Writer of the Week: Jock McMillan - Year 13

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Chapter One

Birds; diving birds, albatross, petrol, gulls of all shapes and sizes, Gannets; birds. The rising sun shimmered and trembled on the water's surface, a welling orange tear dragging streaks of light across the swell, giving substance to the fluttering and squabbling of birds; diving birds. 

Dive, surface, dive, surface. Water melts off their oiled feathers, their lengthened necks and beady eyes,  their gullets filled with scales and flesh. Birds; as far as the eye can see, only birds. Birds and water, water and birds. The rise and fall of the swell, the rise and fall of my stomach, one with the sea, or just sea-sick, it’s hard to tell.

“NET’S DOWN SCOTT!” I yelled over the noise of the generator, and the birds, the god-forsaken birds. A velvet spew of rolling foam spills out from behind the stern, a giant simmering pot, with salty brine and plenty of fish to match. The fish of choice? Mackerel, Atlantic Mackerel. Of all the reasons a person might want to spend five months of their winter in a wet tin can on the North Atlantic Ocean, mine was Mackerel, and even then, it hardly constituted a reason. 

“We’re cruising.” Scott was sat hunched in the captain's chair, crossword puzzle in one hand and throttle in the other.

“A mean 5 knots,” I remarked, looming in the wheelhouse doorway.

“Do you want to tear another net?”

“No” 

“So don't get smart.” Scott stared at his puzzle intently, tapping his pencil on the dashboard.

“Be helpful for once, I need a five-letter word for handbag,” he stated, frustration building in his voice.

“You know I’m crap at those. I'm going to my bunk, wake me when you pull in the trawl.” 

“Yeah, whatever” Scott mumbled dismissively, waving me away, his eyes not leaving his page.

 My cot creaked as I lay staring, jackets on hooks swayed with the ship, and the rhythmic slosh of water washing across the hull tempted my eyes closed as I nodded off, thoughts of home sending me on my way to the great escape of sleep, escape being in increasing demand as April dragged on. 

Few things in life can bring people together, just as they force people apart. Dreams of boundless freedom on the vast expanses of the waves attract a certain subset of human beings. Genetic or not, Scotty and I shared this trait, this yearning for true, unfiltered adventure. This dream pulled us into the lifestyle yet the reality of our situation had yanked me out. The sun sets early this time of year, and as 4:00 pushed on, night fell. Seaspray whipped at my face slashing across my bib and spray jacket, and salty brine dripped from my drenched hair and eyelashes. Far from the orange postcard sunrise of the early morning, a strong wind tore across the aft deck of the trawler ripping at the fabric on my figure, thick sheets of rain and spray lashed the vessel. The rolling swell washed across the slick tread plate deck, foam dancing off of the breaker tips into the passing wind, yet still, they remained, as far as the eye can see, birds and water, water and birds. Cold rope passed through my wrinkled hands, a fresh squirt of seawater ejected from the weave with every grab. I whipped the soaked coil across the deck, accepting the next length from the groaning winch. The struts of the tall rust-red gantry whistle, waves slap at the hull, and the metronome of the wheelhouse wipers sets beat. This eerie orchestra sets the tone for a large portion of ocean life, a life sought out by some and actively avoided by most. 

“IT’S REALLY PACKED IN OUT HERE HUH?” Scott shouted, his silhouette, backlit by fluorescent floodlights, looming a couple of feet above me leant on the wheelhouse railing. 

   “THE WIND SWITCHED, WE’VE NOSED STRAIGHT INTO THAT FRONT. THE CHOP SHOULD CUT THE BIRD NUMBERS AT LEAST!”

“YEAH, RIGHT”

“HEY UH… LEAVE THAT FOR A SECOND, STEP DOWNSTAIRS WITH ME, WE NEED TO TALK”

   

 “Just like home huh?” Scotty grins, easing in behind the small foldout table, finding his side of the tartan booth seats, mug in hand. 

“Yeah, sunny Portland huh, you look tan already” I joke

The few breathy chuckles fade and an air of tension follows.

“Look… About this month's payment.” 

“Don't do this to me Scotty, come on”

I can do half” 

“Half? Half!? It was half last month Scotty, I can't keep doing this with you” Being twelve years my senior, my brother Scotty insisted on financing the operation. This meant covering licences, fees, equipment, and wages, of which there were less and less as our season drew on. 

“You know we ain’t been hauling half as much as January, The fish dry up, so do the funds. I’m sorry Ton’. I’m hardly covering running costs here.” a sigh escapes Scott's lungs, a look of defeat crossing his face.

It was true, the AMS pinned it on changes in the Atlantic jetstream due to the rapidly warming climate. Old heads at every port claim to have seen it on and off years prior,

 “nature taking its course” was the go-to excuse. Whatever it was, untold change was underway. Migrational patterns were changing. 

Birds, not due in these waters for another few months, were swarming vessels and seaside settlements from Maine through Maryland, all along the eastern seaboard. Billions of dollars in damages were awarded to big players in the fishing industry in a desperate effort to mitigate the losses, not a dollar had reached our pockets. 

“we’re still afloat Tony, just a few more weeks, one good catch.”

“I need my money Scott.”

“And you’ll get it. Have faith, Tony, believe in me, in us”

“What's your big plan, Scott? what are we doing out here!?” I snapped.

“Please Tony, give me a chance. One more chance”

An uneasy silence fell across the cluttered cabin, the inky black of the bird-speckled Atlantic rising and falling, clinking bottles and canned vegetables as we stared, locked in a silent duel of willpower. 

“One more catch” I nod slowly. A sly grin graces Scott's lips, two outstretched arms beacon, followed by a reluctant embrace and the patting of backs. 

“You won't regret it Ton’, just trust me on this” Scott assured over my shoulder, giving one final pat and releasing. 

“Whatever you say, Scott.”