Tollers of the Deep.

Waiapu Church Gazette, Volume I, Issue 10, 1 April 1911, Page 145

Tollers of the Deep.

A friend has sent us the October number of the Magazine, wnicn gives a record of mission work anomgst "The Toilers of the Deep,'" and very interesting the record proves. Mr Tom Wing, the new M.P. for Griinsby, we find taking a fortnightly experimental trip on a trawler, feeling that as the representative m Parliament of a great fishing port, he ought to be able to speak m an authoritative way respecting the lives of the fishermen. We give extracts from a speech he made on. his return: — "Now, I can speak of the enormous amount of capital m the fishing industry) of the enormous expenditure of physical strength m the capture of the fish. I can speak of the lives of fishermen, having seen them. I can speak m those departments, not at secondhand, but from actual knowledge. The world has known a great deal about the miner, and, while I am not one to detract from his arduous risks, there is a heroic man called a fisherman who has not had his due m the minds of the' nation. I have not only been to sea to satisfy myself for first-hand knowledge, but I had pictures taken of the men actually at work m all the operations of fishing, and I shall be able to show to the people of this island the magnificent men who man the trawlers, and who sail the mighty deep. We will make fish so popular that the people will have it. There are over ten millions of people m the country who never touch fish, and I for one mean 1 them to have it." Here is Mr Wing's further description of the fishermen: — "The slowness of speech, which is a habit of the mariner, is the result of the wondrousness of God's world he is ever seeing. The vastness of the sea — its everchanging grandeur, its moods of

storm and calm, the weird voices ever borne on its waves, the sobbing- of the waters as he lies m his bunk, its terrible smash as it breaks on the bulwarks and disappears m spray like gossamer. The pictures m the sky painted by the setting sun, at one moment an Oriental scene of golden grandeur, desert, palm grove, whilst m other mood the silver sun makes clouds appear as lands of ice and snow-clad mountains. At other times the blue heavens close the- whole scene, and make the horizon boundless. These and a thousand other scenes and sights which the painter cannot picture or words describe make the mariner slow of speech and action, but a thinker of deep and wondrous things." And m the venturesome M.P.'s account of his trip as "spare hand' 3 on the trawler "Cyrano," we find a most graphic account of the voyage, from which we extract the following description of a great catch of fish : — "We arrived off the Faroes on the Saturday night, having steamed without break near 600 miles. At first the islands were but a blur on the horizon, then they became grim upheavals, then tremendous sentinels, then objects almost of horror with their rugged outlines and deep inlets. Now we pass the southern point of Suderoe, and make for the open. All hands are called on deck. Gear is unlashed and the engineer is ordered to have all ready m a quarter of an hour for the shooting of the net. The romance grows. There, m a radius of 25 miles, are 37 other craft like our own at work. The skipper's knowledge of the floor of the sea is just as familiar as the ordinary man's knowledge of the district m which lie lives. He speaks of it as Faroe Bank, Magnus Corner, and so on. He has chosen his ground, over goes the lead end, and now, 72 fathoms deep, the net — 60 feet across and rising to a height of eight feet — is gradually being pulled, its enormous mouth open, along the bottom of the sea. Goodbye to rest for the crew. It is work night and day. The trawl is pulled up_ t again m., three hours, and sleep is snatched, but it is by the hour, as^ chance happens, Time for hauling arrives,. The

wincli goes merrily round. Up come the clanging doors, then the main body of the net, and now, though it is midnight and the clouds are heavy and all around is dark, the sea suddenly becomes a gleaming, illuminated mass. It is the lead end of the net rising to the surface. A great catch. The silver scales of the imprisoned fish send out glints of light, as they struggle to be free. Our boat is being rocked by the > wave. At one moment the net is level with the bulwark, the next 20 feet below ; it is a difficult operation and dangerous, but the fishermen are equal to it. The men hold on to the net, a strong loop is made, the mate hanging over the side of the vessel, held by another, and it is done. "Haul up," and the cod. end is being reeled to the fore peak and over the bulwark. All is joy on board, and it is a great sight — the catch of living, fighting fish, the water dripping on the deck, and the fishermen m their oilskins. One of the crew 'dips under, and pulls the knot, and put come the throbbing, struggling inhabitants of the deep— cod, haddock, lemon sole, coalies, etc. But the reserve net is already being cast from the other side of the vessel. Nothing must stop the fishing. The fore deck is divided into pounds or compartments, and the fish caught must be treated at once. The crew, out with their knives, and gutting begins. Livers are thrown into casks, entrails overboard, and the fish is sorted, cod into one pound, haddock into another, and so on, until the end. Then the whole is cleansed with care and packed with great skill m the hold encased m pure crystal ice. The deck is swilled, and then to the repairing of the net which has been cut. Before this is finished the time for hauling the net again has arrived, and so on, day and night, never ceasing. No more than three or four hours m 24 are snatched from the continuous round of duties. The livers are the men's own, taken as bonus, and the skipper and mate have a share of the catch, so that the more work the greater the income. Be the sea rough or smooth, they laugh and sing and rollick along, one day much like another, and

only remember Sunday by the fact that the steward includes plum pudding m the menu for that day.