The Night Fishermen

Before setting sail, I had been given various warnings about fishermen at sea.

Fishermen dragging nets would obviously not be turning out of your way, so best to steer clear, this much is obvious.

And of course, you must keep in mind their nets too, which can stretch far behind, for they can do to a rudder what a handsome tennis instructor can do to a marriage.

Some mentioned that even under motor with no nets they would likely claim RoW (Right of Way), even if not applicable and for me, this didn't feel like too much to ask.

I mean, after a full day of getting wet, cold and covered in fish and gull shite, it makes sense that all you want to do is make a B-Line to the port to get the trip over and done with.

This never provided too much of a problem sailing around the UK coast.

Fishermen were not too numerous (Although, I was sailing in December, so maybe traffic was a little more scant than usual) and easily spotted from a distance and just as easily dodged.

What I wasn't warned about explicitly, is that over the Channel, things worked a little differently.

For starters, there are a lot more fishermen.

They're bloody everywhere!

Turning unexpectedly at times and jetting atop the waves, tugging along their own little cloud of squawking shite-hawks.

This was a little unnerving at times and a trifle irritating, but not too much of an issue.

I have sympathy for anyone who has to deal with their own personal guano-nimbus, dispensing slippery little nuggets of distain down upon them as they just try and get about their day.

My perspective was fully shifted though, one fateful Spring night near Fécamp.

We drifted down on a peaceful Force 3, the dim moon peeking out from behind the blanket of cloud, glinting gently on the tips of the waves as we passed by the sparkling Alabaster coast.

During the day, the cliffs had gleamed in striations of yellow and white, but now the sun was gone, the soft faces had been replaces with constellations of twinkling lights, turning the landscape into a clustered extension of the sky.

We made our way Westward, a few miles from the shore, enjoying the view together in mutual tranquility, before one of us (Me) would soon pop below to get a good rest before the day shift.

We scanned out on the water, seeing lights glinting a couple of miles or so off starboard, pure white glints reflected off slowly calming waters.

"Surely stern lights from some motor boats" I thought to myself, "Best to keep an eye on them for changes, but no worries for now"

And with that, I sat back and continued to bask in my surroundings, the sound of the waves lapping gently up the sides of the hull soothing my senses and gently drawing in the relaxation that would surely aid me in getting a peaceful night's sleep.

I turned back to our bobbing neighbors.

"They look a little closer" I said aloud, "I don't see any profiles, are we drifting?"

"Doesn't look like it" Tom replied, checking the plotter, "We're on 270 at the moment"

"Hmm..."

I continued to watch the lights.

They did certainly seem to be getting brighter.

I lined them up with the Hand-bearer and took note of the number, they were still a way off and all readings had us on 270 over ground, likely they were drifting our way a little, but there was still plenty of room and we weren't flying along.

I set back to watching and basking.

Time passed and I turned again.

There they were, brighter still and seemingly more to our bow.

"Adjust to starboard?" I suggested, "Looks like they're passing in front and there's plenty of room to leave them to port"

Adjust we did, but still they approached.

"How are we gaining on them?" I asked myself, "We're only doing 3 knots, 4 over ground, are they even moving?"

On we continued.

The hand-bearer indicated danger was largely unlikely, but it was confusing nonetheless and a little concerning the speed at which we seemed to be gaining on them.

Closer they inched, until we could make out their bob in the water, their light getting more and more blinding with each minute.

Then, another glint.

"What on Earth?"

It was red, with all the luminosity of a candle flame, but visible now at the bow of the vessel.

"Is that supposed to be a profile light?"

Chugging slowly into view, the fishermen came, bobbing towards the port, towing behind them a frenzied black cloud of screeching misery.

I watched, perplexed with more than a little pity in my heart as the fishermen crawled past, their silhouettes visible against the blinding light of their steamer.

I can only imagine the slipperyness they had to contend with as they got to work, protecting their paychecks from the mass of sea vultures they were towing.

Since that confusing night, I have had a little less trust in the lights that glint on the open water and always aim to give a little more room than needed.

And aside from that, I have a lot more respect for fishermen.

Sure, it can be frustrating to have to dodge the odd pair-trawlers as they dance their widened waltz across the sea.

But no matter how wet and cold, or how aching my knuckles are from tacking and gybing, they are at work while I am at play.

And everyone may get shit on from above while working.

But no matter the job, no matter the industry, never have I had to deal with as much shit as a fisherman.