The trip began one October night in 2001, when I transferred from a fishery patrol ship to a rusty old trawler more than 200 miles out at sea, somewhere on Newfoundland’s Grand Banks.
My predecessor had left a note in my cabin which read:
“Careful of the ship’s nurse – he is a bit too touchy feely if you catch my drift. Don’t believe the figures the Captain gives you – he’s making them up, and go careful around the crew – one of them was killed 2 weeks ago when he got caught in the winch was cut into 3 pieces. His brothers and cousins are onboard, and they are pretty cut up about it! Have a good trip!”
I’ll share extracts from my diary – 111 days in the North Atlantic involving decapitation, hurricanes, mutiny and a dog named Pirate ‘live’, but 16 years to the day later, starting on the 18th October 2017.
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