by Gray, Gordon
One Saturday night, early in my school summer holiday, the phone rings. ‘It is for you,’ said my mother, ‘someone called a Ship’s Husband for Hellyers Brothers in Hull?’ ‘Hello,’ I said nervously. In a gruff Yorkshire voice, the person on the other end told me to be in Hull at the offices of Hellyer Bros for nine o’clock on the Monday morning and to ask for Mr Easton as I will be sailing on the Lord Lovat. He also told me that I should stay at the Fisherman’s Mission on the Sunday night and he would fix that for me.
Panic ensues as I rush to get my stuff ready. On the Sunday, I catch the train from King’s Cross to Hull and get a taxi to the Fisherman’s Mission, or ‘The Mission’ as everyone calls it, on Goulton Street, just off the Hessle Road. It is raining as I arrive and I am shown to my ‘Cabin’ by the Mission Superintendant, who is a very cheery and friendly man in a smart dark-blue suit. ‘Here you are, lad, now you just settle yourself in, then come on down for your tea,’ he says with a smile, then closes the door and leaves me to unpack. It is a pleasant room, with a washbasin, a radio and a big window overlooking the docks. I go downstairs. Sing Something Simple, a favourite Sunday night radio programme, is playing in the big mess room. We often have this on at home and a pang of homesickness hits me as I realise I won’t be hearing it again for a few weeks. After a welcome supper of ham salad, a cup of tea and bread and butter, I go for a walk to see if I can still find the Fish Dock. It is now dark. I find the railway tunnel and emerge from it onto the Fish Dock. The docks look like a scene from a Sherlock Holmes film with the rain still lightly falling onto the deserted, jumbled emptiness of the docks and water drips loudly from broken gutters. My footsteps on the cobbled road echo round the tall, dark, Victorian buildings that house the trawler owner’s offices and workshops as I splash through the oily, black puddles on the dockside. I try to remember the Fish Dock from my earlier visit as a twelve-year-old on that sunny summer’s day as I walked along the south side. I find the Lord Lovat. She looks forlorn and depressingly cold as she lies dark and silent tied up outboard of the Kingston Andalusite. She seems so much smaller than the Cape Otranto. It seems a much more alien world than the one I saw on that summer’s day with Mike and Pete. I seriously wonder what I have let myself in for. There is still time to change my mind.
I awake early and check out of the Mission then set off nervously by taxi to be at Hellyers offices for a quarter to nine. The morning is fine after last night’s rain and the sun is breaking through the remaining clouds; everything seems brighter. The taxi takes me past the streets of Victorian back-to-back houses that cluster around the Fish Dock. These two-up two-down houses are the homes of the deep-sea trawler men of Hull. If you live there, then you are in the fishing industry. Everyone here is, or has a relation who is, a trawlerman, or who works on the Dock. The only exceptions are the skippers and owners who live in ‘big posh ’ouses out of town’. Hessle Road is the heart of the Hull fishing community and the bond between the people is so strong there that it is a world on its own, separate from the rest of Hull. They support Hull FC Rugby League team and not Hull KR from East Hull. It has been home to the port’s deep-sea fishing fleet since the 1850s, when the herring shoals of the North Sea were discovered and the fishermen from Devon and Cornwall moved up to the Humber to capitalise on the harvest. Now Hull is the biggest distant-water fishing port in the world and three or more full trains of fish leave Hull every morning for London and Leeds and other northern cities in addition to the many countless lorry-loads that go by road all over the country. I am about to enter that world.
I pay off the taxi on the end of the dock and stand with my bag and take in the scene. The Fish Dock is very much alive now, and a very different place from last night. I am back in the world I had last seen four years before and am excited by it all over again. I am met by all the smells of the place; fish meal, diesel oil, paint, tar and all the other scents of working docks and ships. Noises from everywhere compete with each other; tug hooters, drilling, clattering of chains, machinery being dragged over the cobblestones. Men are calling from ship to shore as the ships are repaired, stored and made ready for sea. I make my way along the south side of the dock past the trawler company offices. The office windows on the upper floors overlook and silently monitor all that happens on the dock. I walk past groups of men gathered round doorways and dockside offices awaiting their money or to sign on for the next trip. The tall wooden doors of a workshop entrance swing open and allow me a glimpse of the dark interior scenes, the blue flashes of welding torches, the scream of grinders and the banging and clanging as vital parts are machined and fabricated for the trawlers. The dock seems full of trawlers. Most of them are berthed two and three deep. They seem to be crammed in and the dock is bursting with them. The trawlers are painted with black hulls, though some have pale grey hulls and others are a yellowy buff colour. Some have white bridge fronts and a number have bridge fronts painted with a brown wood-grain effect, which matches the universal wood-grain effect of the paint on the main superstructures. This wood-grain paint effect, I learnt, is called ‘scrumbling’ and is common in deep-sea trawlers and smaller fishing vessels.
This is the golden era of Britain’s deep-sea trawling industry. A trawler owner only has to send a trawler down the Humber with the orders to turn left at the end and head north and he is assured of a profit, providing of course, she has a good skipper. Trawlers sail from here to the distant grounds at Iceland, Greenland, the Grand Banks off Canada, Spitzbergen and the White Sea, all of which offer a rich harvest of cod, haddock and other valuable fish such as halibut, at the right times of the year. There are people, trucks, bikes, and forklift trucks everywhere. Taxis trying to get along the dock swing round piles of gear and iron mooring bollards as they fight for the clear areas of cobbled road with trucks loaded with trawl gear and nets. Smoke and steam are rising from a number of the trawlers as crews climb on board with their bags and boxes. The black oily waters of the dock are glistening in the sunshine.
Hellyer’s offices are about half way along the dock and I find the Ship’s Husband’s Office. Mr Easton is not about so I wait, mingling with the crews. Nervousness grips my stomach again. I feel totally out of place here, a real fish out of water. After the bravado of coming up by train, now I am in the reality of Fish Dock on sailing day. The gulf between reading about trawlers in Arctic storms in magazines at home and the reality of actually being about to sail on one hits me hard. This is now reality. This is their world and I am a total stranger in it, I look it and feel it. How will they treat strangers? I am about to put myself totally in their hands for three weeks in an old trawler. The stories about ex-jailbirds being put on trawlers come back to me. Just as my imagination starts to work, Mr Easton arrives. He is a big man with a shiny bald head. It is obvious that he is a busy man. He is clearly ‘Management’ as he is wearing a suit. He walks briskly and has a stern and harassed look on his face. Before he gets into his office, people are asking him things and he is calling out sharp one-word answers as he goes into the office. He has a collection of papers in his hand and shouts at someone in the office to get a taxi to collect a Harry Marshal who has not shown up for the Loch Eribol. I must be a minor nuisance he can do without. Perhaps he won’t notice me and I will miss the ship. I could slip away and be home again by tonight. Too late: he notices me. ‘Gray is it? Got your indemnity form?’ I nod. ‘Leave your bag there then and go across to the Insurance Company and get your indemnity form signed off.’ He waves an arm towards the end of the dock. ‘Yes, Sir,’ I stammer. I find my way there and get the form signed, then go back to the office. Mr Easton is still there. ‘Now then, lad, get yourself aboard the Lord Lovat.’ He takes the time to point me in the right direction. Smoke is now drifting up from the Lord Lovat’s funnel into the blue, summer sky. ‘You report to the mate when you get on board, he’ll sort you out.’ It’s now or never. I can still just walk away and half of me wants to but the other half drags me towards the unknown. I set off across the dock
side chaos and clamber onto the Kingston Andalusite then across her deck to the Lord Lovat. I try to look as though I climb over trawler’s high bulwarks with a kit bag every day of the week, and fail.
Lord Lovat at St Andrew’s Fish Market on the day after she docked.
Once on board I find a big, fattish man with sandy hair standing watching me. ‘And who are you?’ This is the mate standing on the deck waiting as his crew arrives. ‘Gordon Gray, I am a pleasurer for this trip. Mr Easton said to ask for the mate when I got on board.’ I mention Mr Easton’s name as though it will entitle me to an upgrade. Unfortunately, it doesn’t. ‘Well you’ve found him.’ The mate seems a big, silent sort and just smiles in a friendly way but do I catch a slight question over my sanity in his eyes? He waves his arm towards a doorway. ‘You’ll be in the cook’s cabin, down there, the cook is already on board.’ Then he turns away as someone else climbs on board. I struggle down the steep wooden ladder to the lower deck and the smell of a mixture of detergent and diesel oil comes back to me. As I reach the bottom of the ladder I can see someone standing in a cabin. ‘Excuse me, but where do I find the cook?’ I ask hopefully. ‘Come in, mate. I’m the cook.’ He is a tall (about six feet), dark-haired guy, wearing a smart brown suit and a thin red tie. He is in his thirties and with a smiling, pleasant, open manner that immediately makes me warm to him. He actually reminds me a bit of Russ Conway. He shakes my hand, introducing himself as Dave. He is the cook for this trip and he starts asking me what trawlers I have been on before. ‘None,’ I reply. ‘Oh Hell, we’ll have to start from scratch with you then.’ I am a bit puzzled. Dave carries on chatting and tells me that he is often referred to as Big Dave on board as the mate, who is also called Dave, is fatter and is known as ‘Fat Dave’, though never to his face, he warns. Big Dave is the regular cook in Lord Lovat and has done a number of trips in the ship. He has been told to expect a new galley boy for this trip as the previous one has ‘gone ashore’ to look for a shore job.
Just then, there is a noise from the wooden ladder and a small, thin boy in a loose, white T-shirt appears, dragging a battered old suitcase behind him. He looks round then comes into the cabin. He says he is the galley boy and is also called Dave. This is going to get very confusing! I have only met three of the crew and they are all called Dave. The cook looks relieved as he had assumed that I was the galley boy when I appeared, hence the questioning. The new Dave has already done a number of trips in another trawler so knows the job. He is a cheery sort, thin and with very fair skin and long, tousled, blond hair. I explain I am just a pleasurer and all is well. cook Big Dave then sits on the bench and fishes into his bag. He produces a bottle of rum and we all sit down on the benches alongside the bunks and he shares swigs of the rum between the three of us and all is well. I am 6 foot 4 inches and Big Dave looks at me then at the galley boy and says ‘Bloody Hell, Dave, the pleasurer will make two of you, he may even eat you if the food doesn’t last!’ We share a laugh and they then start chatting about which ships they have been on and I look around my new home. It is a six-berth cabin with varnished wooden lockers and a sack mat floor covering. There are no scuttles as it is below the main deck level and mostly below the waterline. Dave indicates that I can have the bottom bunk of two on the port side as there will only be three of us in this cabin this trip. We are due to sail at about half past ten and other crew members have come down the ladder and found their berths while we have been sitting there. The ship gives a small jolt, the first sense of motion as it is moved by the tug off the berth and into the dock ready to sail out. My stomach lurches. Too late to get off now! I really want to be up on deck but the two Daves are chatting and having the odd swig of rum and I do not want to appear rude and walk out. I am saved by the skipper. He sends a crewman down with orders for me to go up to the wheelhouse.
The skipper is leaning against the wheelhouse front by an open window. He looks serious. ‘Now then, you’re Gordon, right?’ ‘Yes, Sir,’ I reply. ‘First thing, you don’t call me Sir, or captain, I am just “the skipper”, OK?’ This is the first thing he says, as I get into the wheelhouse. ‘No, Sir, er, I mean, Skipper,’ I reply. He ignores my slip as I try and find somewhere to stand among the other people already in the small wheelhouse. The skipper’s name is Ken. He is a quiet guy, medium height and build, with thinning hair slicked back and I guessed he must have been about forty or forty-five. ‘Now then, Gordon, I never use my night cabin, especially on the fishing grounds, so shift your gear from down aft into my night cabin.’ He points at a set of stairs at the back of the wheelhouse. ‘You’ll be better off there than down aft with that lot.’ I assume he means his crew. I am feeling a bit overcome by the kindness that these people are showing me, first the cook and his rum, now the skipper and his cabin. Where are the jailbirds out to get me, the layabouts stealing my wallet? Maybe they will appear later? But for now I just enjoy the warmth of friendly, helpful people and the start of a big adventure. My earlier nervousness begins to die down a bit. The skipper’s day cabin is connected directly to the bridge by a stairway and so is better for him to get to the wheelhouse quickly when he has to. He lives in his day cabin where there is a long upholstered bench settee on which he sleeps. His night cabin is off the day cabin.
The tug is let go and we clear through the lock and move out into the river Humber. Most of the crew are now on deck, some waving and calling to pals or family who have come down to see them off. I have found out from the cook that we are bound for Iceland. Five other trawlers are sailing on the same tide, three are heading for Iceland, one for the White Sea and one of them is bound for Greenland.
We make our way down the Humber in a long straggled line. After the busy and noisy chaos of sailing, everyone seems to vanish as we go down the river, doubtless back to their cabins and their own bottles. After clearing Spurn Head at the mouth of the Humber Estuary, we round our course up to north, aiming to pass off Flamborough Head and then heading for the Pentland Firth at the very top of Scotland. The sea is calm and the sky clear and sunny. The skipper tells me that on the first day out everyone not on watch turns in for the afternoon to lessen the pain of leaving home again. This includes the skipper. Radio Scarborough is playing 1960s pop music throughout the ship as she rolls gently up the Yorkshire coast with water sloshing quietly past the freeing ports.
By evening, the crew begins to reappear. George, the Radio Officer, or ‘Sparks’, introduces himself to me. George is an affable, laid-back guy in his late forties and has been a ‘Sparks’ on trawlers all his life. He spends the entire trip in the radio room, which also doubles as his cabin and, no matter what the weather, always seems to be wearing a maroon cardigan. The Radio Room is immediately behind the wheelhouse. After chatting for a while he says, ‘Come, on I’ll take you round.’ He takes me all round the ship and shows me the layout and introduces me to the crew as we meet them. Some are still on their bunks sleeping or just lying reading. Most of the reading matter is western cowboy novels or ‘wessies’ or last week’s Sunday papers. These are only read on the way out and then not touched until they are running for home. No newspapers are ever thrown away; all papers and paperbacks are shared and passed around the crew. George takes me up to the fo’c’sle, which has berths for up to twelve men but only six seamen are sleeping there on this trip. It is now silent as the men are still asleep, apart from about a dozen empty beer cans rolling gently across the deck. He also shows me his other domain; the cod liver oil boilers. ‘When the cod are gutted, the livers are separated from the rest and put into baskets. After the catch has all been gutted, I then take the livers aft and put them into the cod liver oil boilers,’ he explains. ‘If I’m not around they keep them for me to boil later.’ The boilers are situated in a compartment on the starboard side aft, not far from the galley. The boilers themselves are two large vats about five feet high and with heavy lids that can be clamped shut. The boilers have steam pipe connections from the engine room so steam can be pumped through them. ‘It i
s my job to boil the livers, which separates the good oil from the residue. This oil is then fed off into storage tanks. I am then entitled to a share of the proceeds from the cod liver oil at the end of the trip, and every penny helps, believe you me, lad!’
At 2130 every night at sea, a radio message is sent to the owners to confirm the ship’s position and course. This is relayed to all the ships in the company and is sent in code so that other companies cannot find out where our trawlers are fishing. We pass a small Russian trawler drifting just outside the twelve-mile limit. She is waiting for nightfall so she can move inside and fish illegally. Nothing seems to be done about it and the Russians are definitely not regarded as comrades on the high seas. As we pass Flamborough Head and alter course for Rattray Head in Scotland, a small school of dolphins swims past heading south. They are leaping out of the sea and racing each other, clearly enjoying the evening sunshine.
I go back down to the cabin and take a look at my home for the next three weeks. The skipper’s night cabin, now my cabin for the trip, is wood-panelled with the bunk running fore and aft on the inside bulkhead. On the outboard side, below a scuttle, is a locker, while a cushioned bench seat is fitted to the forward bulkhead. There is a brass ship’s clock on the bulkhead and a fan which does not work. There are two scuttles, one forward looking onto the winch area in front of the superstructure and the other on the starboard side overlooking the deck. There is also a bathroom at the after end with black and white, diamond-shaped tiles and white steel bulkheads.
Lord Lovat, H148, is an oil-burning steam trawler of 713 tons and is 181 feet long and was built at Selby in 1951. In Hellyer Bros livery, she has a light-grey hull with brown scrumbling woodeffect superstructure with an ochre funnel and the company emblem of a white ‘H’ on a blue flag on the side. Her navigation equipment is basic: a magnetic compass, a radar set, a Decca Navigator and a Loran A radio navigation systems and an echo sounder. The days of gyro-compasses, autopilots and satellite navigation have not yet arrived. She is typical of the many distant-water trawlers built in the late 1940s and early 1950s for fishing at Iceland from Hull and Grimsby.
