Upstream and dry !

[Guest Mike Connor]

Drizzling steadily, fine damp mist hanging in the air, rather cold for the time of year, and generally what one might refer to as a "miserable" day.

 

After five hours of flogging the water, we were still fishless, and no wiser as to how we might alter this unfortunate fact.

 

Unusual as it was to get skunked on this water, it looked as though we were well on our way to managing it. With consummate ease apparently.

 

We sat for a while underneath a tree, rather ludicrously expecting to be a little "drier" there, watching the river, and yet another bank of dark clouds moving in.

 

"Shall we pack it in?", my companion asked somewhat morosely, "and go for a pint?". Some of my more unfortunate character traits, ( at least in the eyes of many of my fishing companions), are my undying hope, coupled with stubborn persistence, and the complete inablity to realise when I am beaten, at least as far as fishing is concerned.

 

In such circumstances, I have no sense of time, the weather does not bother me in the slightest, and every cast which fails, simply serves to renew my determination to succeed on the next one.

 

My companion on this trip had fished with me for quite a few years, and was used to my penchant for disappearing miles up or down the river, and upon my inevitably belated return, announcing the "last cast", at least an hour before any serious preparations for ceasing proceedings.

 

My noncommital grunt apparently communicated my thoughts to him, as he then said "Oh well then, let´s have another go", and rose to his feet.

 

Like myself he is an "all-rounder", he fishes the North sea, from beach, pier and boat, he fishes for pike and other coarse fish, and he is an expert grayling trotter.

 

We first met when I took a boat party from the local chemical works out on a fishing trip. There was nothing particularly memorable about the fishing on this trip, but it was notable for a number of other reasons, and my diary contains quite a few notes on the trip.

 

At that time, I lived in a small village on the North East coast of Yorkshire, a stone´s throw from the sea. Much time was spent "messing about in boats", although in point of fact, very little time was spent "messing about", it was mostly hard and gruelling work.

 

A few of the villagers still owned boats, and many still supplemented their incomes and their daily fare, considerably, by catching fish, crabs, lobsters, shrimps, or whatever else happened to be in season, and was even vaguely edible or saleable.

 

Only two of the villagers made a full time living from fishing, although at one time it had been the only means of existence. Steel and chemical works, and a host of other industry, now provided employment for a good proportion of the village, although many were perennially unemployed, and the village was little more than a dormitory town for the nearby industrial complexes.

 

Competition to "crew" for the two professional boats was fierce. On any particular morning, whatever the weather or sea conditions, veritable hordes of young men were to be found at the most unlikely hours, which coincided with the tide times, hanging around the boats, and hoping against hope to be asked aboard.

 

All the boats still in commission were Yorkshire cobles. A Yorkshire coble is a double-ended wooden boat, as its name suggests, peculiar to Yorkshire, which is extremely seaworthy, and may be launched or beached even through quite heavy surf.

 

Horses were used for launching until quite recently, but nowadays tractors are used to launch the boats directly from the beach.

 

In very bad weather, no launch was possible, and during these periods, which were quite frequent, net repairs were made, lobster-pots built, and all the other myriad things required to keep a sea fisherman in business were carried out.

 

Rowing was at one time the usual method of propulsion, long very heavy wooden oars being used, usually two to a side, sometimes more, depending on the size of the boat. A few of the boats now had outboard motors, and a very few had inboard diesel motors. Both of the two remaining professional boats had both.

 

Of absolutely paramount importance when launching or beaching, was not to allow the boat to go broadside to the surf, as this would swamp or capsize the boat immediately. There was no room for mistakes, if you misjudged, it was quite likely that the "steady men", who were holding the boat at the sides, and often up to their chests in water, would end up with broken legs, or even worse. At least one of the "steady men", was always an experienced crew member, and the others were volunteer helpers, hoping for a place in the boat.

 

No money changed hands usually, the crew received a portion of the fish etc, and in summer this could be sold to the hordes of seemingly rich holidaymakers swarming along the beach, building sandcastles, digging holes, allowing themselves to be fried in the sun, and engaging in sundry more or less similar, and equally useful endeavours.

 

My apprenticeship as a "steady man" was thankfully short, and I received no permanent injuries as a result of it. Believe me, standing up to your chest in the North Sea in March, wearing workboots, jeans, and a "fisherman's" pullover, while attempting with all your might and skill, to prevent a very heavy wooden boat from turning broadside, is not a particularly enviable position to be in.

 

I often look back in amazement at this period of my life, and wonder how the hell I came to do it at all. Within one season I was "regular crew". This had more to do with my apparent knack of being able to repair things without much ado, and also my knack of finding fish, and then filetting them quickly, than my expertise as a "steady man".

 

However this might be, at the age of thirteen, I was "regular crew". This exalted status allowed quite a number of other things, besides being able to earn some money now and again, and regular "free" fish. One was treated with considerable respect, even by older villagers, and by one´s peers in any case. One automatically gained an immediate reputation as a "hard man", a reputation not to be sniffed at, and one had one´s pick of the nice girls available, and even some of the not so nice ones, which was generally a lot more interesting anyway.

 

As an aside, I had quite a reasonable singing voice, and did a few solos for the "fisherman´s quoir", usually as the shanty man, which not only resulted in hard cash ( "charity" events always result in hard cash ), but even more choice as far as the ladies were concerned.

 

On this particular morning. the tide was at 03.50 am. At 03.30 I had started the tractor, and availed myself of the services of several "loungers", and potential "steady men", most of whom would never become "regular crew", and who were mostly considerably older than myself, and had the boat ready to launch.

 

As "captain" my word was law, and nobody questioned my rights. Three days had passed since my sixteenth birthday, and I had the most singular and unusual honour of commanding the boat myself, and taking a "fishing party" out to the local reefs.

 

Considerably later than agreed, namely shortly after four in the morning, a group of eight figures appeared and began struggling through the soft sand with several cases. All the cases turned out to contain beer, and most of the figures also.

 

People who booked outings on our boat ( I say "our" although I had no shares in the boat, I was simply "regular crew"), were informed quite carefully what to bring and what to do, and cases of beer was not one of the items on the advised inventory.

 

Insurance for such outings was extremely difficult to obtain, and quite expensive, and having drunken anglers on board was not something anybody liked. In a relatively small boat it is easy for accidents to happen, and no regular crewman would even consider coming aboard drunk. If he did it would be his last trip anyway.

 

These outings were basically looked upon as a necessary evil by the fishermen, as they resulted in varying amounts of hard cash. Captaining such a trip was not only a considerable honour and a grave responsibility, it also produced anything from five to twenty pounds in cash, and if one was lucky a few tips as well. This might be as much as a months normal pay for many.

 

After some discussion with the members of the party, I decided to take them out anyway, as they were not actually drunk, and cancelling the trip would mean the day was wasted, the tractor and boat would have to be taken back to their places, and the money for the trip would not be forthcoming.

 

To date I had had no real problems with any of the fishing parties, although some were reluctant to accept my decisions or instructions, mainly because of my obvious youth. I had only actually "commanded" three other trips before this one, although I had been out with lots of others, and of course went out almost daily as "regular crew".

 

Collecting the money from the party, and taking my "cut", in this case eight pounds, a large amount of money for me, I placed the rest in the "bank bag" reserved for this purpose, and got one of the young lads hanging around, as a runner to deliver it to the boat´s owner.

 

This "tradition" often caused some raised eyebrows among trippers, especially when told, only half-jokingly, that it was a precaution of the owner´s, as should the boat be lost at sea, he would still get his money!, or if the party was not happy with the trip, there was no way they could get their money back!

 

These were not the reasons actually, or only partly, it was indeed a tradition of long standing. There were many unwritten rules and traditions involved in the whole procedure, but I will go into those some other time.

 

Finally, the boat was launched, and having got through the medium surf using the oars, I fired up the motor, and headed out for the first reef of the day.

 

Yorkshire cobles are very seaworthy, and extremely robust, but they are not particularly stable or comfortable platforms. Especially the smaller ones.

 

This boat was a twenty-two footer. People who are not used to small boats, and even some who are, are usually OK as long as the boat is under engine power, but when the motor is cut off, the rolling and swaying of the boat increases considerably, and this can rapidly induce terrible sea-sickness in many, even in calm to moderate seas.

 

So it proved today, the trippers were for the most part "occasional" anglers, and had been drinking as well, and barely ten minutes after I had cut the motor for the first drift, several of them started feeding the fish. This behaviour is contagious.

 

In less than fifteen minutes, all the party but one, were heaving and retching over the side, and fervently wishing they had not drunk anything, as advised. It became obvious fairly quickly, that the trip was not going to be a resounding success. I started the motor, and got some way back on the boat, to ease the conditions a little, and conducted a quick survey of the party, as to their wishes.

 

Two wanted to die, preferably immediately, one was unable to engage in any meaningful communication, three were feeling a bit better, and although a not particularly fetching shade of pale green, were prepared to try and carry on. One was more or less completely OK again, and the last one was raring to go.

 

The "ayes" had it. Motoring out to the next drift, we commenced fishing again. Hot sweet tea was handed round, and apart from one unfortunate, who simply huddled down on the floor of the boat, a bundle of sheer misery, the party began fishing.

 

I decided to fish as well, and set up my gear. I noted in my diary that eleven boxes of fish were caught on this trip. A box contains more or less two stones of fish. A stone is fourteen pounds. Roughly three hundred pounds of fish. Not a remarkable catch, but satisfactory.

 

Myself, and the fellow who had not been drinking the night before caught the lion´s share of the fish, but everybody caught at least a couple, and a few reasonable sized fish were also caught, so the anglers were more or less happy.

 

Turning back towards home after the last drift, it turned out that only one of the party, apart from myself, could clean and fillet fish properly, and he was not very quick at it either. It is another unwritten law that all fish must be cleaned and filleted before landing. Don´t ask me why, it just is so.

 

There was rarely a logical explanation for some of these things, some were pure superstition, however this may be, the rule must not be broken. I had no option but to hand the tiller over to one of the party, and fillet the fish myself.

 

Staying a couple of hundred yards offshore, I handed the tiller to the gent who had put up such a good show of fishing, gave him very careful instructions, and sat athwart one of the seats to do the job.

 

I then took over the tiller again, and headed for the beach. We duly landed, the tractor and a couple of "steady men" were waiting, and the boat was slipped onto its carriage without any problems or undue fuss. The party debarked, and taking their packets of fish, they moved off up the beach.

 

Several completely untouched crates of beer were "donated" to the fisherman's choir, and I collected a few tips from several of the party.

 

My diary notes that I received thirty-four shillings and sixpence. Not brilliant, but better than a kick in the teeth.

 

Unusual, and basically the reason for this whole seemingly major digression, was the fact that one of the party, once again the guy who had caught so well, remained to help clean the boat, etc, and we struck up a conversation while so doing.

 

That is how I met my present fishing companion for the first time. He was five years older than I, but we became firm friends, and went fishing often together.

 

We had fished this particular water quite a few times, as my friend was able to obtain tickets. Although "exclusive", it was modestly priced, thanks to his connections, and was usually fairly easy water.

 

The regulations were rather restrictive, upstream dry-fly only, and although neither my friend or I were purists, this did not bother us, and as the fish were plentiful and free-rising, this was not usually a problem.

 

Today it was! Try as we might, we could not rise a single fish.

 

My diary notes among other things, that this was a "trial and error" day. Nothing was hatching, and so numerous flies were tried.

 

Tactics were fixed, there is not much chance of variation, when fishing upstream dry anyway.

 

Sitting once again under a tree, some distance up the river, we once again watched and waited, in the hope of an evening rise. None was forthcoming.

 

Wandering down the bank, came an acquaintance of my companion. He stopped for a smoke and a chat, and of course our first question was, "Done any good?".

 

He had indeed, "Done some good", and had a "limit" of nice fish in his creel.

 

"What did you get them on?". "Medium olives" was the reply. Having not seen hide nor hair of an insect all day, I was somewhat surprised to hear this, as was my companion, but we made no further comment on the matter. We made our way back down the river to the bridge where the car was parked, and proceeded to divest ourselves of our gear.

 

The chap we had met was doing the same, and as he removed his jacket, a large fly-box fell out of it, landed on the ground, and opened. Row upon row of "woolly buggers" in a whole range of colours met our eyes. My companion picked up he box, and handed it to the chap, remarking that it seemed a bit pointless carrying such a large box of woolly buggers on this particular water.

 

"Woolly buggers?", he replied, "those are not woolly buggers, those are my medium olives, blue duns, etc. I have them in every colour to match the local hatches". We refrained from any further comment, simply exchanging looks with one another. Climbed into the car and drove home.

 

I turned to my companion, known for his rather dry wit, and said, "What did you think of that then?. You said nothing. Unusual for you".

 

"Oh I decided to hold my tongue", he replied, "he would doubtless simply have bored us to death trying to explain how he gets a weighted woolly bugger to float upstream and dry!".

 

TL

MC

[Guest Vagabond]

Mike, your account of the "steady men" took me back to my childhood at Cromer in 1943-5. Many of the younger men were at the war and to enable the crab-boats launch and land even women and children lent a hand to hold the boats end-on to the breakers.

 

We lads often got soaking wet in this cause, but were willing to do anything for the fishermen - many of whom were Lifeboat Crew and looked up to by Cromer boys with the same adulation that David Beckham gets from the boys of Salford today.

 

Alas, I moved away from Cromer before I was old enough to be invited to be boat crew - and so missed the automatic adoration of the local girls (good and bad) that you referred to.

 

However, as a teenage biker I found a Vincent Comet was as good an attractant as a coble!

 

 

 

 

------------------

Vagabond

[Guest Mike Connor]

Originally posted by Vagabond:

Mike, your account of the "steady men" took me back to my childhood at Cromer in 1943-5. Many of the younger men were at the war and to enable the crab-boats launch and land even women and children lent a hand to hold the boats end-on to the breakers.

 

We lads often got soaking wet in this cause, but were willing to do anything for the fishermen - many of whom were Lifeboat Crew and looked up to by Cromer boys with the same adulation that David Beckham gets from the boys of Salford today.

 

Alas, I moved away from Cromer before I was old enough to be invited to be boat crew - and so missed the automatic adoration of the local girls (good and bad) that you referred to.

 

However, as a teenage biker I found a Vincent Comet was as good an attractant as a coble!

 

I crewed as a volunteer reserve for the local lifeboat for two years, before I left England. It was not uncommon, as regular crew with tiller experience, on a local fishing boat,on that particular stretch of treacherous coastline, that one was asked to act as reserve or indeed regular crew on the lifeboat, ( when the signal rockets went up, the first men aboard and ready crewed the boat,)it was nevertheless a very great honour.

 

I only crewed twice in actual emergencies, and took part in a number of "exercises". Shortly after that the RNLI got a brand new "unsinkable" boat, and I relinquished my volunteer crew status for other reasons.

 

My other "attractor", and claim to fame was a 650 Gold Flash! Some parallels are amazing eh? ( The Vincent would be worth a bob or two now!. Not to mention the "attraction",bet you wish you still had it!).

 

I fear my bad back would no longer be up to riding such machines! Ah well, the memories are sweet.

 

TL

MC