N is for North Sea…. ( Written for M.C.)

North Sea. 5.30am or so. I’m sitting in an inflatable, bobbing about on the waves, up, down, up, down. It’s f*ckin’ cold. I’m half way between Scotland and Norway, or somewhere like that. Me and RP are zooming about and I’m trying to shoot, or waiting on the sunrise so that I can shoot. (RP- best inflatable boat driver I ever worked with, gets you where you need to be for images using telepathy, no directions given, he KNOWS what position you need to be in). But anyway, there’s a big F-off oil rig beside us, like a Christmas tree in the dark, and up on it are police keeping a watchful eye on us. To amuse ourselves we decide to try and think of an apt name for the colour of the North Sea in that half light gloom. Battleship grey, nah been done, boring grey, nah bit boring. We go through a few names, and finally after more spray from a wave peak hits us we settle on a colour. It’s apt, it fits the North Sea. I’ve never forgotten it. It’s ‘Stings Like Fuck Grey’.

Considering I come from a Land Locked family I’ve done my fair share of bobbing about on the waves of the planet, and no sea has more bobbing than the North Sea (although going through the 40′s and 50′s of the Southern Ocean is quite interesting) . The North Sea- a confused sea as it was once described to me, and as one fishing trawler skipper told me, late at night, only the instrument panel lighting the bridge rooom, “the north sea, she’s a cruel mistress”.

I think my first experiences on the North Sea was on a fishing trawler, on an overnight assignment photographing fishing trawlers for a paper. There was a fishermans protest, lots of trawlers all together, protesting latest EU rules and regulations, net sizes and quotas. I got sent out to photograph. It was fine, a night of adventure, watch dawn rise, shoot the other boats, back to harbour, home by lunchtime. The skipper that night, Ronnie,was a decent chap. I asked him how long he usually goes out for at a time, “10 days”, was the reply. “Can I come next time? ” I asked. He smiled, he laughed, he replied, “if you think you can handle it, you can come, but there’s no going back. if you’re sea sick you’ll be sea sick for 10 days”. Count me in.

And so it was, soon after that, I turn up in Aberdeen harbour early one morning. I find the ship, down the ladder, on. And for 10 days or so we’re at sea. And it was flat. I loved it. Not a lot of sleep, throw the net, rest or eat, circle round, find the bouy, haul aboard, winch the net in, get the fish, meaure, sort, gut, store in the ice. Do it all again. For ten days. I had to earn my keep, I did watch, all be it with one other guy, but I had to do my share, get up, up on bridge for 1.5hours, make sure we don’t hit an oil rig, make sure the dots on the radar don’t get too close to the central dot. And every 90 seconds or so hit the big red button to let the ship know you’re still awake. And in between all that I shot photos, trying to document what it was all like, all on my trusty FM2 (now rusting and disposed off). And after a few days when I felt I’d done every angle, I guttted fish also.

People always ask me what it is like ? Do you eat fish all the time ? No, why eat the profits ? Maybe once or twice we had some fresh fish, but we ate as normal, steak, fried breakfasts one day, muesli the next. Whipped up Angel Desert for pudding. And endless cups of tea. No alcohol, only one night we had a dram of rum, perhaps there’d been a good catch that day I forget why. No one washed or shaved, and when I did on the way home to port, the ship stank of deodorant to every corner. The fragrance pungent in the fragrance free North Sea, after days of no smell.

The only other smell was, not of fish as everyone also asks, but of diesel, of hot waterproofs dring near the engine room. Of unwashed men.

The 10 days also were calm seas. Like a mirror on one day, all the birds siting on top of the water. The crew thought I was good luck. We had a great time. And then they had a great idea, lets tie Jeremy to the winch, winch him out over the side of the boat and he can get a great shot of the ship at sea. Yeah, why not I said. In my stupid naivete. I did it, I got a great shot. Looking back I’d never do it again. Imagine it now, me on winch, out over side, moving around as the winch moves around beneath my arse, tied on. The ship suddenly goes down, or looses power, and there’s me, tied out over the side like a numpty. Oh yeah, great pic. A ‘collect’ of me in front of Daily Record, beneath the headline “Promising Young Snapper Lost At Sea’. Do it again ? nah don’t think so.

Coming back into port is always the best bit, gliding in, engine putt putt putting away, gliding in, round the harbour walls, lights ahead. Everyone on deck, working, doing their chores. Returning heroes. Valiant. Coming home. Silence. The odd shout. It’s always a great moment to come back into port.

And then once ashore, first thing they do is they phone their wives. “I’ll be up the road in 2 hours”. Why phone I ask?  “You want to get home and find her shagging your neighbour?..” they tell me, “..phone her, warn her, get the house emptied, get the house straight. Better the devil you know, than the devil you don’t”.

The North Sea. A Cruel Mistress.