nets are either hauled by power blocks or net drums, but when I look at the size of nets that are worked now, there is no way we could have hauled them by hand.

The modern equipment has allowed the boats to work bigger and heavier nets, the shelters over the decks have made it safer to work in rougher weather, but the danger from the sea still lurks, and boats and men are still lost.

We did used to get heavy objects in the net, objects that were not only too heavy for us to haul the nets, but also dangerous objects like bombs left over from the wars.
In these cases we would improvise and fleet the net up feet at a time with our lifting derrick which could take hours, depending on the sea conditions and if a bomb or mine appeared we would have to either cut the danger away and take the Decca readings of it, or tow it into shallow water, dump it and alert the Navy who would then send men out to blow it up.
Either way, hours of fishing, or at worst a whole days fishing, plus the net would be lost, costing us a fortune with no compensation coming from anywhere, only the hope of good catches for the rest of the trip to make up for it.

I can visit harbours now or look at photos on the websites and be amazed at the boats now, but I never think, we had it any harder then, because no matter how modern the fishing gets it will never be an easy job.

I can remember my uncle saying to me one day as I moaned while struggling to keep my feet on the deck as I coiled ropes by hand, sea spray thudding off the back of my head and knowing we had the coiler to fix as soon as the net came up, "I don't know what you are moaning about, in the old days the crews had to coil the ropes by hand every haul."

Aye the old days were always worse I thought, but it wasn't any consolation to me at the time, nor will it be any to the boys who still have to go through hell to put fish on our tables.

The only consolation we get or in my case got, was the fact that it was my calling, I loved the job, the adventure each day brought and the variation each day threw at us, be it breakdowns, bombs or big fishing, rough seas or smooth, we were never bored.

I don't know how much more modern equipment, or how many more changes will come and improve the fishing industry, but I do know some skipper in the future will say these words to one of his crew when things are getting him down, "I don't know what you are moaning about, you should have seen what I had to go through when I was a boy!" and the rookies at night will listen in amazement to the tales the old boys will spin of days gone bye,

Some things never change!

Top picture. ( Me at the seine net posing. Open decks, fifty foot boat.)

Bottom picture. (The Zenith trawling all enclosed decks, bigger boat.)

2011-03-20T07:57:00.000-07:00

Image via WikipediaAlthough I was quite happy being a postman the adventure part of it left a lot to be desired.

Being bitten five times by dogs, or struggling about in deep snow to deliver the Queen's mail feeling like the last pony express, with the slogan "the mail must get through at any cost" ringing in my ears as I evaded another dog bite or snowdrift, was nothing in comparison to the thrill of punching into a storm in the dead of night with white crests towering above the mast seconds before they came crashing down around you.

The secure relatively safe life of a postman with terra firma beneath your feet, and a steady wage coming in at the end of the week might seem to some people quite idyllic in comparison to rolling about the ocean and holding on every time a lump of sea thundered into your boat drenching everything in site including you.

Not me I was born and bred to the sea and as I drove and wandered around delivering mail I used to recall the days of true adventure on the high seas and thought of the way the European Union had spoiled it all for future generations of fishermen who will probably never be able to capture the large amounts of fish in one haul as we used to do during the cod fishing at this time of year thanks to quotas that have become too restrictive and unnecessary in most cases.

Yes its March again, the month when the cod would come to the Firth of Clyde in large shoals to spawn in the warmer, shallow waters around the Ailsa Craig.

Cold winter days with biting winds howling from morning to night, seas rushing over the deck as we toiled,gutting cod for hours on end, making the most of the good catches to be had while the going was good, because when the cod left to go back to deeper waters the Clyde seem to empty of all other types of fish and a few lean weeks lay ahead of us.

Changing over to trawling for prawns was one option, but we used to tie the boat up and give her a good overhaul and paint in readiness for the summer fishing which would be the next opportunity to make big bucks.

In between times we made a steady living, except for the few weeks after the cod, so all the punishment was worth it when the bulging pay packets landed on the table in front of us.

All the freezing cold hours, hard graft, cut fingers and horrendous conditions were forgotten about as the aroma of beer hit our nostrils when we walked past the extractor fan on the pub window and the thought of a cold pint of lager being placed in front of us that would wash all the salty taste from our mouths and a whiskey to take the chill from our bones.

That was our excuse anyway if we ever needed one, but the first one certainly went down well and hit the right spot every time.

I had plenty of adventures to look back on during my then dull life as a postie, and nothing could or will be able to compensate for the sea.
It seems that you, the readers think the same way by your response to my last post, so if it is sea adventures you want to read about there is plenty more to come.

AH! Thats more like the thing.

After one post about the Royal Mail I have decided to look out my oilskins again and relive more tales of the sea.
If only I could have altered course so easily then I would have been very happy and more content but it was not a viable option at that time
All you faithful readers will be pleased to know that one post was enough of the Royal Mail for me too, so you too can look out your oilskins for the next post.

The Royal Mail? Well that was "The last post."

A postman's follies.

2011-01-23T08:22:00.001-08:00

Image via Wikipedia

I thought I would give you a rest from the fishing and save the best of these stories for my book that is three quarters finished.

I worked as a postman for ten years after I left the sea, so here is some tales from those days.

After working the long hours at sea I used to tell the postmen who complained about their job, that I considered it semi-retirement, it being easy with an eight hour shift in comparison to the dangers and long trips at sea.

In my first year I was to learn that certain dangers occurred at work for postmen too, (And women. Better remember political correctness.) although not producing the more serious consequences that the fishing held should you become lackadaisical while carrying out your duty.

I started in the village of Patna where I had lived for about fifteen years and knew every nook and cranny of it due to the compactness of it,or so I thought, never realising that I had to do the outlying part (farms etc.) with a van, but with training I managed to pick it up pretty quickly.

It took time to perfect the job, boxing in all the mail and delivering it to the correct addresses and the correct streets, plus delivering any parcels after the mail had been dispatched, but as the weeks went on I became very efficient and my confidence grew.

I would hurry my rounds, working out of the van which meant I never needed to carry any heavy bags, not that it would have been any problem to a strapping lad like I was then, but I was glad of the bag on this particular day.

I was scurrying around as usual quite relaxed when I approached a door that I knew a large dog lay in wait to snatch the mail from my hand, but the owner had placed a box behind the letter box, more to protect his mail rather than protect the postman. I always used to laugh to myself at the thought of the dog growling frustratedly as it attacked the back of the door so violently that at times I thought it might manage to barge through it and get to me.

Anticipating the usual melee behind the door I skipped down the path with a twinkle in my eyes, when all of a sudden the Alsatian dog charged from the back garden of the house and was upon me in a flash.
All I could do to protect the private part of my body that it had lunged at with teeth bared and saliva drooling was to put the mail bag in front of them for protection.
It seemed to work but after a savage bite at the bag it took another lunge and grabbed my leg just missing the vital part I had just protected, and it was only when the owner appeared and called it off did it let go and run off.
My defensive instincts turned to anger and the smoke began to steam out of my ears as I stupidly chased the animal down the path from whence it came, swearing to kill it and its owner if I managed to lay my hands on them.

With the dog locked safe in the house again (not sure if it was safer for me or the dog at the time)I turned my anger at the owner who threatened to report me to the post office manager.
"ARE YOU STUPID!" I shouted, "I am reporting you and your dog to the management and you will be lucky if both of you are not put down, the dog with the vet and you by me!"

That is the mild version.

With that I returned to my van, and it was then that I saw the blood seeping through my trousers, so I made a hasty retreat to the local post office to report the incident myself.

Jim the postmaster there, was on the phone when I entered and lo and behold it was the owner of the dog complaining about my language, and while listening to him, tried to calm me down as he had observed how angry I was and knew the cause of my anger was at the other end of the phone.
When he got off the phone he told me to go the the doctors for a tetanus injection and not to worry about the owner of the dog as it was him and the dog that was at fault.
Well, worrying about any threat from them was the farthest thing from my mind but I did calm down by the time I reached the doctors, and with the evidence from the bite on my leg for the doctor to witness, the police paid the owner a visit.

I was told by them after, that a dog is allowed one bite and if it repeats the deed, only then will it be put down.
The wound healed fine after a couple of weeks but the deed festers inside me to this day, and I detest dogs. (My apologies to responsible dog owners.)

I blamed the owner as much as the dog and once I had calmed down I never really wanted the dog destroyed. As for the owner weeeeeeeell I had to think hard about that one. ha ha.
You would have thought it would have taught me to be more careful in the future, but during my first year as a postman I was bitten five times of which I might divulge the details to you next time, but you will understand why I was not over the moon when my niece announced recently that she had purchased a puppy as a pet for her children. ha ha

Puppies grow into dogs and postmen become a hate figure of them simply because we invade their territory,or so they tell us during training, but it is hard to convey a message to a dog that is hanging off your leg that you are only trying to deliver a letter to their owner.

Nowadays its usually junk mail or bills that is delivered, so who can blame the owners now, if they allow their dogs to chase the poor postman who, after all is only doing his job, a thing the owners should remember, including my niece,if they love their dogs, as the consequences could be grim for both the postman and their dogs.

As for my temper...................MY BARK IS WORSE THAN MY BITE GRRRRRR!

Top photo (Me in my postman days with a budding helper.)

Gentle summer breezes.

2010-12-23T03:44:00.000-08:00

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.

2010-11-09T01:04:00.000-08:00

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.

For those in peril on the sea.

2010-09-28T01:52:00.000-07:00

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.

Beautiful visions of nature

2010-08-12T04:46:00.000-07:00

I have been reminded of the Perseid Meteor shower that the earth goes through every year, will be at its peak tonight, and that the Southwest of Scotland will be one of the best places to see it.
It just so happens that I am one of the lucky ones who live there and will be looking skyward from 11pm onward to witness once again the wonderful sight nature gifts us with when this event occurs.
It is not very often this part of Scotland has clear enough skies that allow us to witness the spectacular show, so I will be making the most of it.

The first time I witnessed this wonder of nature was when I was at the fishing, on the "Replenish," tailing prawns, well into the night, in the middle of The Irish Sea and it was by chance that I looked towards the heavens just as an array of shooting stars (dust particles as small as a grain of sand) flew through the darkened sky. I watch in amazement as each particle burned up producing tails of light across the sky, hitting our atmosphere at 135,000 miles an hour, although I never knew that at the time.

We were just in the right place, on the right night, away from light-polluted cities and towns that could clutter our vision, and reduce the spectacle of this marvelous sight.
Only us, the calm open sea and the stars above.

Stars above, shooting stars, that gave us the most brilliant display of astral fireworks I have ever seen, and it was from then on that I took more of an interest in the night sky, and what was really "out there" which led to my blog, "unfeatheredangels" now well on its way to being published as a book.

This particular meteor shower is caused by earth passing through the tail of the comet "SWIFT-TUTTLE" which leaves particles of dust and debris in its wake as it travels speedily ever onward in its orbit so far away from us, but will return next year to amaze us all again.

I was fortunate to witness many of natures wonderful sights when I was at sea, like fantastic, romantic sunsets where silver and amber beams shone through clouds of gold,above an island that appeared to rise out of the sea on the distant horizon.

(With no one to share them with, except a motley crew of men. Ahhhhh)

Beautiful sunrises, shining deep red behind pink fluffy clouds, reflecting varying shades of lilac on the slight ripples stirred on the sea by the warm breeze whispering across it on a summer morning.

The fishing had its good points, and even on stormy days or nights, mother nature could still dish up some extraordinary visions in the sky, although we might not have appreciated it then, our attention most likely being focused on survival at the time, battling against the more formidable side of mother nature and only realizing what we had seen afterwards.

I have these visions in my memory, to treasure all my life, and tonight when I watch the stars shooting across the sky, my thoughts will return to the night I first saw them whizzing overhead in the darkness high above The Irish Sea.

In the footsteps of my grandfather.

2010-07-13T00:51:00.000-07:00

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.

Relics of the Scottish fishing industry

2010-06-08T23:35:00.000-07:00

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.

The dreaded overhaul.

2010-06-01T03:00:00.000-07:00

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.

Man the pumps.

2010-05-03T00:35:00.000-07:00

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.

We all have our callings.

2010-04-21T02:46:00.000-07:00

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You would think that with my love of the sea I would have settled down in a little cottage overlooking it so I could spend my retirement gazing out forlornly and recall my adventures to any willing ear that happened to pass by.
Not so, I live ten miles from the sea on the edge of a little village next to a pine forest, which provides me with beautiful scenery as I watch the landscape change with the seasons.
Not quite the thrilling life I was used to but it provides me with the peace and tranquility, (without the distraction of the sea) I need to write my tales of adventure to any willing eye that cares to log into my blog, and to write at my leisure the book I promised myself I would write, if only for my own satisfaction.
Any other interest would just be a bonus.

However back to the story.

Its at this time of year when the kids burn the grass, a thing most young ones do in their youth, but when I did it, it was in places where no damage could be done.
Here,in this village when they do it, forest fires can be started.
The shepherds or herds as they like to be called here are used to burning the old grass to bring forth new shoots for the spring lambs, (burning the mares) the mares being the thick tufts of grass resembling the tail of a horse that need to be thinned out, and that is supposed to be where the young ones are supposed to get the urge to do it, but I think it is just a natural thing young ones do never thinking of the consequences.

Anyway, last night the mares were set alight, and with a strong wind blowing the flames towards the forest it wasn't long before the fire tenders arrived to put them out.
It only took them twenty minutes but that twenty minutes saved what could have become a raging forest fire.

As I watched the fire engine pass my window on its return to the station, I recalled when I was a boy living next door to a fireman which might have encouraged me to become one when I grew up, especially when I was given the chance to ring the bell one hot Sunday afternoon when we passed the fire station and the doors were wide open.
I was only about seven years old and the family had been out for a stroll enjoying the sunshine after church when our neighbour spotted us walking past and invited us in for a look round, lifted me up into one of the tenders and pointed to the strap that was attached to the bell and told me to ring it.
Needing no second invitation I grabbed it and began thrusting it back and forth.
CLANG! CLANG! CLANG! The noise could be heard all over the town of Ayr, and the folk passing by thought the engines were ready to race out to a fire, but smiled when they saw it was only a little lad clanging the bell, the envy of any young boy.

Another time, our neighbour happened to have stopped by his house on the way back from a fire, and just by chance when he was leaving to return to the station, I was leaving my house to catch a bus to school.
"Going to school" he asked, "hop in and I'll give you a lift."
I had to be lifted up, too small to hop in, but I could see out of the window, and waved to some of my school chums who were heading for the bus, and after being dropped of at the school gates I was the talk of all the school, teachers and pupils alike being the envy of them all, having lived the dream of most young boys, whose ambition it was to become a fireman when they grew up.

Today the fire engines have changed dramatically with sirens replacing the bells,what was referred to as the fire engine is now called a tender,and now with females in the service, both the males and females are referred to as firefighters, but regardless of my experiences I never once wanted to go down that road.

My ambition was always to follow in my grandfathers profession and be a fisherman.

Having achieved that I never once regretted it, loving every storm, every beautiful sunset and sunrise, taking the good with the bad, living the dream I carried with me throughout my childhood, leaving the firefighters to fulfill their calling, and the teachers who envied me then, to ponder on what might have been had they followed their dream, but then again they are fulfilling their calling, albeit, maybe their second choice, but it wouldn't do if we all worked at the same occupation, as some of us are only meant to dream of what might have been, while carrying out some other form of work, which are all equally important, when it comes to keeping the wheels of life turning.

Breaking the law.

2010-04-02T00:51:00.000-07:00

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In the seventies so much herring was being caught thanks to new methods of fishing (mainly pair trawling and purse seine netting) with modern instruments in the wheelhouses that showed the skippers where the spots of herring were, how deep they were and gave images of their nets capturing the spot leaving no escape route for the fish.
This was a boom time in all methods of fishing with great prices being paid by foreign buyers coming from Europe and Russia, with Russian factory ships lying off the west coast for weeks salting and curing herring until they were full, then head back to Russia while another would take it's place.
Mackerel too were heavily fished in this way but never reached the same high prices as the herring.

So much fish was being caught that the powers that be decided to close the North sea to herring fishing for five years and the west coast for three.

This meant that even the seine netters like the "Wanderer" (the boat I worked on at the time) would have to dump any of that species if we happened to catch them.

Sometimes it was hard to escape spots of herring when fishing for white fish especially as the herring were not being fished for by the herring fleet, allowing them to multiply rapidly, which was the reason for closing the fishing in the first place, although there was no immediate signs of any scarcity of them.

During the time when the herring came into the Firth of Clyde to spawn all the fishing fleet from prawn trawlers to seine netters like us, could catch anything from ten to fifty boxes a day and were supposed to dump them back into the sea where, once being towed inside our nets for hours had no chance of survival, so instead of throwing them back to feed the seagulls and gannets we would land them on the quiet out of sight of the fishery officers who prowled the harbours during landing times.

One day we hauled our net to find it full of good sized herring, about eighty boxes in all, a good haul at the best of times, but the thought of throwing all that fish away at the cost of around a thousand pounds was too much to even consider so we kept it aboard and I boxes it in the forward part of the hold to try and conceal it.

We steamed away from them for an hour and shot our gear again hoping to catch white fish this time, but once again it came up with a good haul of Herring, so once again I boxed them forward in the hold and hid them behind empty boxes and some full boxes of white fish that had been caught earlier on in the trip.

We had a good catch of white fish aboard before the herring started interfering with our trip so with the hold almost full, albeit mostly with illegal fish we steamed for the harbour to land.

Sure enough the fishery officer was on the prowl, and much to our dismay jumped aboard our boat as soon as we were tied to the quay and asked to see what was in the hold.
Confident enough that the herring were concealed we opened the hatches and as I looked down onto the floor of the hold from the deck, all I could see running down, thick and white the length of the hold was milk (sperm) that was seeping from the male herring, a dead giveaway.

The fishery officer never mentioned it and climbed down the ladder behind me when I entered the hold in preparation to land.
As he looked aft where the bulk of the white fish were stacked, his back to the hidden herring, he remarked on the good catch we had and was pleased that no herring were among them, chatted for a short while then climbed back out again, and went ashore quite happy.
I scratched my head in amazement wondering how he never spotted the milk on the hold floor, or even asked to see the fish in the forward hold, and I still wonder to this day why we were not nabbed.
We landed the herring at night, straight on to a lorry when all was quiet, or supposed to be quiet anyway as ten to twelve boats were all waiting to do the same thing.
The buyers would purchase our fish and send lorries down at night when the fishery officers were off duty, load them up and whisk them away to their factories where they were prepared for their outlets the next day.
The herring were sold at a cheaper price than would have been had they been sold in the markets and bid for, but the rewards were greater for us, as all the money from our contraband was split evenly among the crew, tax free.
"Stoker" we called it, which was managed in some way every week but never in such abundance.

The fishery officers eventually became wise to our game and would patrol the harbour at night, making it more difficult for us, but we always found a way around it by landing at harbours that had no markets but enough room for a lorry to come alongside the quay where we lay and load our catches that way.

In recent years, boats who tried to flaunt the quota laws have been caught and given heavy fines, lucky to walk away with their fishing licences intact, licences that never existed in the seventies but now every boat has to have one, and log every fish that is caught.

All the fun has gone out of the job, and the Klondike days are gone, the fish are getting scarcer, and who knows if it was the illegal fish landed or not, all I know is that I had fun when I was at sea regardless of all the rules.

The adventure is still there, the storms still have to be contended with, and the fish will recover, as the fleet has been cut drastically, I only hope that there will still be a Scottish fleet to enjoy the bonanza when they return, and the European Union has not damaged it enough that only foreign boats are left and allowed to plunder our waters, and clean them up the way they ruined their own.

Broadcasting and copyrights then and now.

2010-03-13T09:52:00.000-08:00

Musicians (pop stars mainly) are complaining of lost revenue, due to their music being downloaded from the Internet, but copying music is nothing new, as pop songs were recorded onto tapes during radio broadcasts in my day.

To try and counteract these measures, Disc Jockeys were either told to talk over the start of the songs, and cut short the endings, or maybe it was the Disc Jockeys collaborating with the artists to safeguard their copyrights.

Either way it was a complete nuisance when we were recording the songs, but it never stopped us, and if you were sitting playing your tapes in the car with the window open, people walking past could never be sure if it was the radio or the tape deck that was playing the music if, on recording we never pressed the stop button before the DJs voices could be heard. It was all a matter of timing, and if you were willing to put up with the DJs voice, then it didn't really matter what was being said over the music as long as we had the main part of the song blaring for all to hear.

DJs still talk over the songs they play, but it wasn't always that way, so it's thanks to my generation that we still have to put up with their gibbering even though tape decks are almost a thing of the past.
I say almost, as I still copy some songs from the radio, and play the tapes on an old player I have at home, but I can no longer go to the beach, open a window and blast out the top ten from the comfort of my car on tapes I made up, as it only has a CD player, and although the car is only four years old, the said CD player is all but out of date already, before I even got round to making any discs.

The pop stars of today are facing the same problems as the stars of old, only this time the Internet does more damage, so I do sympathise with them, although they still make enough money to keep the wolves from the door, as did the stars of yesteryear.

I have no wish now, to copy in any way the songs that adorn the charts these days, as I think the old ones are the best, and I have already copied all of the the ones that I wanted.
There are a few good songs still coming from this generation but they are few and far between, so I'll leave all the copying to the younger ones, and let them worry about copyrights, but I am sure of one thing, no matter how many new ways of transmitting music comes along, and no matter how they try to safeguard it, someone will always come up with a way to overcome it.

Hopefully the new ways of broadcasting will provide us with a way of listening to the radio without all the needless banter over the music from the DJs, and we can go back to the days of old when you sat down to listen to the radio, and heard all of the songs that were played, then got the dedications for the next song from the more subdued DJs.

The shoals of cod.

2010-03-09T07:04:00.000-08:00

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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.

A painful reminder.

2010-02-28T09:04:00.000-08:00

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One day when we were fishing off the lighthouse that serves the south eastern corner of Arran, warning the many ships on passage to, or from the Clyde ports of the danger from the island "Pladda" which lies close to the shipping lane, we were contacted over the radio by the captain of a passing coaster who wondered if he could get some fish in return for some whisky.

These ships are called coasters because their routes mainly take them around the coast of Britain, sometimes travelling to European ports, but never venturing too far afield, across large oceans, although they are big enough to do so.

This particular ship towered above our small fishing vessel, but kept a safe distance from us even though the sea was calm, while he waited until our haul of fish was aboard.
The fish we were catching that day consisted mainly of whiting, with a few boxes of large cod and the odd plaice through them, which was all adding up to a good days work.

It would have been about mid-day when this event took place, giving us a welcome break from our routine of constantly shooting, hauling and clearing up one lot of fish just before the next lot came aboard, so when the exchange of whisky for some fish came, the offer was hard to refuse. Not that it would have been refused at any other time, as I am sure you know.

Once the net was safely aboard we edged as close as we could to the waiting vessel, keeping just enough distance between us to allow their crew to lower a rope down to us where we had a basket of mixed fish waiting for the rope to be tied to then hoisted up, emptied, and returned with the whisky.

Sure enough when the basket was lowered back down to us there was three bottles of a good malt whisky (Ballantine's) in payment for our fish.

Great whisky! We all adjourned to the galley where we all indulged in half a mug of this amber nectar before carrying on with the rest of the days fishing.

AH! It was a good dram, heating the cockles of our hearts, putting a glow on our cheeks and giving us an energy boost to continue. (I'll call it that anyway.)

As soon as I was back on deck I delved my hands in among the fish to pull out any large cod and put them into separate boxes from the smaller fish to give us a better idea of how much quality fish we had.

Just as I came across a big cod, I felt a sharp jag at the tip of my middle finger on my right hand, just under the nail, but thinking nothing of it I carried on, as quite often we would get jags from the barbs that grew on some of the species we caught, like the gurnard.

Our hand were always leaking blood from somewhere, between cuts from our knives, or scrapes and punctures from the defensive armour of fish like the gurnard who had spikes coming from various parts of it's body, and spikes that I had often experienced jagging into me.

When the working day came to an end and my hands began to dry out I could still feel the niggle from the jag I received, and on examination I could see a black dot under my skin which meant the spike had broken off, so I tried to squeeze it out but to no avail.

Usualy this does the trick, but as half a day had gone past the skin had started to cover over the wound, trapping the spike under my skin, so my next move was to cut around the spike and try to squeeze the, by now very sore and irritating intruder in my fingertip.

Nothing worked, the spike seemed to go deeper instead of coming to the surface, so I gave up and turned in for a good nights sleep, but that too was disturbed by the throbbing of my finger, and even after getting up during the night to take some pain killers I still could find no comfort from the pain.

I worked all the next day with it, and as the day went on the pain seemed to ease, probably due to the coldness of the water my hands were constantly in, then we were off ashore to land our catch, and as my hands dried out the pain returned with a vengeance.

After we landed and everything was ready for the next trip, I took myself up to the outpatients department at the local County Hospital where my finger was x-rayed only to be told that the x-ray showed nothing, and there was nothing they could do, but the throbbing in my finger told me otherwise.

It was a week later, at the end of the next trip, after getting little sleep through the pain from such a small spike, that I visited my own doctor, who on examining the source of my pain decided to freeze the whole finger and cut open the tip with a small scalpel.

By this stage I would have let him operate without freezing my finger, but he insisted, and after three injections he decided that my finger was numb enough to begin.

He started with small slices, working his way in, creating as neat a hole as I have ever seen, until I jumped, withdrawing my finger from his grasp as I felt the scalpel touch something.

The doctor poked away with a needle for a couple of seconds at the spot that had made me jump, then withdrawing it showed me the offending spike.
It was barely visible on the tip of the needle, but there it was, the smallest thing you could imagine, but none the less had caused me no amount of pain.

As it turned out, the small tip of the spike had lodged itself beside a nerve in my finger, which had caused the throbbing pain, and the relief was immediate as soon as the offending intruder was removed, even though my finger was still numb.

It was hard to imagine how such a small thing could cause so much pain and discomfort, and it brought to mind the story of the little boy who removed the thorn from a lion's foot, with the lion being so grateful he befriended and looked out for the little boy from then on in.

Well I can tell you,I now know how that lion felt, and that I felt the same way for the doctor who relieved me of my pain, although I did not go as far as looking out for him from then on in.
Someone who can carry out such a delicate operation with such skill and understanding of his patient needs no help from a lowly fisherman such as I, but he is still practising at the same surgery that I go to, and as long as I live I will always be grateful to him.

I carry a small scar on that finger, and it is a reminder that it does not need to be the big things in life that can give us the most problems, sometimes it's the smallest irritations that are the hardest to bear.

(The Wanderer was bigger than these punts seen in the top picture, as you all know, but I just thought I would show you a photo of a coaster.)
Any old excuse to show boats, now the whisky......just savour that too.

My fifteen minutes of fame.

2010-02-15T13:29:00.000-08:00

Once the Wanderer was up and running with all the trials out of the way it wasn't long until we started breaking the port record time and time again, so much was her catching power. The experience of the crew, also contributed to the feat, because without a good crew, no matter how efficient the boat and skipper is you will not have success.
The local paper "Ayrshire Post" wanted to do a feature about the fishing fleet that worked out of Ayr, so who better to sail with for all the information they needed but the top earner of the port.

We were sailing at midnight during the summer hake fishing,so the Ayrshire Post editor sent a reporter and a photographer out with us for a two day trip to get enough information to fill the centre pages.

Sure enough right from the first haul coming aboard it was obvious that there were plenty fish to be had, and with just a gentle breeze blowing, the boat was only rolling about slightly, but not slightly enough for the photographer.

As soon as the breakfast was dished out and he entered the galley, he immediately turned around and was seasick over the side, which brought back memories of my first day on the Olive Tree, only I had been out in a force ten gale, this was just a breeze, but the motion affects people in different ways, so I did have some sympathy for him.

As the day went on he felt better and began taking photos of the crew, trying to relate the photos to the story the reporter was writing which helped to take his mind off the slight pitching of the boat.

We had a bit more fun with him when a Gannet hit the mast and landed on the deck when we took it over to him and told him to take a photo of it, and with the Gannet's beak snapping away he took off into the galley dropping his expensive camera among the fish he was about to photograph, giving us a good laugh at his antics.

The reporter, photographer, and camera survived managing to do a good job and two weeks later our stories and photographs were plastered across the middle pages as promised.

It surprised me somewhat just how many people who knew me had read the story, and approached me about the spread, the following weekend when I was ashore.

An old headmaster who I hadn't laid eyes on since my primary school days spied me and stopped to talk, asking all sorts of questions about the story and my job, telling me how proud he was of me, tackling such a tough job, and being so successful at it.
He had also come from a fishing background, but chose to teach, and never knew I had a similar background, and salt water flowing through my veins until he read the story.

That was just one example of what happens when you get your fifteen minutes of local fame, I seemed to bump into people who I had not seen for years, and of course a conversation would start about the newspaper article.

National fame beckoned,(or so we thought) during the winter when a TV station was making a serial which needed filming done at one of the main trawling ports, with a good catch being landed, one of their main priorities, to make it realistic.

Ayr not being a trawler port as such, made do, being closest to their studios, and with us landing that night they were guaranteed to get the large catch they needed to make it look as if it was filmed at a port like Aberdeen.

Word reached us over the radio, before we entered the harbour that they were there and wanting to film us coming in, our catch being landed while two actors walked past talking to each other.
Then the next scene was in the fish market where our fish lay spread out waiting to be sold, with us still running in adding more boxes.

All the filming of us consisted of the boat docking, "where the crew all posed" we weren't asked to but we did, weighing the fish and running into the market with the actors standing waiting to buy them, then even more filming of us when we were loading the empty boxes and ice aboard for our next trip.

We were at sea when the program reached the TV screens, so we made sure our partners recorded our acting debut for us to keep and show friends and relations in the years that were to come, something even more for my headmaster to be proud of, if he happened to watch it.

The first chance I got I put the tape in and settled down to watch, glass of Bacardi in one hand and my cigarettes at my side for the hour long program.

The scene where we entered the harbour came up quickly, but it wasn't the Wanderer that docked, it was another Ayr boat that was built of steel and looked more like the trawler they needed.

When the two actors walked past us it was filmed in a way that blocked us out, and even the market scenes showed no signs of our crew, only a few harbour workers and the salesmen.

The only fame I had from the filming was the large catch of hake waiting to be sold was all boxed and iced by me, and nobody but me and the crew would ever know.

Ach fame is not all it's cracked up to be, just think of the amount of times I would have got stopped in Ayr if they had shown us posing needlessly as we docked, and if the headmaster was content enough with the write up in the Ayrshire Post, then so was I.

(top photo) is a picture of me taken by the Ayrshire Post photographer after I had pushed about a dozen baskets out of the hold, then he asked me to pose with one. Hmmmmmmm.

(The next photo) is just to give you an idea of a fish market during sales.

You can't keep a good man down.

2010-02-03T02:18:00.000-08:00

So much for the threat from the skipper of the Girl Margaret, that he would see to it I would never work at the fishing again, his ego was bigger than his capabilities, as I was offered a job immediately, on a spanking new boat "Wanderer 2" that was due to be launched at the beginning of 1976. Meantime I filled in my time working on one of the top earners that fished out of Ayr "The Terra Nova" until after the launch, making more money at home than I was on the Girl Margaret, so much so that the skipper of the Wanderer kept coming down to make sure I was still wanting to sail with him.

This new boat "Wanderer 2" was more than I could have wished for when dreaming of improving catching capabilities, as it had every mod con a fisherman needed for the job, and was seventy feet in length, with every inch utilized to the full, plenty deck space, and plenty room in the fish room to hold all the large catches we secured in the years to come.

One of these large catches consisted of the "dogfish species" I wrote about in my last post, and in this case we caught over two hundred and fifty boxes in one, two hour haul at the seine net.

The dog rope I mentioned in my last post, is a rope that is attached to the cod end, and runs along the length of the net to the tip of the net wing, where we can reach it as soon as the net surfaces, allowing us to handle any such heavy weights like this haul of dogfish, or the bombs I wrote about in earlier posts.

This was our second haul of the day, having caught sixty boxes of dogfish the haul previous, but when this lot appeared we knew we had a different task on our hands getting them aboard than we had before, as they were crammed in tightly all the way down the bag.

Dogfish have very rough skin, and if you run your finger along it from the tail up, you are in danger of drawing blood, as it is capable of cutting into you, also they have two very sharp pointed spikes on their back behind each fin which can penetrate deep into whatever part of your body it happens to come into contact with if you are not careful, the only consolation being, if any, they have no teeth.

The fact that their skin is so rough makes it harder to run them down the bag into the cod end, and there being so much bulk of them this time, it was impossible to move them, so after hauling the first lift aboard with the help of the dog rope, the rest were stuck fast all the way up the bag, with no way of maneuvering them into the cod end for another lift.

We were fortunate that it was a beautiful, calm summers day, or the weight of the dogs would have burst through the net with the surge of the sea. We were also fortunate to have lifting derricks both forward and aft, the one aft used while seine netting, and the forward one placed there for use if we ever went to the herring fishing.

We were lying drifting with one end of the net in the power block, and the other on the deck where the empty cod end lay with no way of filling it, and in between, a mass of dogfish that if landed to the market would fetch enough money to cover our expenses and give us all a very good wage.

The only option we had was to lift the cod end high on the forward derrick, and secure the other end of the net to the stern of the boat as best as we could, then cut the net on the middle of the bag, just enough to let two crewmen stand on the mass of dogfish and throw them aboard manually.

The first two to try it was the youngest members of the crew, who were the lightest among us, also the most foolish, or gullible given their inexperience, did so willingly with a rope tied around their waist, and fastened to the boat..........just in case the net DID burst under the water, and there was a sudden evacuation of dogfish, and men from the net.

This trick worked fine, and as we emptied the bag, by this time taking turns inside the net now we knew it was safe, the catch was soon mounting up on the deck where they were washed, thrown down the fish room and boxed.

By the time we had about half of them aboard, we managed to strap the bag up along the side of the boat between the aft, and forward derrick, and bring the remaining catch to the surface, but still they wouldn't run down the bag, so we had to keep cutting the net, throw the fish onto the deck, temporary lace (repair) the hole we were cutting in the net as we went along, making sure we were safe enough standing on the solid mass of dogfish, and as the day was quickly passing we had begun to steam slowly towards Ayr, to try and catch the market before it closed.

It was quite amazing how well the task went, and we all survived without anyone of us plummeting to the bottom among a shoal of dogfish, but we all did bear the scars of the spikes as they frequently jabbed into us during the procedure.

Not one dogfish escaped, and by the time we reach Ayr most of them were boxed, with the remainder being boxed during landing, over five hundred boxes in all, for just two hauls, but two hauls that took all day, and well into the evening before we were cleared up, ready to mend the net, and sail back to where we caught them.

When the first haul of that next day came up we were all glad to see that it was a pleasant haul of white fish that broke the surface, fish we could handle without standing on top of them while they were still in the bag.

As for the dogfish, we either caught them all that day or the rest scarpered, after seeing the fate of their chums, as we never saw that kind of bulk in one haul again.

The story in the last post happened a few years later, but it never proved to be as difficult as that day, there being less dogfish, and not so crammed into the bag, which allowed us to run them into the cod end after each lift.

The memory of my experience on the Wanderer did enter my head that night on the Boy Peter, and although I suffered with jabs from the spikes, the ordeal, even with the shortage of cigarettes, was nothing in comparison, but the stories are ones I thought I would share with you, letting you know the lengths fishermen go to, and the other dangers they put themselves in to land their catches.

Top photo (The Wanderer in her first year. She was updated on a regular basis with a shelter deck added, and rope reels replacing the original rope bins. Had the shelter deck been added at that time, it would have made our task much more difficult.)

Second photo is of "dogfish" but not swimming in shoals of the amount we caught that day. ha ha.

Old habits die hard.

2010-01-27T23:29:00.000-08:00

It's at the turn of year when folk try to alter their habits, by making resolutions to stop smoking, drinking, or lose weight, and even as early as now, in the last stages of January, most of them will have fallen back into their old ways, but it took me back to a time in my life when I was a heavy smoker.

I smoked anything from sixty to eighty cigarettes a day, took my chance to have a good drink when the opportunity arose, and ate heartily at each meal.

I never put on much weight as my calorie intake was burned off quite easily with the hard graft of my work, and the reason I smoked so much was down to the hours we worked, spending most of my time on deck, risking life and limb, with very few hours sleep, hence the excuse to have a good dram whenever we could.
"Well,if we really needed an excuse that could have been it." lol

Never, at any time did I ever think of giving up any of my vices, including some I haven't mentioned here, and as far as cigarettes were concerned I always made sure I had more than enough when we set off on a trip, which is more than can be said for some of the shipmates I sailed with.

The incident I am writing about happened when I was crewing on a boat called the "Boy Peter," and we were fishing in "The Minch," a stretch of water separating the Outer Hebrides from the mainland, of the west coast of Scotland.

It was only our third day at sea, and two of the other crew had already run out of cigarettes, so knowing what it was like to go without a smoke, I gave them a cigarette now and then to tide them over until we landed in Mallaig, the main problem was that the fishing had been poor so we did not know how long it would be before we caught enough fish to warrant a landing, and the skipper being a non-smoker, was only concerned about making it a profitable trip, and didn't care either way whether we ran out of cigarettes or not.

With me helping the boys out of their predicament, my normally plentiful supply was nearing its end too, and I was becoming very concerned, because it was a long time since I had run short of cigarettes, and it might be a long time before we could purchase any more.

As luck would have it, after a four hour tow during the night the net came up with a large haul of dogfish, (about a hundred boxes.) I say came up, but that is the wrong term to use when speaking about dogfish, as they are so heavy in the net that it sinks as soon as you stop towing the net to the surface, unlike white fish that float the cod end.

We were rigged up for such an event as it was prawns we were fishing for which also are heavy in the net, and with a dog rope attached to the cod end (no connection to dogfish we were working with) we began to bring the fish aboard. During this time the skipper was in touch with the office ashore, to try and find out what the market was like, and when the word came back that it was favourable, we knew our cigarette famine was only going to last for another six hours, because as soon as we emptied the net we would be heading for the market in Mallaig.

An order was relayed ashore to have a carton of cigarettes (two hundred in a carton) waiting for us on our arrival, so with a bit more piece of mind I shared the remaining cigarettes with the crew, but even then, they were finished an hour before we reach land.

It might not seem long an hour, but when you are used to smoking a cigarette every ten to fifteen minutes, the withdrawal symptoms are not long in kicking in especially when you know you have no choice but to wait.

It was a more than welcome sight when the harbour at Mallaig came into view, and being smart I jumped ashore first to moor up the boat, leaving the other two aboard to complete the job, but as soon as I hit the quay the skipper was told to head for the ice factory where we could fill up, before we landed our catch.

The cigarettes had been left on the seat of the oil lorry, and gasping for a smoke I grabbed them, opened the carton, ripped open a packet, and realized that the craving had already gone,
I turned round triumphant, lifting the precious tobacco in my hands above my head to show the boys, who were stranded at the other side of the quay, below the ice chute filling ice, and lit one up blowing smoke as if it was giving me great satisfaction, but the truth be told, I never enjoyed that first cigarette.
It was an anticlimax, the desperation,the expectation, then having two hundred cigarettes in my hand, and having a smoke as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened.
Not so for the other two who were shaking their fists at me, joking, but all the time jealous of me standing there with the only thing they craved right at this minute.

I often think about that moment in my life, when cigarettes meant so much to me, and how my body seemed to turn against them years later.

It was one evening, sitting watching the TV at home, that I seemed to take an instant dislike to tobacco, with even the smell of it turning my stomach, and the ashtray that never left my side, looked filthy, and disgusting.

There was no other explanation, than my body telling me it was time to stop, as I never had any intention of doing so, even though I used to get up in the middle of the night gasping for breath, and had reduced my nicotine intake by trying weaker tipped cigarettes.

This was the man who would not leave the house with less than forty cigarettes in his pocket, and a full lighter, would never have ventured to sea without three hundred cigarettes in his kit bag, and now at this moment, the thought of one made me sick.

For the first time since I started smoking, at the age of fourteen, I was without a cigarette, as instead of what most folk do when stopping, keep some handy, just in case, I gave a packet and a half away, and never bought any more.

I did worry how I would cope when I went to my local bowling club, where I drank on a Saturday night, on how I would survive the evening drinking and not smoking, as the cigarette was never out of my mouth during these occasions, although on saying that, they were seldom out of my mouth at the best of times, but at the club I sat in a company who passed their cigarettes out constantly all night.

Strangely enough the night passed without me wanting a cigarette, and I enjoyed my evening every bit as much, but what is more to the point, I have never smoked since, and that was almost twenty years ago.

My lungs are in much better order, and I never need to go to the window to inhale fresh air into them, but there are the odd occasions when a cigarette would be very welcome, although I know I will never go back to my old ways, (Well smoking anyway) as I know how severe the consequences would be now, and I will never need to fear being stranded at sea without them, not counting the fact that I no longer go to sea either, the difference being, the sea is in my blood, and the yearning for that will never go away.

(Above is a picture of Mallaig harbour)

Freedom for a goldfish.

2010-01-19T04:17:00.000-08:00

Image via Wikipedia

One of the benefits of being a fisherman was the fact that you knew how fresh the fish you were eating was.
Another benefit was that you could take home any type of fish you wanted, and any amount within reason.
So it was, when we had parties at the house I used to take home herring, prawns, and other white fish which made our parties very popular, with such good fresh fish dishes to be had. The other ingredients that make a party go with a swing were there too, but it was the prawn cocktails,(REAL FRESH PRAWNS, not the cardboard shrimps that supermarkets, and most eateries fob us off with now) pickled herring with new potatoes and butter, and the other dishes that I remember, not only because they made great eating, but also because I had to do all the cleaning of them before my wife cooked them. (fantastic fish suppers too if requested)

My wife at the time had a sister with two young daughters, one aged five, the other three.

One day at the fair they won a goldfish, which took pride of place in their home, sitting in a bowl at the centre of the table, where the girls would spend many a happy time watching it swim round and around.

The oldest girl Lorna, one day decided that it should have a bit more room to swim about in, so she emptied the bowl down the toilet, flushed the pan and ran to tell her mum of her generous deed, thinking the fish would end up in the sea.

She could not understand why her mum began to shout at her, when she was told of this deed, and even after it was explained to her that the fish was lost never to be retrieved, she was still unrepentant.

"It's all right mum" she said, patting her mum's back in a comforting way. "Uncle Donald will catch it and bring it back to us, he's a good fisherman."

Her mum could only smile, and I can only think it was seeing some of the fish I brought home that sparked the idea off in her mind.

I did for one minute think about buying a goldfish from a pet shop to replace it and confirm my nieces faith in my abilities as a fisherman, but then it crossed my mind that this might become a regular occurrence, and could cost me a pretty penny at the end of the day so I decided to spin her a yarn. (Me being a mean Scotsman ha ha.)

I told her that it had been cooped up in the goldfish bowl for so long, without seeing its mum and dad, that as soon as it entered the sea it swam away to find them, and one day while fishing I spied them swimming side by side happy to be together again.
"DID YOU Uncle Donald?" She asked, eyes agog.

Yes I replied, and your wee fish asked me to thank Lorna for sending it back to its mum and dad, then it wriggled its tail and swam away to join all the other goldfish in the sea.

Her reply left me quite stunned and speechless when she said, "Well we will have to rescue more fish from the fair,so they can join all the other goldfish in the sea."

Now how do you get out of that?

Are there still plenty of fish in the sea?

2010-01-11T00:49:00.000-08:00

This is the time of year when the Scottish fishermen are told by the European Union how much fish they are allowed to catch for the coming year, and the amount of days that have been allocated to them to achieve their quotas.

It is another stupid ruling thrust upon us since we joined this dangerous combination of countries, with the Scottish fishing fleet suffering more than any other country.

It is disgusting that this body, who allow their own countries to flaunt the rules, are allowed to have any say in the catching capacity of our boats, telling us that we are over fishing our stocks when they have all but exhausted their stocks, and are now after ours.

The Scottish fishermen have a better knowledge of the stocks of fish in the waters they have covered over generations, and with their own livelihoods at stake, they need no telling of how to conserve stocks, from people who sit at a desk and receive a steady wage without the worry of some idiot cutting their earning capacity.

I often wondered if mother nature had her own method of conservation, as various species of fish can change their sex, which might be their way of multiplying their stocks when the shoals begin to dwindle.

As early as the seventies we used to catch the odd "saith" with both roe, (female) and milt, (male) in them, and I thought it was a freak of nature to begin with, but as more and more were appearing, it was obvious that these fish did change sex.
The scientists might have known this, but it was never common knowledge among the fishermen.

During the cod fishing I used to look out for the cod doing the same thing, but after years of fishing, and gutting thousands of cod it never happened, until one year I opened up a large cod that had one half of its organs milt, and the other half a perfectly formed half roe.

I do not know if it fertilized its own eggs, I only know both parts seemed to be working fine.
After all the years looking, one appeared, then more came along, not as many as the saith, but enough to let us know that this was no freak of nature, nature was looking out for its own.

We might have been cutting down the shoals of cod but nature was fighting back, and I am sure when the lean times come, the fish are off hiding from our nets, in some deep parts of the sea we cannot reach, reproducing in their own way until the stocks are replenished, when they will branch out again, and spread back into the waters that are fished.

Mother nature can look after her own, without the interference of humans who know very little of her resources, and the Scottish fishermen are more than capable of looking after THEIR interests without interference from the European Union.

I suppose we men should think ourselves lucky that the human race needs culling rather than replenishing, or mother nature might put our status in jeopardy. HA HA.

Top picture: (cooked cod roe)
Bottom picture: (cooked milt)

Cold, hard winters.

2009-12-31T03:40:00.000-08:00

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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Reflections

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In the footsteps of my grandfather.

Relics of the Scottish fishing industry

The dreaded overhaul.

Man the pumps.

We all have our callings.

Breaking the law.

Broadcasting and copyrights then and now.

The shoals of cod.

A painful reminder.

My fifteen minutes of fame.

You can't keep a good man down.

Old habits die hard.

Freedom for a goldfish.

Are there still plenty of fish in the sea?

Cold, hard winters.