SKETCHES OF FISHER LIFE. 1871
“If you hear the burl cry,
Let you the boat lie
Twa ebbs and a flude,
Be the weather ere so gude,”
said the ancient fathers of Cellardyke, who, long before the days of barometers and storm signals, trusted in the heaven-planted instincts of this well-known sea bird for warning of the approaching tempest, just as the country folks would say of a like ill omen,
“Sea gull, sea gull sit on the sand,
It’s never gude weather when you’re on the land”
These things, however, are only as traditions of the past to the hardy sons of St Peter of the present day, who, in the altered circumstances of the times, are called upon to face hazards and dangers peculiarly their own. The old grandfathers of the coast, for instance, fished in little tarred yawls, often built and always repaired with their own hands; but, then, they only went to sea with the morning light, and scarcely beyond sight of their own cottage doors. But see how it has changed with their descendants! Now that the last herring shoal has forsaken the shore, the cod fisher must draw his bait supplies from the haddock fishing, and for this purpose he must carry a double set of lines, leaving his home betimes on Monday morning, and not returning again until Friday or Saturday, during which, of course, he inevitably encounters all changes of the weather—now with the sail flapping idly against the mast and the scorching noon-day sun high overhead, and then with the solemn watches of the night broken by the crash of the storm, all hidden in the darkness until only revealed in the lightning flash, which, in the terror of the scenes, seems like a torch leading to death and the grave, It is of such a time as this that Skipper George Moncrieff, of Cellardyke, sings. We give the lines, as showing the noble sentiments glowing in the fisher heart, and which truly smooths a path through the stormiest sea.
When the scud it does fly
Fast over the sky,
And waves they leap high,
It is then we descry
That God is our guide,
Who o’er the storms preside.
In Him only confide
Whatever betide.
Then let us all try
To raise our faint cry,
Knowing He always is nigh,
Our wants to supply.
In the summer season the deep-sea boats usually steer for the haddock banks, with their long stretch of eight miles of lines, baited at home as in the ordinary periods of that fishing; when, after working their gear, the crew again tighten the sail to the top of the mast and take their course a hundred miles or more to the north-east of the Isle of May, when, selecting the smallest of the haddocks for bait, they cast their great lines, which are also about eight miles in length, and then after perhaps a second or third trial, make for Aberdeen or Montrose, where for the sake of the better market they frequently sell the fish before they return home.
These *‘far seas,” as our fishermen call their long fishing trips, expose them, as will be readily inferred, to great peril from a sudden change in the weather. The old fisher saw the cloud “when no bigger than a man’s hand,” and had time to fly to the shore; but the case is entirely changed when the storm is seen brewing ‘‘a hundred miles at sea,” for then, of course, it must be braved in all its fury long before a friendly harbour can be reached. This was eminently the case last week with the boats overtaken in the storm. Sea and sky only met the weary eye as it swept round and round the distant horizon, and so with the heavens blackening with the tempest cloud, the curtain of night fell on the dark and cheerless prospect as our fishers reefed their sail and prepared to fly from the approaching storm. The canvas was reduced to less than a third of its ordinary size, and yet driving before the blast the boat dashed through foam and spray like a wild beast to its lair, while the resounding air was filled with the wail of the tempest and the fierce turmoil of the waves ; and so the brave fisher watched and toiled at their posts as men working between death and life, hoping and praying for the morning light as for some blessed messenger that was to bring safety and deliverance.
The long weary hours—counted again and again —flew tardily by, but the dawn came at last, though the red morning light brought little of cheer or comfort to the poor tempest-caught mariners ; indeed, it was rather otherwise, it only lifted the veil from the face of the storm, and presented the terrific scene in all its sublime but appalling reality. Lashed by the gathering tempest, the billows in vast mountain-like ridges were wheeling and shooting like white-plumed warriors spurring to battle, and whose resistless sweep it seemed only destruction and death to oppose. “We wearied for daylight, but when it came we rather it had not,” said an old fisher, in allusion to the awful perils with which he saw himself encompassed. But still guided with consummate skill and courage the little craft sped through the storm, each gallant crew forgetting their own danger in what seemed to be the yet greater hazard of their neighbour, as in quick succession their boat would now rise high on the crest of some giant wave, and then, with half her keel bare to the eye, would plunge headlong into the trough beyond, in which mast and sail would also disappear, until the next heave of the sure would make the heart quiver as before. How beautiful are the words of the Psalmist concerning the tempest-tossed mariner— “They that go down to the sea in ships, that do business in great waters, these see the works of the Lord and His wonders in the deep. For He commandeth and raiseth the stormy wind, which lifteth up the waves thereof. They mount up to the heaven, they go down again to the depth, their soul is melted because of trouble.”
Truly many a thrilling adventure, many a hairbreadth escape, is experienced by our fishermen; often, indeed, do they stand face to face with the risky king of terrors, when help only is with the God of the battle and the storm. Here is an example from the late storm. On Wednesday morning Skipper Robert Cunningham was sitting in the ‘bunk,’ or cabin of his boat, the “Solace,” s0 appropriately named from her substantial and comfortable build, taking some needful rest after remaining for fifteen long and weary hours at the helm, when all on a sudden the boat was struck with a tremendous sea that came on the deck like the crash of a battering ram, and under which, as a hunted thing struck with a deadly blow, she staggered and reeled, and then fell over with a violent lurch as if about to sink to the bottom. A torrent of sea-water poured into the cabin, that shut out the dim and sickly light, and with it, seemingly, the last hope of life. At such a moment men often faint, or become frantic with fear, but this brave skipper only thought of the loved and loving ones at home, and in his heart bade them all farewell, “We are lost—l will die here,” he said to himself, and sat still, knowing how vain it would be there to raise a drowning cry, when none was near to pity or to save. As if by a miracle, however, the boat again righted, and the poor mariners were saved. Surely “Man’s extremity is God’s opportunity. Then they cry unto the Lord and He bringeth them out of their distresses. He maketh the storm a calm, so that the waves thereof are still. Then are they glad because they be quiet – so he bringeth them into their desired haven.”
Some crews had no less providential deliverances. One of the most experienced fishermen of the coast —Skipper James Smith- describes the gale as “the severest he ever encountered but, as it often happens, other boats made the voyage without an untoward incident of danger—these being s0 fortunate as to avoid those bursting waves which are so peculiarly the dread and terror of all mariners.
At these times the recent improvement of decking the deep-sea boats is, of course, seen to be of the most essential value. Before their introduction the sea that now washes comparatively harmless from gunwale to gunwale would have filled the boat and perhaps have sunk her to the bottom. Thus it was that in sailing their open boats it was the familiar work of the crew to take their station at the pumps, or with long scoops, s0 as to be ready to throw out the water in the event of some crested wave or “unlucky flip”—to use a pithy fisher phrase—rolling on board. This danger, as can be readily conceived, was peculiarly great after night-fall. Here is the experience of an old fisher: —”I remember,” said he, “of being once caught in a gale near the Bell Rock. It was a dark night, and every eye was strained watching betimes the heavy sea, whose white tops were the only relief to the dismal scene —all else being as dark as the grave. The gale increased to a hurricane, and the waves, as it did so, leaped higher and higher, so that the sheet could not be left for an instant. I was standing on the main thwart when I heard our skipper cry, “Men, look out,” and next instant I saw a giant wave rise high over the gunwale. I felt my heart stop within me as I heard it roaring like a savage beast towards me. I found myself in its cold and remorseless embrace which dragged me helpless as a child from my place, and hurried me along I knew not whither. A strange and awful feeling came over me. I felt myself in the very jaws of death. I have always since thought as if that beautiful text had been written only for me—”The waters compassed me about even to the soul; the depth closed me round about, the weeds were wrapped about my head.” I dared not think of life, when, with the waters still ringing in my ears, I found myseelf dashed against the forward part of the boat, when, though stunned and almost senseless, I heard one of the crew as a voice from the dead cry out,
“Courage, boys, she is rising yet, we are safe.” Such are the perils and hardships encountered by the hardy fisher while reaping the “harvest of the sea,” gathering in the inexhaustible treasures which so materially enrich our shores and increase the food supplies of the millions of our people—of the brave class who so largely add to the prosperity and wealth of the empire in days of peace, and who, when the beacon fire flickers on the hill in the hour of the battle and the storm, will, as in the times of the past, prove the strength and glory of the brave old land in manning her war-ships and driving the boasting invader from her seas, and who yet, of all our industrial orders, are strangely enough the most neglected, if not despised, but yet, nevertheless, who are distinguished by a fuller share of the true Scottish virtues of self-reliance, industry, and love of fair dealing than any such class in the country.