321.1: As the sun set over the harbour, the lights of the city came on, one by one. (Part 1)

The Harbour

As the sun set over the harbour, the lights of the city came on, one by one. I have been fishing out of Plymouth port for as long as I can remember. My dad was a fisherman, and his dad, all the way back nearly 500 years. We Moores have been fishing the channel since the time of serfs and peasants. And in all this time, we have remained what is essentially a serf or peasant. Always poor, always scraping by, always stuck on rusted, grimy, and smelly fishing skiffs that barely qualify as a boat. 

Over the many years, Plymouth has grown into the twinkling city I look at from the stern of my vessel. Much has changed over the years, yet much remains the same. Fishermen still tell stories of hearing bells ringing from the land of Lyonnesse and mermaids wreaking havoc on their ships. We all know the latter is an easy way to hide the shame of poor sailing abilities, but we seafaring folk are a prideful bunch, and mermaids make for a fine story to share over a pint at the pub. 

As I tie my boat to the dock and unload my haul, I catch a glimpse of a massive Trawler pulling in from another successful day of fishing. The city has grown and largely forgotten us old fishermen. Gone are the days when intrepid sailors ventured into the open sea in search of a large catch. Back when the town would welcome us with open arms and excited faces. 

Keeping those expansive city lights on required a shift to large commercial fishing vessels. A few big companies now bring in more fish than anyone could dream of, and the once-honoured single-manned venture fell by the wayside. Many left in search of new opportunities, but as for me, I knew nothing else. A few of the other legacy men and I could not leave what our families had spent so long building, even if it seemed like nobody else wanted us there. 

As I walk home under the blue hue of the LED streetlamps, I notice how calm everything seems. The part of town where I live is much like me, a long-forgotten relic of an era. The streets are old but in good shape, more a testament to their lack of use than to their upkeep. Many who work on those large boats choose to stay away from the quarters close to the sea. Housing here is very old, quite modest, and often damp with mist from the harbour. It is not exactly a place many choose to live, but being within walking distance of my dock is reason enough for me. Besides, I could not afford much else. 

I draw my curtains to the outside world as I lay my head on my pillow for the night. For many, their night is just starting, but as for me, I need to be up at the first sign of light for any chance of beating those trawlers to the best spots. Sometimes I get lucky, other times I do not, but it's my only way of staying afloat. There is a slight smell of mildew in the air, an almost comforting smell, one that reminds me of my childhood, of the pride I once felt for my family and our fishing ancestry.

The Channel

I rush over to the harbour as the city lights just begin to turn off, and the sun begins to rise. I make it to my dock just as Trawler pushes off for the day. I am too late. I begin weighing my options. There are many times when I have gone out to compete with a large fishing vessel, only to be left with a catch too small to cover my gas. I can stay here, do some repairs on my boat, and maybe take a nap in the afternoon. I am almost tempted by the prospect, but then I remember how far behind I already am. My debts are piling up, and if things don't change, I will have to give in, sell my boat, and join an enterprise crew. The thought of that makes my entire body shiver. I turn on my radio and listen to the weather. We will have a grey, overcast day with little wind and no chance of rain. I have been toying with the idea of venturing deeper into the channel, past the usual fishing spots, in hopes of a better haul. It can be a risky prospect going into more open water. If the winds pick up in such a small boat, a disaster can strike. If I don't try, though, I fear disaster will strike one way or another. 

As I prep for the long journey ahead, I take a deep breath of the sea air. A subtle reminder of the life I lead and the reason I keep pushing forward. As I stand at my helm, I notice the dock disappear beyond the horizon, followed by the trawlers and finally by the other small fishing boats that managed to push out early enough for an early catch. One of their crew members waves to me with a puzzled look on his face as he watches me travel farther and farther away from the usual fishing spots. 

After I am certain there are no vessels within my sightline, I cast my first net. I pull up, empty, absolutely nothing. Maybe this wasn't such a good idea after all. Another cast, and another, each net with little to nothing at all. I am too far out to go back and try later now; I'll keep pushing. 

As I lower my net for what must be the 12th time, I hear a quiet bell ringing in the distance. There must be a passing ship just beyond the horizon. I think little of it as I continue to lower my net. I hear the bell once again, clearer. I take out my binoculars and look toward the sound. I see nothing but open ocean for miles. 

I once again shrug it off; my net is fully in the water when I hear it again. The only thing is, it sounds as if it is ringing only a few feet from the bow of my boat. I cannot explain it, even after years of fishing and living by the old channel, I feel a pull I have never felt before. I pull up my net and begin to follow the sound of the bell.