To the lights

By Roy Norton
A story of gallant men and angry seas, by the author of “The Unknown Mr. Kent,� “Captains Three� and many other notable stories.
“As chairman of one of the largest of the Billingsgate wholesale fish-dealing companies, I can assure your correspondent that the cause for the current high prices does not rest with the dealers. Your correspondent, who is evidently ignorant of basic facts, asserts that although it is the fishermen themselves who actually catch the fish, they—the fishermen—do not receive a commensurate share of the price which the people ultimately pay for a staple article of food. I must therefore correct him, and insist that they do .
“Contrary to your correspondent’s mere surmise, I may say that the hardships of a trawlerman’s life are enormously exaggerated. It must be borne in mind that these men are brought up from childhood to regard their ships as their homes, that there they are most comfortable and in their element, that they are bountifully fed, that they are in a measure independent because all work without wage, but share on a well-adjusted proportion of the price which the fish command at auction (and I may add that our buyers on the spot are invariably and sometimes uncomfortably liberal in their bids), and that they do neither toil immoderately nor run any very serious risks.
“It stands to reason that these men when in fear of storms can always run to shelter, and that they do. There is no serious hardship or stress in the lives of the trawlermen. If your correspondent were to suggest such a thing to a fisherman, he would be laughed at. No, they get much for little, and it is we men of business who, by the investment of capital and brains, fluctuations in price, etc., run all the risk.�
(Extract from a letter in the London Daily Market Scrutineer .)
Captain Joshua Fairley was pulling on the thick woolen stockings that would protect his ordinary socks and his trousers-legs from the harshness and oiliness of his great sea-boots. He sat on the edge of his bed in his cottage on Brixham hillside and stared out of the window thoughtfully at the sea whose surface was nearly two hundred feet below. He felt all of his seventy-five years, as if each had hammered him and battered him, and contemplated the hard truth that after a bitter venture that had failed, he was about to start life over again.