Putting Ourselves in Danger

I was raised, and still live in Blyth, a town on the north-east coast of England. It stands at the mouth of the River Blyth, and further along, waves break upon miles of sandy beach. Growing up, Blyth had just about everything other towns had, but its bonus features of river and beach opened up all kinds of adventure and mischief for us.

One thing to look forward to as a teenager was that the school summer holidays coincided with the arrival of vast shoals of mackerel in the North Sea just waiting to be hooked. On reaching adolescence, many a young lad and lass sought parental permission to fulfill what was almost a rite of passage for youngsters in the town; a night spent fishing on the pier, without adult supervision.

Tired and hungry

Some of my friends were bitten by the fishing bug, and on those summer nights, the end of the pier would be packed with adolescent anglers, who would cast their spinners into the dark waters by the incessant winking of the lighthouse at the end of an adjacent pier. Many mackerel were pulled from the sea, but most were thrown back as it wasn’t popular eating fish. As dawn broke and we all headed homeward, I envied those with bicycles, as I embarked on the two-mile trudge ahead of me, tired and hungry.

I gave up the fishing side of the trip after only a couple of visits. When it comes to waiting for a bite, I’m with Samuel Johnson, who referred to the pastime of angling as a stick and a string, with a worm at one end and a fool at the other.

Several of us non-participants still visited the pier through the night though, just to see who was there and what was going on. It was during one such visit that a friend and I placed ourselves in what could have been a very dangerous situation. But, the folly of youth and all that.

There weren’t many people on the pier when I arrived at around midnight with my friend Ray. I was about sixteen, and he a couple of years younger. We were pleased to see a friend, Billy, from our estate who was pretty much a fixture on the pier during the summer months. Being a smoker at the time, and gasping for a nicotine fix, I asked Billy for a cigarette. He said that Ray and I could have one between us, but that we’d have to go for a light as he didn’t have one. We left the pier in search of a flame, telling Billy we’d soon be back with matches.

A bit squiffy

As luck would have it, as soon as we exited the pier, we came across two men getting out of a taxi in the harbour area. They were a bit squiffy and they spoke in what I later learned was Dutch. I asked if they had a light, and one of them produced a box of matches. As I set about lighting the cigarette, Ray and I engaged in small talk with the men, as their English was pretty good. The taller of the two seemed concerned that Ray only had a t-shirt on and it was quite chilly. He insisted we went aboard their trawler, which was moored nearby, where he would kit Ray out with something to keep him warm.

As I climbed down the fixed ladder onto the trawler, I had no more concern over my safety than had I been walking to the corner shop. The four of us entered the boat, taking seats in the small galley. That’s the kitchen to you landlubbers.

Our hosts made a pot of coffee and, I kid you not, they had the cook rustle us up a plate of fried fish each. Ray and I doused the fish in vinegar and tucked in happily, while the instigator of the venture came true to his word, presenting Ray with a coat that was way too big, but warm.

After our midnight feast, we had more coffee and one of the men gave us a pouch of an unfamiliar brand of hand-rolling tobacco, a pack of Rizla papers, and, saints be praised, matches. There was a fierce argument going on in another part of the boat, so we thanked our benefactors, said goodbye, and clambered back up the steel ladder.

Back on the pier, we gave Billy some matches and rolled cigarettes. We had gone from gasping to, if I may quote Brendan Behan, smoking like lords’ bastards.

When we told the other anglers of our adventure, a gang of them went to investigate. They came back a short while later, carrying several enormous cod, procured from the hold of the trawler. As dawn broke and new anglers started coming onto the pier, all the talk was of these monster cod that were on display, which the fish filchers claimed to have caught themselves. Ray and I didn’t snitch.

Obviously, looking back on that incident from an adult perspective, going on board that boat was a dangerous and foolhardy thing to do. But we came to no harm, and so it’s difficult to mark it down as anything other than a worthwhile experience.