This is a story, called ‘A special night’, that I wrote about a night that Paul and I did a reportage on SHRIMPING.
Part 1.
1 ...I remember, from when I was a little girl, up until not so long ago, it used to be a rickety, wooden affair, where fishermen would moor and rope their catch up in wicker baskets.
That was also the place where the women would wait, standing together in small groups, always looking in the direction of the harbour entrance. Even in summer they seemed to be shivering, in spite of their woollen wear.
But once the fish was at their feet, no more talk, time for business. People standing around, waiting, were encouraged by the fishwives, screaming at the top of their voices, in a language only they understood, to buy the fresh fish and shrimps, now displayed in round metal carriers.
And it worked, customers flocked, haggling over the price, joking, buying.
Tourists, mostly folk from inland, or close-by Northern France, wondering what was going on, staring at the plaice, sole, still flapping their tails.
They had never seen fish that fresh.
Nothing much has changed, except that the women now each have their own fixed stall,a newly built Fish Market, the fish is on crushed ice and on fish-platters, all neatly presented and priced.
She was very chatty, told us her name was Josephine but as she had spent the war-years in England, the name Jo had stuck.
She peeled a shrimp and offered it to Paul to taste, saying something in Flemish. Paul looked at me in shock:
“Did I hear correctly? Did she call me her little rat?”
I laughed... In Ostend, when they call you that, it’s a term of endearment, it means they like you!
From that day on, I only bought from her and always got a good deal.
Summer or winter, whenever the weather permitted the men to go out, she was there to sell their catch!...
(Jo is on the left, on her right is her daughter in law.)
3 ...…So, as we got to know Jo better, I now felt at last, that I could ask her, if it was possible to accompany them on a fishing trip.
A couple of days later, she reported that her husband wasn't keen – something to do with insurance, but her son Danny was. He was a skipper on a bigger boat. A date was set; it only depended on the weather now. We couldn't believe our luck, what an opportunity!
From then on, our ears were glued to radio and TV weather forecasts, several times a day!
How unnecessary! The sea speaks for itself, if you know the listening code.
The old fishermen could tell you with great accuracy, their information so much juicier. OK, so what, some tall stories thrown in for good measure, but what raconteurs! You certainly left with a smile and more knowledge.
How impersonal, our electronic gadgets!
The Big Tuesday at last!
From one of our windows, we could just see the sea. The waves rolling in with vigorous white foam-heads. Silence, our look said it all. Dragging our feet somewhat, we spent the rest of the afternoon checking over our equipment, all laid out on the table.
Lenses shining, Metz-flashes recharged, batteries tested, extra film, filters, everything spic and span, ready!
Another glance at the sky. Looking good! Clouds gathering on the horizon below the bright sun, promising an interesting sunset.
We wanted our expensive and fragile cameras from under their feet, spotting the least activity at the bow. Sitting on either side, we started to click and click, close ups of netting and other stuff lying around us.
(This is Paul, full of anticipation, camera on the ready, he is holding his Rolleiflex twin-lens reflex.)
Already on board was Sylvain, the mate, not exactly the kind of guy you’d expect. Not tall, rather slender, unshaven, big black moustache and beard hiding his lips, his long hair curling from under a small white hat. His muscled arms, the canvas of a tattoo-artist, looked too big for this shrimpy little man.
Loads of gear and machinery filled the deck; I knew we’d find out what the purpose of all of it was.
The men were extremely busy preparing the boat, fighting ropes and chains, pulling and separating them from our neighbour
Danny (the skipper), on the other hand, fitted the pattern perfectly. He was broad shouldered and chunky, wearing jeans and the real blue fishermen’s pullover. I wondered if they went to the same needleman for their skin decorations. Something else they had in common, was the traditional earring, a small, thin gold band, in one ear, and only visible when the wind chose.
They half-smiled at us, no time for niceties, our hosts nervous and excited, like horses before a race.
5 …Beckoning in the distance, the harbour entrance. The other boats leaving one by one, slotting in, from left, right and centre, different docks. Black silhouettes against a clear blue sky.
The light had that incredible quality, so sought after by photographers and painters.
The sun casting a warm glow on the old buildings and docks, with the long shadows in fascinating contrast to the glittering sea.
Sylvain’s white hat was bobbing up and down; they were shouting instructions to each other above the drone of the engine. Both far too busy to be bothered by our lenses, they hauled in the side buoys, another rope, yes, there we went, quickly picking up momentum.
The thudding under our feet quickened.
Oh, what a joy to see the metal of the prow cut through the foaming water!
The familiar towers and landmarks glided by, and I detected the faint smell of chips mingled with sea, fish and tar.
For most people the day was almost gone, holidaymakers savouring a meal in one of the many restaurants, along the quay.
For us, the long night started. I thought longingly of our cheese and tomato sandwiches, but although hungry, I postponed the pleasure.
The skipper steered the boat with a steady hand.
We gently rocked towards the ends of the two piers, people on both watching and waving.
I remembered the many times I stood there, doing the same and dreaming of adventure.
Here the work and adventure really started, here I was 'dangerously' hanging overboard to get the angle I wanted...
6 …A gentle breeze came in through the open porthole behind me and looking back I saw the coast fast disappearing in the distance. The wind not only carried sea air and silt. I spotted the engine-room below us, wafting up the pungent smell of diesel and machine oil.
Apologising for the rocky ride, Danny said:” There’s been a northerly, that’s why there’s still so much swell.”
He fiddled with a few buttons above his head and after some crackling, the nasal voice of another fisherman out there, filled the space.
Sylvain decided to smoke another one of his small cigars. He carefully picked it out of the box wedged against the window. His tongue appeared amongst all the black growth and with great relish he bit off the tip of the cigarillo. I watched it almost disappear under the moustache. His eyes squinting happily, his head held askew, he carefully lit it. He deeply inhaled the smoke into his lungs, to release half of it, almost with a sigh, in white curling swirls around his face.
He never touched the small stump again, just let it burn out before it set fire to his face.
Probably stimulated by the smell, Danny also grabbed one of his cigarettes. Soon, the thick blue smoke started to slide slowly past me, out of the window.
Paul gave me another brave smile. We desperately tried to hang onto metal handholds.
I decided to let my body follow the motion, but as soon as I thought I had it, the movement changed abruptly and I was thrown back against the wall.
Some additional info on this type of vessel:
The horizontal opening of this trawl is provided by a beam, made of wood or metal, which may by 10m long or more. Beam trawls are used mainly for flatfish and shrimp fishing. Beam trawling is not used much today except in some shrimp and sole fisheries.
- Beam trawls are cumbersome to use and are always fished over the side. Modern beams are made of steel. Several tickler chains are added near the foot rope to increase the weight of the gear.
Hope you are enjoying this? Read Part 2 and 3, Thanks, M, (*_*)
TO USE ANY OF MY image or TEXT on websites, blogs or any other media without my explicit permission. © All rights reserved
Posts
No comments:
Post a Comment