Pollocking in a Hooker: Schooner Days MCLXV (1165)

by C. H. J. Snider

Irish Interlude—II.

GALWAY, Eire, 1954.—

THREE fishers went sailing out into the west. From the Claddagh, oldest fishing port in all Ireland—-Ptolemy mapped it as "Ausoba" 1,800 years ago— they went in this year of grace. And glory be to God, Schooner Days was with them.

Olivers they were, all three of them, from the Claddagh's oldest fishing family. Cousin Michael of the wrinkles and the bleached eyebrows has the face of a pre-Raphaelite saint and a complexion of red tanned leather. Grizzled Martin Oliver, master and owner, possesses fierce, rebellious brows, and a humorous, sensitive mouth. The big dark steady-going lad also called Martin Oliver is the other Martin Oliver's brother's son. Their ship is the Truelight, of the Claddagh, last of hundreds of fishing hookers out of Galway to stick to handlines and sail power.

SPANISH GALLEONS

Outside of the Black Head, with Hag's Head leering beyond the Cliffs of Moher, we encountered two steel Diesel-engined motorships, with tremendously high curved stems like snakes' heads. They were smartly painted in black and white, with bright red funnels, and as alike as identical twins. The crews wore, blue caps. Spaniards they were, though they showed no scrap of bunting. They always work in pairs. Between them they will set a mile of buoyed trawl net, a "ring-trawl," and scoop up more fish in one haul than a dozen Truelights might take in a week.

That's where Ireland's fish is going. As, indeed, it has been doing for two thousand years. Galway and Cadiz have been trading since before Anno Domini. Four hundred years ago Phillip of Spain offered £2,000 a year for 21 years for the right to fish off the coasts of Eire. Franco is less generous.

The Olivers hailed these Spaniards without rancor and in fluent Irish, and the blue-caps returned the compliment in equally unintelligible Iberian. They seemed bound into Galway for supplies.

We had a half-fair wind, fresh and drawing ahead, so it was long before we got on our chosen station. This was determined by lining up two houses, miles away above Spiddal, with certain known marks on the Black Head. We trailed lines all the time, on chance of a catch, but we went too fast through the water for effective trolling. When we got on the range, speed was checked by adjustment of sails and use of the tide, and we jilled back and forth hopefully.

THREE ARMS WANTED

The Truelight fished six lines, three on each side. A sinker kept them in the water at the desired depth. The hook and bait were on a shorter length of line, attached to the main ones. The hooker's gunwale was scored with hundreds of threadlike grooves, worn in the hard oak by the incessant hauling. Martin the Master looked after two lines over the quarters, as he steered, Martin the Mate handled two on the starboard side. Michael, the other Oliver, took the two to port.

For a while business was very slack. Then the master hauled in vigorously, but just as his prey broke the water he slipped the hook. Michael landed a fine silver fish about 30 inches long, with a steel gray back, pointed nose and protruding eyes. A pollock.

He was tossed into the stone-paved well amidships and thrashed his life out while the line was baited again and streamed. Martin the Mate next got two four-pounders.

The skipper had his fingers full, steering with the long oaken tiller, trimming the mainsheet, which had to be shifted to the lee bollard every time we tacked or wore, and hauling in fish, all at the same time. Pollock they were, all of them, running up to five or six pounds. What we wanted was mackerel. Apparently these were still hiding in the deep cold water. Pollock, plaice, herring, salmon, anything would do, but we had Friday's market in mind, and our fare must be fresh for that. There was no sense in taking too many so soon. So we hauled in our lines, reset the lowered jib on the running bowsprit, and beat up for Kilronan on Inishmore, "capital" of the Aran Islands.

While the hooker horsed up against the setting sun and strong west wind supper was readied, though we called it dinner. Michael crawled into the cuddy and puffed at the carefully covered turf fire on the low stone hearth until the smoke billowing from the forward scuttle showed that the peat was glowing again. Martin the Mate swiftly scraped a fine pollock clean, headed and gutted him and cut him into five fillets. After careful washing, the five were placed in a metal pot filled with sea water, and the pot went on the turf beside the kettle, Martin the master went to look after the tea and the bread and butter, and the sandwiches Mrs. Oliver had made. I steered.

POLLOCK A LA KING

Never had I a happier trick at the tiller than that thrash in the late sunlight towards the islands of the saints in this Galway hooker. She was sweet to sail. Her sides, rounding inwards, gave her great stability and long sailing lines. Atlantic waves driving all the way from Canada made rough water, but she sliced through them like a swinging pendulum, because of her sharp entrance and long raking keel. She threw lots of spray, but none came aboard, because of her tumbled-home sides and high prow. She never pounded, never faltered, and she carried her weigh like the Queen Mary.

When we rounded to at the stone quay at Kilronan she had to make three sides of a square turn. She head-reached away up the pier with all sail lowered. Grand little ship and never meal tasted better than that one eaten in the twilight, with fingers for forks, and no napery, flatware or china. The only plate was a rusty tin lid, lined with newspaper.

And the tea! Nectar, ambrosia, steeped on the turf fire and served in three mugs for the four of us.