Polar Voyages

by Gray, Gordon

  Lord Lovat off Iceland in 1970, seen from HMS Keppel as she slowly trawls downwind.

  Helping the Sparks take the baskets of cod livers down aft to the boilers, or helping chop ice down below was about as much as a pleasurer was allowed to do. It was certainly not a place to ask the crew to stop gutting and show me how to do it. They wanted to get it done as soon as possible and get back to their bunks.

  We have been at sea for over twelve days now and the morning finds us towing towards the north with Iceland away on the port beam. The ragged, blue snow-topped mountains lie along the horizon. The ship is in a happy mood because of the good weather and reasonable catches.

  One quiet, sunny afternoon, we are towing along and Big Dave and I were sitting in the crew mess having a pot of tea. The watch on deck is replacing a net belly after the last haul as the belly of the net was torn. It has to be replaced before the net can shot again and then the old belly is repaired. Dave is telling me about both the poor quality and small quantities of food that are put on board. Trawlers did not have deep freezers on board in those days so it was either fresh or tinned food, after the fresh ran out. He says there were only ten OXO cubes to cover twenty-one men for twenty-one days; only four tins of custard powder. By now, we have run out of potatoes, peas, carrots, and custard. There is some meat left but not enough to see us home and we are very low on flour for bread. Big Dave had ditched all the cabbages after three days and now after twelve we have run out of potatoes. We will probably be away for at least another eight days. How can we have run out of a basic item like potatoes? This is alarming! However, it is the lack of custard powder that concerns me most. All that is left are a few poor joints of meat, tinned steak and, of course, fish. I asked Dave if there is any chance the skipper would go into Iceland for more food and he replies without hesitation ‘No chance, but they might sack me at the end’. He tells me that Hellyers has a reputation for poor food and that no fresh fruit is ever put on board except on Christmas trips. He also tells me that he has been sacked four times from trawlers for running out of food. Is that a good thing to know I wonder?

  Lord Lovat in the swell on a winter’s day off Iceland.

  Some of the crew wander in and sit down for a pot of tea. Colin, the Spare Hand, who had been farming and is the vocal one amongst the crew, rolls himself a ciggy and starts to quiz me as to why I am there. ‘What does a posh southerner like you want to be doing on this rust bucket?’ This is a logical question, but one that I suddenly find very difficult to answer. Saying ‘because I wanted to see what it was like’ seemed very weak. I burble about always having liked trawlers and wanting to go to the Arctic. They stare at me incomprehensively. To them there has never been any thought as to going to sea in trawlers. It is the world in which they have been brought up. It was expected of them and it is what they expected to do. Equally, they cannot comprehend someone from such a different environment and background even wanting to see what it is like. They have probably never given any thought to seeing the Arctic as a romantic, faraway place of famous explorers or of getting excited by the look of trawler’s fine lines. To them it is just a job and, apart from the money, not a very good one. Why would anyone from outside the industry ever want to spend three weeks on a trawler unless they were totally mad? I am sure that this is what they think but they are decent enough not to actually say it. They change tack and ask about my school, home and whether or not I have a girlfriend. Why did I want to leave her for three weeks to come here? I could see their point. Maybe I am mad?

  I keep occupied by doing odd jobs about the ship such as painting the steering box in the wheelhouse as it was badly scratched and looked scruffy against the big, varnished, wooden-spoked wheel. I polish all the bridge brass work again, which has become my main role on board. I also try and help out a bit in the galley, with Big Dave.

  We are now drawing near to the end of the trip. Colin calls me aside on deck and says ‘You spend a lot of time in the wheelhouse, has the skipper said anything about heading for home yet?’ ‘No, not a word’. Most of the crew recognise when the end of a trip is approaching by the amount of fish we are catching and a good estimate of the ships endurance. No one says anything and the skipper certainly never gives a clue to anyone. He keeps all his options open until the very end. If for example his last haul is a bumper one he may stay and fish out the ‘Fish Shop’ before setting off. However, I did hear the skipper and the mate, discussing which market they thought they should aim at. This is the critical issue, as to land on the same day as a lot of other trawlers means low fish prices on the market while to be the only ship landing can lead to bumper prices, especially near the weekend. Again, guesswork and intelligence combine to give a best guess. Which ships sailed in the days before us and where they are fishing; what time is high water in Hull and what day of the week will our catch be marketed? These are factors that all go into the intelligence pot. Today is Saturday and they were discussing Thursday or Friday markets. To catch Friday’s market would mean docking on the Thursday morning tide as the evening tide would not give the bobbers enough time to land the catch.

  Lord Lovat from the fo’c’sle.

  The next afternoon we are towing peacefully along. Fat Dave is on watch, the skipper is turned in and most of the crew are below as the last haul has all been gutted. The cricket test match is playing on the radio in the radio room. Suddenly, the ship gives a jolt. ‘We have come fast!’ calls Dave. ‘Go and tell the skipper.’ I turn and jump towards the ladder down to his cabin, but by the time I get to the top of the ladder, the skipper is already halfway up it. ‘Stop Engines, Hard a starboard’, he yells. ‘Already there, Skipper’, calls Dave. ‘Knock out the warps!’ yells the skipper into the intercom down to the crew’s mess as the watch on deck emerge from the mess after feeling the jolt. The ship stops with the warps pointing straight out to starboard. ‘Release the winch brakes’, the skipper yells out of the window as the bosun runs forward. Slowly the ship eases round on to her track and then gently retraces them. The term ‘Coming Fast’ means that the net has snagged on an underwater object. It could be a protruding rock or a piece of wreckage. It could certainly destroy the whole net as well as lose whatever catch is in it. In bad weather, coming fast can endanger the whole ship if the net is either not cut away from the ship quickly or the ship can release the net herself. This is always the preferred action but it is not always possible. The cost of losing a complete net, trawl warps and the doors is very high and one that would need a lot of explaining back in the office. The plan is to slowly turn the ship round then tow the net backwards off the fastening, or obstruction, from the direction she towed onto it. This will certainly result in losing all of the fish already in the net but, hopefully will prevent further tearing of the net. Most of the time, it works. The loss of one haul is small compared to the cost of a complete net and ground gear. On this occasion we are lucky. The weather is calm and the net has not got itself too entangled with the obstruction. The net is hauled back in. Luckily it is not too badly damaged and the crew get it repaired and back in the water in a short time. The skipper heaves a big sigh of relief then spends some time studying the charts and marking the position of the fastening so he can avoid it next time. Then he leaves the mate to it and goes back down to finish his sleep.

  A couple of days later, we are enjoying a fine and sunny morning after a good breakfast of eggs and bacon and the ship is towing along in a calm blue sea. The crew is now getting restless to know when we might stop fishing and head for home and the tension is beginning to mount. They are certain that the skipper has made up his mind but just won’t tell them. As the pleasurer, I am quizzed almost hourly as to what the skipper might have said. They do not seem to believe me when I say he has told me nothing. The rumour is that we will be heading for home tonight. At about seven o’clock that evening I am in the wheelhouse with the skipper and we have just had a good haul of sixty baskets. He turns to me and says with a smile on his face ‘Should we have
one more tow?’ ‘You are the skipper, but why not, one more for luck?’ I reply. He nods, still smiling. At half past ten that night we haul in a catch of fifty baskets and the skipper seems satisfied. The skipper leans out of the bridge window and yells down ‘Take in the Doors.’ A cheer goes up, as that is the sign that we have now finished fishing and heading for home. The big trawl boards are hoisted inboard and secured and the nets are stowed against the bulwark. The last catch of the trip is being gutted as the telegraph rings down ‘Full Ahead’ and we set off on a course of south-south-east. The ship gently vibrates as the propeller bites into the cold Atlantic and starts to push us towards home at full power. We do not have a full hold but the skipper has worked out that, if we catch the right market, the catch we have might fetch a good price. A holiday atmosphere descends. We have been at sea for fifteen days and now are heading for home. I spend the late evening in the wheelhouse watching the sea slide by. The skipper has turned in and begins to try and catch up on his many hours of lost sleep.

  I wake at seven the next morning. It seems quiet with no winch noises or calls of the watch on deck gutting. I hear the sound of the sea rushing past as the ship rolls along, the cabin and bunk are gently vibrating and far away I can hear the deep throb of the engines. As I go up into the wheelhouse I look out and see that the south-eastern horizon ahead is dominated by a wall of rocky cliffs capped by dark mountains and cloud. ‘Faeroes’, said Roy who is on watch, ‘They are about 60 miles away.’ What a fantastic sight they are. The apparent closeness is caused by an optical illusion often seen in the Arctic that allows you to see objects much further away than you can at lower latitudes. I watch these towering cliffs through the binoculars. It is not possible to see the foot of the cliffs but the cracks and gullies on the cliff faces are plainly visible.

  After breakfast, the crew begins to break down and stow the nets. The bobbins and head ropes are detached. The washer is taken down and stowed. The sun breaks through and it turns into a fine sunny day, even so the clouds hang low over the giant cliffs of the Faeroes all day and make it seem a forbidding and dangerous place. This is not an area to be caught without power on a lee shore! The cliffs are about 1,000-feet high and drop vertically down into the sea. There is no sign of any habitation and no sign of any form of shore, just sheer cliffs straight down into the Atlantic.

  At about four o’clock we pass the Kingston Sapphire, outward bound for Iceland. She is also owned by Hellyers and we all cheer each other from the bridge. The noise brings others up from below.

  A Hull trawler fishing off Iceland, winter 1970, with ice forming on deck. Believed to be St Gerontius owned by T. Hamlings.

  By evening, the Faeroes are dropping astern and cloud still tops the mountains but the cliffs are now looking a little softer as they glow a deep red colour in the evening sun. A long north-east swell is running and seems to be giving the Lord Lovat an extra shove for home with each wave that rolls under her. I take the helm for an hour or so. I had had a couple of goes on the way up to Iceland but not with the stern sea. It is tricky getting the hang of it with the quartering sea lifting and turning the ship in spite of my efforts to keep her straight and not to ‘Chase the lubber line’. This is easily done when you are a novice and you try and steer the compass point towards the ship rather than the ship towards the compass point. I struggle and at one point Roy calls out ‘Bloody hell, Gordon will have us back at Iceland next.’ ‘Go the other way.’ I get the hang of it after a bit more practice. Several kittiwakes sit motionless on the whaleback watching the seas go by. Others hang motionless in the air alongside the bridge, letting the wind off the ship give them all the lift they need. It is very unusual for birds to sit on ships for long periods of time as they can and do get seasick.

  By now, the food situation has got worse and fish has become the main food item. A few people are starting to moan. Today we have fish again but without chips, as the potatoes have all gone. We had a stew yesterday that Big Dave concocted from whatever tins he could find in the cupboards. The flour has all gone too so there will be no more fresh bread.

  In spite of this, the work continues. The mate supervises everyone, including me, to get the ship tidied up and scrubbed clean for docking. Drums of detergent are brought up from the stores and we all set to scrubbing the passageways and bathrooms, clearing out old newspapers from the mess so that the ship will be as clean and tidy as possible.

  As it had been foggy on the way out I want to see the Pentland Firth on the way home so I get up at three in the morning to see it. On the starboard side we can see the street lights of Thurso as we get into the Firth. The skipper points out the various lights of Stroma, Dunnet, and Hoy, etc. Dunnet Head light, with its whitewashed cottages, looks very peaceful and clean. A small cargo ship looms up coming towards us. We can hear her engines throbbing as she heads out into the Atlantic but we can see no sign of life on board.

  Dawn is breaking as we round the sheer cliffs of Duncansby Head and come back into the North Sea. We feel as if we are almost home! I see the trawler that George had told me about, the one that had been washed ashore on Stroma, which I missed seeing on the way out. It is just a rusty hull now but clearly a trawler sitting high and dry on the flat rocks. As we sail down the Scottish coast, past Kinnaird Head, Rattray Head, Fraserburgh, and Aberdeen, the work goes on of cleaning and stowing everything and getting the decks and storage racks properly squared away and making the ship spotless for entering port. All the bathrooms and heads are scrubbed out and the smell of industrial strength detergent fills the ship. I ask if the ships are ever checked when we get in and am told yes as one of the managers from the office always goes round them and if they were not properly clean the mate gets it in the neck.

  That evening we find ourselves looking at about forty radar contacts dead ahead. This turns out to be a large German fishing fleet moving north. It is a very impressive sight. The Germans are regarded as good professionals in the deep-sea trawling game. Their new big freezer trawlers are bigger and, so the crew tells me, better equipped with better accommodation and better run than ours. Later that night we see the red looms of the lights of Newcastle and Sunderland over the western horizon. I wonder what people in those places are doing as we steam down the coast. Is anyone watching our lights and wondering what ship we are? I somehow doubt it. At sea you are out of sight and out of mind for those ashore.

  Today is the last morning at sea. I awake early and see Spurn Point Light out of the porthole. We are almost home and about to enter the river Humber. The water is mud brown from the Estuary and flat calm as Lord Lovat turns into the Humber past Spurn Head Lighthouse and we slide up the wide, brown river. A light summer haze lies along the fields and it seems strange to see hedges and fields again as I watch a small brown van driving along a lane by the water. The sun shines brightly as we pass Grimsby and Immingham and finally we sail by the city of Hull itself. The light mist on the land lifts to leave a fine morning and the spires of the city are standing proud of the rest of this maritime city and its history. How many ship’s crews over the centuries have returned from the Arctic to see this scene? I think of all the whalers and the trawlermen that had sailed up this river at the end of long and punishing trips to the Arctic and looked at this scene. It feels good to be back again.

  We drop anchor at Killingholm in No. 1 anchorage to wait for high tide, which is due at quarter past ten. We will be the first trawler to dock. An hour later, the Portia, a new diesel-electric powered trawler and also owned by Hellyers, arrives and drops her anchor astern of us. I say thank you to the skipper and George, and thank the skipper for the use of his bunk. He smiles and says it has been fine on the couch. He tells me to jump ashore with the crew at the dock Head and to get on my way. After packing my few belongings I go back on deck. As the Lord Lovat heaves in her anchor and steams slowly towards the lock head the rest of the crew start to emerge on deck carrying their bags but I do not recognise any of them. They have all spent the morning sho
wering, shaving and cleaning. They have changed into their smart, going-ashore suits and shining, winkle-picker shoes, and have washed and combed their hair for the first time all trip. The strong scent of after shave lotions envelops the deck. They are all chattering excitedly about going ashore and being home again; even though in two days time they will be sailing again.

  The author on board Lord Lovat, dressed up in his ‘going ashore rig’ just before we docked.

  At 10.30 a.m. we come alongside the pier by the dock Head. The Customs man jumps aboard. Colin shouts across the deck to him ‘Watch him, mate, he’s a Pleasurer and has thousands of fags in ’is bag.’ The crew laugh. The Customs man looks at me, then smiles, seeing the joke. ‘Ave a good trip, lad?’ ‘Anything else to declare, lad, other than the fags?’ ‘No.’ ‘OK, off you go.’ With that I jump ashore with the others as the tug comes out of the dock and makes fast to the stern of Lord Lovat. The only ones left on board are those needed to help get the ship towed into the dock and up to the berth on the Market. I stand on the quayside watching as Lord Lovat is towed stern first through the lock and up the St Andrews Fish Dock to her berth on the market. I watch her until she disappears behind the gantry of the road bridge and the other trawlers in the dock and feel a little sad that it is now all over.

  The catch will be unloaded by the bobbers during the night so it will be fresh and ready for the market which opens at seven o’clock in the morning. The crew will come down to the office at about ten o’clock to collect their pay, which depends totally on the value of the catch. Crew pay is calculated on a sliding scale applied to the whole crew from the skipper down to the deckie lear ner and the galley boy. As a pleasurer I was not due to get anything.