Hello again. A couple of comments at the end of 'The Thin Line Between' asked if this story will appear again. Well... here it is! Hope you enjoy it, whether it seems a little familiar or is totally new to you. Made a significant edit which I'll point out at the end.
Three things influenced this story. Two songs and the BBC documentary series 'Trawlermen'. If you want to watch a bunch of hard, northern Scotsmen sailing the seas, with the thickest accents imaginable, I can only recommend it.
*****
CHAPTER ONE
"What's your name, son?"
"Christopher McDonald, though I'd prefer to be called Chris. Mates back home called me Macca."
"McDonald? Well, you're obviously not local from the accent. Have you got family over here?"
"Ancestry is in Inverness. My grandparents' brothers and sisters still live there, well, those still alive anyway. My mother's parents moved to Australia in the sixties. Dad's family is originally from Glasgow, though further back along the line."
"And what brings you all the way to Peterhead? I mean, apart from showing up here looking for a job."
"It's a long story, and to be honest, not one I really want to go into now. I know that doesn't sound too good, considering I'm desperate for a job. Maybe one day I can explain it all. I'm not in trouble with the law, either here or in Australia. I'm here legally in the UK," gesturing to the documents I had, "But I'm not allowed back home, primarily by my father. I decided it was best if I just left."
"Sounds like one hell of falling out?" I nodded but stayed silent. "Very well. So, you're here now, looking for work. Do you know what being a trawlerman involves?"
"Long, wet, tiring days and nights at sea."
The captain laughed. "Very simply put but, yes, that's about it. I'll be honest, it's very hard work. Weeks at sea as we look for a catch. Cold, wet and miserable most of the time on the North Sea, god forbid if we head anywhere near the Atlantic. And it's bloody dangerous. I've lost two men while captaining my own vessel, both overboard, never to be seen again. Before that, I've worked on ships where men have been injured, maimed and killed. It can be a ghastly business." He gestured to the plaque above the bar. "That's the list of names of men lost since the turn of the 20
th
. Names are still added to this day. And not all the bodies are found. We've put many caskets into the ground which were empty."
"I'm aware of the dangers involved. But days and weeks away at sea sound perfect."
"The guys will give you a lot of shit to begin with. I hope you have broad shoulders."
"I'd expect nothing less. I know I'm young, but I'm fit enough, willing to learn and want to do this."
He cast me with a keen eye, judging my sincerity. Ever since leaving Australia, I'd wondered what I was going to do with my life. I knew I didn't want to be stuck in an office five days a week. I wanted to breathe fresh air and feel the wind in my face. And I also wanted to enjoy the camaraderie of my fellow man. Since joining the forces was out, something I'd always considered doing, I started looking at other options, and remembered watching a documentary series on TV called 'Trawlermen'. I found it rather interesting, the work looked gruelling, but I enjoyed watching the friendships of the men and the work, while hard, didn't look too difficult. Sure, I'd have to learn, and learn fast, but I was willing to give it a go.
Captain Jack McTavish stuck out his hand. "I'm always willing to give someone eager to work a chance. We cast off two days from now. 5am. Don't be late."
I shook the offered hand. "Thanks, Captain. I won't let you down."
"If you do, I'll throw you overboard myself." My face must have dropped as he started to laugh. "Pulling your leg, lad. I won't do that." His face turned serious in an instant. "Because one of the others will do it for me."
I chuckled nervously, as I knew he was probably right. "I'll be on time and raring to go, Captain."
I watched as he filled out some paperwork, stating I would now be employed and paid by him, handing me copies to sign and keep for myself, as he kept a copy while the third would be sent off to the government. Once everything was dotted and crossed, he shook my hand again, told me not to be late but to enjoy my last two days of freedom. The one suggestion he made would be the best piece of advice he ever gave me.
Get as much sleep as possible.
Of course, sleeping wasn't something I wanted much of. If I slept, I would start to dream. And I would dream of her. The reason why I was now in Peterhead, Scotland, looking at being a trawlerman, instead of living back in Sydney, Australia, wondering what steps we would have taken in our lives together.
I sat at the bar most of the evening, chatting with the locals, always centre of attention once they heard my accent. Most of the questions were the same. What the hell was I in Peterhead for? Why the fuck would I want to be a trawlerman? Did I have a screw loose or a death wish? I answered the first question easily, the second I handled rather deftly, and while I don't think everyone believed me, they respected the fact I was an outsider willing to give it a go.
After a night on the ale, I headed up to the bedroom I'd occupied for the past week as I'd looked for work. There was little in the room. My large backpack. A double bed. A small bathroom with a shower, basin and toilet. Closing the door behind me, I just felt incredibly lonely, ostracised from my family, my friends left far behind.
I stripped down to my underwear and got into bed, flicking on the small TV, though there was little on and was feeling tired in minutes. Switching it off, I read my kindle for another five minutes at most before sleep overcame me and I started to dream. And, of course, my dreams were about her.
I missed her terribly.