An autobiographic tale of an adolescent’s adventure aboard a distant water trawler sailing out of Hull in the 1960’s to the Northern fishing grounds around Bear Island in the Arctic. Contrary to common belief Hell is not a hot place but freezing cold!
I was up so early it was still dark in what later turned out to be a grey overcast day, 0400 hrs to be precise and the sun hadn’t yet risen, not that it would be visible through the thick blanket of murk when it did eventually raise its head above the eastern horizon. I looked out from the cosy confines of my bedroom at the thick damp fog which had enveloped Hull and the surrounding areas overnight. The atmosphere was heavy and wet hanging like a drab kitchen cloth, with light rain we in the north call ‘drizzle’. Opening and leaning out of my prism like window, the tri-angular design style look at odds with the large curved bay windows of the main bedroom and the lounge below, I took a deep breath taking in what was a foul smell akin to kippers or sour foot odour.
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