Lord help poor fishermen

“Lord ’elp poor fisherm’n on a night like this!” said Jim to himself as he stood at the rear of the Crow’s Nest Inn, watching the French fishing smack fight heavy seas as it crossed the bay, lashed by wind and rain. He pulled his collar tight around his neck. As a lad, working the nets with his father and brothers, Jim always knew he would find something better.

“Not going out tonight, Jim?” the landlord had asked.

“Nah!” He said. "Nor in this weather. Pots ’a wait fer mornin’.” He’d no intention of going out in any case. As the boat struggled by the line of buoys marking Jim’s lobster pots, (now hidden by the rampaging waves) he hoped it wouldn’t snag his lines.

Next morning Jim went out to a calmer sea. The first lobster pot he hauled in was empty, as were the second and third. The fourth held a shiny blue lobster that tumbled as the dripping trap cleared the still rolling waves. Two more and then Jim found the container dropped by that French boat yesterday evening. £15 for three lobsters, £1,500 cash for the ‘mystery’ package.

Jim always knew he would find something better.