Sea fishing boat trips were my introduction to the glorious agony of anticipation. Waiting for those early morning adventures would drive me mad in the last few days before the off. Waiting to be 'old enough' was a different matter. Seeing Dad and 'the brothers' setting off on a dark September morning without me was miserable. Eventually my turn came when I was seven or eight years old and before long I was a seasoned campaigner.
Woken by Dad at 4.00am and out of the house by 4.30am, we drove along in virtual silence, staring out into the headlamp beams. The familiar road to Bridlington seemed to have a supernatural, almost threatening look about it at that time in the morning; the hedgerows, fields and trees along the route all sinister with shadows. My imagination would play tricks that ran out of control as a child and more than once I'd look to Dad for reassurance and comfort. I was amazed to see a few other cars on the road, what were they doing out at this time? Surely only we were up and about? Being in his company away from my own familiar surroundings was an experience I cherish. We always went anywhere "mob-handed", so being with him without my mother was something new to me. Special. I didn't know then how few years I'd have left with him. Glancing up from my privileged place in the front seat, his image was fixed in my thoughts. A site engineer in the power station construction industry, he had one of those outdoor faces; you know the ones, sandblasted and almost leathery. I remember swimming with him on holiday, my arms round his neck, and being surprised that his skin was soft – I'd always imagined it to be rough like his face. Funny how things like that stick in your mind.
I have often wondered what he was like as a man as opposed to father. I never got the opportunity to know but I reckon he was one of the good guys. A Yorkshireman of the old school, he was brought up in the West Riding town of Halifax, straightforward; "a spade's a spade" sort of chap. My mother once recounted a story he told her of his early days as a draftsman in an engineering works. A new apprentice had joined the company that morning and as he walked into the Drawing Office he was rolling up an umbrella. "Nay lad, you've never walked across 'yard with that 'ave ya?" In the West Riding a man simply gets wet.
We'd slow every now and then as a startled rabbit was avoided but it wasn't long before we reached the outskirts of town. The cobble owners and crews were on the streets to greet us. At traffic lights and junctions they'd step out, "Looking for a boat, lads?" Dad would wave a 'no thanks' hand as we drove on towards the harbour. Stepping out of the car the rush of salty sea air filled me with excitement, the cries of seagulls only adding to the mounting tension. We walked through the empty streets from the car park and down the alley way steps past the harbour master's office. Tide tables in salt-bleached wooden frames hung on rusting hooks alongside a big brass barometer in a case next to the door. Paper clock faces with cardboard hands pointed to high and low tide times alongside weather forecasts and harbour notices. Without knowing what I was looking at I joined in the study of these ancient prophecies with a stern face, hoping to be enlightened.
And then there it was, the harbour. Filled with activity and an air of expectation. Small groups of anglers stood chatting, fishermen busied themselves preparing the cobbles. Shouts of "Need a boat, lads?" Laughter. It was magical to a small boy gripping his Dad's hand. The cobbles pulled up against the jetty bobbed and bumped, old tyres hung over their sides squeaking as they rubbed. Painted names on their bows: 'Yorkshire Lass' 'Serendipity' 'Rachel K'. Solid, dependable names; names that simply stated who they were. All of the boats in primary colours with the wheelhouse in white. Radio masts and navigation lights, diesel fumes and bacon sandwiches. It was a heady mix.
We walked over to the tea hut, tucked tight under the upper harbour wall, and ordered. A huge white mug of, odd-tasting, steaming tea was passed down to me, both hands needed to support it. The chap serving grinned a warm smile and chatted with his customers as we looked over the scene. I felt immensely grown up to be there as my brothers welcomed me into the fold, we were sea anglers. Then came the choosing of a boat. There seemed to be a lot more to this than you might expect. On that first trip I just wanted to be on our way, what did it matter? "Let's go on the blue one, it's ready to go." Dad talked to the crews, to the groups of anglers on the jetty and finally came to a decision to go with an old favourite, 'Yorkshire Lass.' In later years and to this day the choosing of the boat has become part of the great ritual of the day, bringing with it fond memories of those early days in the mid 1960's.
Down the steps of the wood and concrete jetty the cobble waited for us. Curtains of slime-green seaweed hung from the steps and supports, the water folding over the bottom rungs of a rusty ladder. I could smell that dark, secret place under the harbour wall as I stepped onto the boat. The helping hands of the fisherman lifted me in as the rest of my group clambered aboard. All around preparations were being made. Those with their own rods set about tackling up as I looked on in awe; seeping sacks of mussels were handed to the fisherman's mate from above. Pushing the cobble away from the jetty with a mighty welly, the fisherman swung into the wheelhouse and fired up the engine. We were off.
I watched as the mate stood easily on the moving deck, riding the waves with a casual air. It was many years before I had the confidence to stand, choosing the safety of the bench under the gunwales. He emptied one of the sacks into an old yellow washing up bowl, the mussels crunching like gravel underfoot as they fell. The knife he used to release the bait from the shell was worn by years of use. My mother has a carving knife like that; choosing to keep using her grandmother's over buying a new one. I wonder how many of those shells it had split over the years? He worked easily with the familiarity of much practice as we passed the harbour entrance and out into open water.
The change in movement was immediately evident as the boat ran up, then slipped down the waves in turn. It was now that a number of our party started to turn a little off colour. One by one, like nodding dogs, heads went over the side as breakfasts bounced. Those of us not affected by this dramatic change soon began the ribbing that only the smug safety of a cast iron stomach affords. My brother Ted was one so affected by seasickness as a kid that I marvelled at his perseverance, trip after trip he endured this nightmare. As he hung his head over the edge the fisherman offered some friendly advice:
"Jam sandwiches lad, that's what you need for that."
Looking up with his pale face pleading for respite he asked, "Will it make me feel better?"
" No son," he replied "but it'll taste a lot better on the way back up."
The air was cooler as we left the shore behind; a few seagulls followed hoping for titbits, only to be disappointed by the discarded mussel shells. As the number of trips increased over the years it was always at this part of the day that the 'mother-enforced extra jumper' came into its own. I remember one year three lads, probably in their late teens, cowering behind the wheelhouse hoping for shelter from the biting wind. When they had arrived that morning in shirtsleeves looking like they'd come straight from a nightclub, they smirked at the 'mother enforced extra jumpers' and anoraks. I could feel my cheeks reddening as they spoke, just out of earshot, knowing their taunts were aimed at us. Oh how sweet the revenge when an hour into the day they huddled together for warmth, the fisherman refusing them entry to the wheelhouse. It must have felt like a very long morning to them.
As we motored further out to sea the rods were handed out from a locker under the deck. Four feet long with big wooden Scarborough reels, they were very impressive to me as a lad. My older brothers knew better but revelled in the reverse snobbery of the situation when they caught more than those who had produced fancy multipliers and glass fibre rods. Bob still does, preferring to take what's given to him; you can see the smile creeping over his face. The radio crackled in the wheelhouse, indecipherable words flowed from the speaker in between the static, our skipper answering back into a hand held mike on a short curly lead. It seemed that "t'other side of Flamborough 'ead were doin' well" so that's where we were heading.
Eventually the anchor went over the side, the engines reversed to pull us onto it and then all quiet, bar the slapping of water against the hull. Baiting my hook with a couple of the slippery mussels was the first skill to learn and was not as easy as Dad made it look. But with a little practice I got there and was soon dropping the lead over the side and feathering the weight down into the depths. The reel seemed to spin forever till, there it was, the distinctive bump as it hit the bottom. Doing as instructed I kept the line taught and felt for the lead just touching bottom as the boat settled into the wave troughs. And so there we were, twelve of us spaced round the boat, totally focused on the job in hand.
Then the wagers started. "Bet I get the first." "Bet I get the biggest." "Bet I get the most."
The bite was unmistakable as promised. I'd been winding in constantly to check if the bait was still there; forever asking how to tell if I'd 'got one.' And then there it was, a jaggedly 'tug tug, tug tug.' Winding as fast as possible, the wooden reel wobbling on the brass spindle, I looked down into the water. Suddenly I could see it. A white flash at first then a spiralling fish coming to the surface. Lifting it into the boat I marvelled as it flapped and gawped on the deck. A codling. The fisherman came over with a bucket for my catch, "Good lad" was all he said but to me it was praise indeed; I reckon I glowed with pride.
On these trips some of us would catch and some wouldn't, but it was always a mystery how one side of the boat faired better than the other. With twelve lines all going straight down from a small East Yorkshire cobble into the North Sea below, how could this be? All the baits must be within a few yards of each other yet the bloke behind me is reeling them in. A mystery, a complete mystery. This didn't stop the less scrupulous among us from trying to swap places, though. Kids would eye up for an opportunity to sneak in between those catching with inevitable line tangles and irritated anglers. If it was one of my brothers on the more fortunate side of the boat the pain was doubled.
The mental tally of the catch could be seen in the furtive glances exchanged between us. As the time marched on towards the dreaded "pull 'em in lads", the concentration in the air was tangible. Willing time to slow down to give us a little longer seemed only to increase its passing. The fisherman would stand on the engine cover "fish 'ard lads... fish 'ard." We never really knew what he meant but staring into the depths with renewed vigour we'd fish on.
As of course it had to, the time came to up the anchor and head for shore. Rods were stowed away in the locker and the count began. 'The brothers' have always been ridiculously competitive, merciless when it comes to the defeated; ridicule, scorn and piss-take our weapons. "Ha! I got the biggest." "Yeh, but I got the most." "Well I got the first." This last one was known by all of us to be weak in comparison, but bluff and bravado counted for a lot in this game. It's a sad fact that when 'the brothers' gather now for a weekend in 'Brid' the catches of those early days are never repeated, the North Sea suffering badly from commercial over-fishing.
The fisherman set about gutting and cleaning the catch on our way in, his blade slipping through the fish with a confident ease. I remember my codling threaded onto a short length of orange nylon cord, through the mouth and out the gill cover, held in the sea to wash it. If he dropped it there'd be bother. The trophy cords grew longer and heavier for some but that codling of mine was 'the first'.
In the time we had been out, Bridlington had come alive with the usual late summer holidaymakers, its atmosphere very different from the early hours that morning. When we rounded the harbour wall I could see a small crowd had gathered to watch the boats come in. Stepping onto the jetty my chest swelled with pride. I walked confidently across the harbour, my codling swinging on its orange cord.
Back at home Mum had the batter mix ready and the chips cut. Not those horrible oven things of today but big fat proper chips cooked in lard. Bread and butter, salt and vinegar, tea. Someone would always say it, invariably my mother, just as the first bite of beautifully battered cod was tasted - "Now you can't get fresher than that. And just think... it was swimming about this morning."
In all the years since, and in all the glorious agonies lived as an angler, the anticipation of what might be is just as strong as in those days of childhood. Waiting is blessed with arrival, and with arrival comes the reward of memories.
