ParaHandy
Active member
Peep O\' Dawn
To add to the variety and richness of sea faring tales from hlb, my entry to the Booker Prize (non-fictional category) is humbly presented. Depending, there might be part 2 or even 3.
Disguising the characters and or time has not been done. There was only one lobster boat working the south of the island. I sincerely apologise if offence is taken. None is intended. These people were seaman, not in any romantic sense – there was nothing in their job which could be so described – but they lived to the rhythm of the sea.
She was a 50’ stern trawler based at Port St Mary Isle of Man, owned by the Quirk brothers (David & Peter), engineer Jack Quinlan with myself as “deck-hand”. The ship had a forward wheelhouse and a large clear working deck space with overhead gantry for trawling, scalloping and lobsters depending on season and the Quirks’ whim. She was a steel boat with a Perkins engine.
In the summer of 1965 we were on the lobsters pulling in a string of 36 pots north of Langness when David, with great excitement, shouted to us from the wheelhouse that a Mayday had just come over. With only half the string in, we “anchored” to the rest of the string and discussed the plan of action – or, at least, they did and I listened. For the Mayday came from a sister vessel which had hit Douglas Head and was easily within our range. Much ear pulling, furious rolling of baccy and argument ensued. Peter being the most experienced (having been a Master of IoM Steam Packet ship and whose ability to utter “fook” in a hundred different ways gave his many utterances on any marine discussion great authority) was of the opinion that if we got there quick enough, salvage was possible and with a value of c£20,000 incl Rolls Royce engine the prognosis was good. Upon that being the settled will of the ship, a decision had to be made about the 18 pots on board and the 18 down below. Bringing them all up would leave the deck occupied when it might be wiser to have it clear to load the anticipated salvage. Sacrificing the 18 or so lobsters (we always averaged at least 1 per pot) was not a decision any of was willing to contemplate but nevertheless had to be done. Peter turfed David out of the wheelhouse and expertly turned her round through 180 degrees and we prepared to shoot the 18 pots off the deck.
Now lobsters are fished through smell. The mankiest bait possible is attached to the pot’s collar. The bait is typically herring or white fish which is rotted down in brine. After which the maggots have a feast. Quite common to see the bait “walking” out the scuppers. Working as a well oiled machine – me imagining untold wealth – the pots were shot in record time (not without danger as if the trace coiled round your foot you were over and dead) and with a final glance backwards as the buoys were flung out, Peter took the throttles thro’ to afterburner, Quinlan twiddled down below, and she leapt forward on her mission of mercy and (my) profit. Peter and David honed to perfection the draft salvors agreement. As a touch of authenticity, I thought of stamping the document with the embossing from the lid of an Old Shag baccy tin. Your correspondent was helmsman, wrestling with a wildly gyrating wheel and ship.
Rounding Douglas Head, we quickly saw that we’d got there first (we knew that others had the same idea) but looked on in horror as we saw the crew of the wreck standing on the cabin roof with sea water around their boots. With water already in the engine spaces, salvage was unlikely. The vessel was owned by a ne’er do well who had talked one of the island’s many rich widows to contribute the £10,000 needed to purchase a boat – the Manx government contributed the other half. His beau was never likely to want to see her investment (or mobile enough to do so) which suited both parties. With virtually no working capital, we knew the boat’s kit was poor and even her mooring ropes were no more than shoe laces. Knowing none of the shipwrecked crew could swim, Peter brought the Peep O’ Dawn to within 6’ of her and prepared to take them on. To our astonishment the mate, a thin wiry character, started running for the rocks. I swear his little legs whirred round so fast that he surfed through the water. With one down, we collected the other two who told us their story. Coming out of Fleetwood, having drunk themselves into a horrendous stupor, they had tied the wheel in approximately the direction of IoM and went below to sleep. Bad luck had dogged this ship since her launch and with unerring accuracy, she’d motored on her own, straight into Douglas Head.
To add to the variety and richness of sea faring tales from hlb, my entry to the Booker Prize (non-fictional category) is humbly presented. Depending, there might be part 2 or even 3.
Disguising the characters and or time has not been done. There was only one lobster boat working the south of the island. I sincerely apologise if offence is taken. None is intended. These people were seaman, not in any romantic sense – there was nothing in their job which could be so described – but they lived to the rhythm of the sea.
She was a 50’ stern trawler based at Port St Mary Isle of Man, owned by the Quirk brothers (David & Peter), engineer Jack Quinlan with myself as “deck-hand”. The ship had a forward wheelhouse and a large clear working deck space with overhead gantry for trawling, scalloping and lobsters depending on season and the Quirks’ whim. She was a steel boat with a Perkins engine.
In the summer of 1965 we were on the lobsters pulling in a string of 36 pots north of Langness when David, with great excitement, shouted to us from the wheelhouse that a Mayday had just come over. With only half the string in, we “anchored” to the rest of the string and discussed the plan of action – or, at least, they did and I listened. For the Mayday came from a sister vessel which had hit Douglas Head and was easily within our range. Much ear pulling, furious rolling of baccy and argument ensued. Peter being the most experienced (having been a Master of IoM Steam Packet ship and whose ability to utter “fook” in a hundred different ways gave his many utterances on any marine discussion great authority) was of the opinion that if we got there quick enough, salvage was possible and with a value of c£20,000 incl Rolls Royce engine the prognosis was good. Upon that being the settled will of the ship, a decision had to be made about the 18 pots on board and the 18 down below. Bringing them all up would leave the deck occupied when it might be wiser to have it clear to load the anticipated salvage. Sacrificing the 18 or so lobsters (we always averaged at least 1 per pot) was not a decision any of was willing to contemplate but nevertheless had to be done. Peter turfed David out of the wheelhouse and expertly turned her round through 180 degrees and we prepared to shoot the 18 pots off the deck.
Now lobsters are fished through smell. The mankiest bait possible is attached to the pot’s collar. The bait is typically herring or white fish which is rotted down in brine. After which the maggots have a feast. Quite common to see the bait “walking” out the scuppers. Working as a well oiled machine – me imagining untold wealth – the pots were shot in record time (not without danger as if the trace coiled round your foot you were over and dead) and with a final glance backwards as the buoys were flung out, Peter took the throttles thro’ to afterburner, Quinlan twiddled down below, and she leapt forward on her mission of mercy and (my) profit. Peter and David honed to perfection the draft salvors agreement. As a touch of authenticity, I thought of stamping the document with the embossing from the lid of an Old Shag baccy tin. Your correspondent was helmsman, wrestling with a wildly gyrating wheel and ship.
Rounding Douglas Head, we quickly saw that we’d got there first (we knew that others had the same idea) but looked on in horror as we saw the crew of the wreck standing on the cabin roof with sea water around their boots. With water already in the engine spaces, salvage was unlikely. The vessel was owned by a ne’er do well who had talked one of the island’s many rich widows to contribute the £10,000 needed to purchase a boat – the Manx government contributed the other half. His beau was never likely to want to see her investment (or mobile enough to do so) which suited both parties. With virtually no working capital, we knew the boat’s kit was poor and even her mooring ropes were no more than shoe laces. Knowing none of the shipwrecked crew could swim, Peter brought the Peep O’ Dawn to within 6’ of her and prepared to take them on. To our astonishment the mate, a thin wiry character, started running for the rocks. I swear his little legs whirred round so fast that he surfed through the water. With one down, we collected the other two who told us their story. Coming out of Fleetwood, having drunk themselves into a horrendous stupor, they had tied the wheel in approximately the direction of IoM and went below to sleep. Bad luck had dogged this ship since her launch and with unerring accuracy, she’d motored on her own, straight into Douglas Head.
