North Sea Tales

Right on queue, they watched as the harbour entrance lights changed from welcoming Green, to Forbidding Red.

“Bastards!” – grunted the coxswain, vocalising exactly what they all thought, in that little chaotic bouncing pilot boat wheelhouse, about the “powers that be!” that had seen fit to close the harbour, just as the hapless supply vessel passed the point of no return.

A cruel pointed reminder to all, as to who exactly was in charge of the lives of all involved.

The fat greedy corporate selfishly motivated executives who were more intent on securing an uninterrupted weekend of booze and debauchery and even worse, Golf!, then looking out for the safety of anyone braving the elements of the North Sea, who were actually producing the wealth and excess the executives wasted on themselves and their own.

The ship, progressed, towards the outer breakwater, not so fast as to amplify her vertical movements, and risk scraping the barnacles off her hull on the channels occasional rock, and gravel, but keeping enough water passing over her large rudders to keep steerage way, despite the increasing exposure to the open water wind strength trying to push her off course and onto the rocks.

The ships thrusters were working hard, their small noise, but powerful propellers situated in tunnels through the hull with a hole each side, port and starboard about 3 metres below the present water line, allowing the ship to be pushed sideways through the water to help her stay on course in the restricted waters.

The further they progressed along the entrance channel the larger the swell became, it was difficult to stand, so they jammed and wedged themselves against various pieces of equipment, and bridge furniture, that was bolted down, or built into the structure.

The ship heaved and rolled in the mixed swell at the entrance, a place that had claimed many lives in Aberdeen harbours long and at times tortured history.

As they were passing the safe water buoy the radio which was strangely subdued that night, toned into life, with its absurd musical chime, a technical intruder in the sombre scene.

“Aberdeen Pilots , Aberdeen Pilots, this is Aberdeen harbour control”

“Go ahead Aberdeen Harbour Control”, – replied the Pilot boat Coxswain.

“We are closing the harbour, the weather conditions have worsened and the harbour is now closed for reasons of safety”

The ship’s wheelhouse crew glanced at each other, the Skipper stared straight ahead, impassive.

“Bastards!”

The Mate had summed up the situation, in that one word.

The “Bastards” were not the pawns in Harbour control, they were the “Players” who we all knew were ensuring their weekend would not be disturbed.