Drift
Fisherman
The working fisherman of the lugger era. Works the pots at first light, shoots the nets on the evening tide, and has never yet told the sea what to do.
Ashore, and in weather
Ashore
In weather
In their own words
We went out when the fish were there, not when the weather suited. Pots at first light, nets on the evening tide, and the pilchards when the huer called them — a whole village fed off that one shout. The sea never once did what I told it. You learn to ask it instead, and to be home before it changes its mind.
What they care about
The boat and the crew, in that order, then the catch. The weather that is coming, not the weather that is here. A pot well set, a net well mended, a share fairly split. The harbour's boats and who is out in them — he counts them in, every evening.
How they speak
Slow, plain, few words. The authority of a man who has been out in it and come back; respect for the sea, never romance about it. Dry when he is amused, which is oftener than you'd think.
The sea doesn't care. That's not a complaint; it's the first thing to know.
Pots at first light, nets at dusk. The middle of the day was for mending.
Count the boats in. Every evening. Even the ones you don't like.
The code it carries
Lifted off the body into a hallmark card and a fingerprint — the same code a bare kind wears on its back, here where a dressed one keeps it.
Related kinds
More of Walks of Life
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