+  +  Zillah Goudie (1872-1942)  +  +
A Trip in a "Codder" from St. Kilda to Hull, 1906

A TRIP IN A "CODDER"

Round the Scottish Coast

She was certainly not a thing of beauty as she lay wallowing uneasily in a nasty yeasty sea. Her hull was low and black, her funnel stubby, and her one sail blown to ribbons. She was only a little ninety-ton codder which had run into Village Bay for shelter, but to us a most welcome sight, for she represented a possible chance of escape from an awkward predicament.

We were weather-bound in St. Kilda. A heavy sou'-westerly gale of several days' duration had churned up such a tumult of waters round the island that the steamer Hebrides on the last trip of the year had been unable to approach. So here we were, with the prospect of nine months' imprisonment, for no boat runs to St. Kilda from September to June. We had no winter clothes, and, what was worse, no food; nor was there any possibility of communicating with the mainland. Owing to the non-appearance of the boat, the islanders themselves were short of stores, and the prospect of two extra mouths to fill for the winter was a serious one. For three days we had lived on a handful of oatmeal and the unspeakable fulmar. So it will be readily understood that when my companion burst into my room about six o'clock next morning crying, "Get up, get up! There's a boat in the bay," I dressed in record time.

Yes, there she was, an old acquaintance of mine—the Water Rat, out of Hull. But would she stay long enough for us to reach her? Her anchor was down, it is true; but there was a quarter of a mile of seething water between her and us, and we had no boat that could cross it. Those on board waved a cheery handkerchief and gave us a friendly call on the whistle. Bu they did not know our plight, and we could not tell them. At the least favourable change in the weather they might weigh anchor and go. Hour after hour we paced the shore, anxiously watching the sea and the boat. At last, about noon, half-a-dozen sturdy islanders agreed to row me out. Even with the tide in our favour it was no easy task, and it was an anxious moment as I balanced myself, one foot on the gunwale, waiting a chance to jump to the bigger boat. A wave caught us and carried us alongside the codder. We almost grazed her side in passing. "Now!" yelled the men. On the word I jumped, and willing hands helped me on board. The skipper stood by, stolidly smoking. It would be untrue to say he looked pleased. Nor did his face lighten when I explained the situation and assured him of our undying gratitude if he would take us home. He expectorated overside, and remarked in a noncommittal way, "You'd best come below and have some grub." In two minutes I was munching contentedly at bread and cheese, washed down with copious draughts of tea. Meantime the skipper smoked on in silence. I knew my man, and did not press my request. By six o'clock the sea had fallen somewhat. The skipper ordered out the boat; we scrambled in and rowed ashore. Then followed an anxious consultation.

"See 'ere! I'd like to help, but this 'ere craft ain't got no accommodation for ladies. An' we ain't finished our fishin', an' if you come you'll 'ave to go to the fishin' with us, an' the sea's nasty."

We assured him that we did not mind the sea, that we should be delighted to go fishing, and that a corner of the wheelhouse was all the accommodation we wanted. So it was arranged, and early next morning saw us on board, waving a glad farewell to our friends ashore.

The Water Rat was an old-fashioned boat, built to withstand the weather. As her skipper proudly boasted, what she could not go over she went through. Right aft was a tiny triangular cabin, round the sides of which were several bunks, commonly called "coffins" from their dimensions and shape. The only ventilation was by the door, and the air, coming past the engine-room, carried with it a delightful odour of oil. There were no ports, the cabin being lighted by an oil lamp. Forward of this was the engine, and right amidships were the well and ice store. The well was of the kind now almost obsolete. It had no pumps, but a perforated bottom, so that the water was kept fresh by a constant exchange with that outside. It was divided into compartments: for, whatever they may do at home, halibut, cod, and conger eel do not agree in the well of a boat, and they must be brought live to Hull.

The Water Rat carried no trawl. She was a "liner." The heavy weather had prevented her from taking in her lines, and she had put into St. Kilda till it should moderate. Once clear of the island, our first care was to pick up the lines. The end was marked by a buoy carrying a red flag. The mate, a Norwegian, Tobias by name, was stationed as look-out: for, as the skipper said, "What 'Bias says is there is there, an' if he can't see it it ain't there." For nearly four hours we cruised about, and at last a shout from 'Bias announced that the captain buoy was in sight.

The lines are very long, and are buoyed up at intervals by inflated bladders. At each end is a wood and canvas buoy, shaped like an exaggerated fishing float, and carrying a blue or red flag to mark the position of the line. Every six feet along the line another line is knotted, which hangs vertically at right angles to the main line, and carries at its end a stout hook. The hooks are baited with half a herring, and the lines are so arranged that the bait is not far above the sea bed, for both cod and halibut are bottom fish. In this way one line will carry several hundred hooks.

As soon as the buoy was sighted a small hand-winch was rigged up on the starboard side, amidships, and the men gathered round, expectant. Interest was keen, for each man had a share of the profits of the trip, and so far the catch had not been good. The ice store was fairly full, but the live occupants of the well were few, and live fish bring a better price than dead. The buoy was hooked and hauled inboard, the line attached to the winch, and we steamed dead slow in the direction indicated by our row of bladders. Two men armed with gaffs stood one on either side the winch and hauled in the fish as they came up. Many and strange were the things which the hooks had caught. Now it would be a cod with gaping mouth and bulging eyes. If he were dead or dying the hook was torn from his mouth; he was thrown on deck, gutted, washed, and iced in less time than it takes to tell it. If he showed signs of plenty of life he was landed in a net, the hook was cut from the line and left where it was, and the fish was carefully lowered into the well. What's this? A dead weight on the line. The winch groans as it comes up. Bah! a gannet, a solan goose, which has mistaken the bait for a live fish and has paid the penalty with his life. A fine bird he must have been too; one pitied his untimely fate. Steady now! here's a nurse fish. Carefully! Don't tear it with the hook. Bad indeed would be the luck of a boat that hurt a nurse fish. Drop it gently overboard. Will it live? Work is suspended. Everyone crowds in breathless silence to the side. The fish lies inert. Suddenly it decides to live, gives a flourish of its tail, a wink of its ghastly eyelid (for it has one), and disappears. A sigh of relief goes up from the crew, the winch creaks on. The skipper solemnly assured us the catch would have been unlucky had the fish died.

Suddenly the crew was galvanised by a shout from the winchman. "'But, 'but, and a big 'un." Two men leaped to a huge landing net, and two more seized the gaffs. Slowly the great fish came into sight. Out swung the net round and under the precious catch. It took six men to get that halibut aboard and into the well. He was the largest we had seen, and weighed fourteen stone. One blow of his tail sent skipper and cabin-boy in a confused heap in the offal-strewn scuppers. But at last he was safe, and it was with no small satisfaction that we brought that huge fish alive to Hull.

On the following day we picked up our last line and got a good haul of fish, including another huge halibut. The wind had fallen to a dead calm, though the sea was still high. The day was bright and clear, and, to our thinking, as perfect as it well could be. The skipper seemed absurdly uneasy, and grunted unsympathetically when we eulogised the weather. He hurried on the work, and all hands seemed desperately anxious to get done. By sundown the last fish was iced, the decks cleaned, and everything made snug and tidy. A huge bank of black clouds had gathered in the north-east, and on this the skipper kept a wary eye. Suddenly a gust of wind drove an angry spatter of rain against the wheelhouse. "'Ere it comes! I knowed we'd get it," said the skipper, and in a few minutes we were right in it. The Flannan light was blotted out, and pandemonium seemed to be let loose. The wheelhouse was buried in clouds of flying spray, and it was with some difficulty we scrambled down the short iron ladder to drier quarters below. By midnight the Water Rat was justifying her skipper's boast that what she could not get over she went through. She was "taking it green." Everything was battened down, and we were undergoing slow suffocation in the cabin. We rounded the Butt of Lewis during the night, and slowly made our way in the teeth of the gale towards the Pentland Firth. But the skipper decided that we could not do it, and there was nothing for it but to run under Cape Wrath for shelter. Here, close under the giant cliffs, we lay in comparatively smooth water, sheltered from the gale, till, without any warning, the wind veered round to the north-west and began to blow us landward. What had been our shelter now became our greatest danger. With all the steam we could raise we crept forward, foot by foot, often half-buried in a sea. Inch by inch the wind drove inshore. Could we round that point before we were driven on the rocks? It was a fight between steam and wind for the soul of the boat, and we were the spectators. No word was spoken on board except the gruff orders of the skipper. Every eye was fixed on the cliffs. It was a close thing, but the gallant little boat cleared the headland with nothing to spare. We ran then before the gale till we reached Loch Eriboll, where we lay up for ten hours, and got some much-needed sleep. And so we came to Hull.

Zillah H. Goudie