As the Summer Solstice draws near, I find myself reminiscing about the summer of 1994. (Has it really been that long?) I find myself being transported from lying in bed, looking out my window at the brightening 3am sky, to being alone in the wheelhouse of a fifty-foot fishing boat, gazing in wonder at the North Sea sunrise.

I was one of a three man (cough-cough) crew and usually took the overnight tows, from around eight in the evening til five or six the next morning. We’d haul and empty the gear every two hours or so and it would take me and the Cook about twenty minutes to a half hour to clean the deck and bag the scallops. I’d take off my wet gear and take over in the wheelhouse, allowing the Skipper and the Cook to go below and sleep in their little box-like bunks.

And me? I was in heaven. I’m a night person anyway, and having the privilege to spend precious, unforgettable time on the North Sea in June and July watching the sun set and rise again... it just couldn’t get any better.

Officially, the approximate sunrise and sunset times in that part of the North Sea at this time of year are sunrise - 4:15 am and sunset - 10:30pm. It doesn’t hold true though when you’re out in the middle of no-where with nothing but water stretching as far as the eye can see. In this watery, surreal and ever changing environment, the sun seems to linger forever at the horizon; a small, burning orb pulled reluctantly beneath the waves.

Have you ever gone swimming with a beach ball and held it under water? If you keep it shallow and let go gently, it will merely pop to the surface and bob gently for a moment or two. That’s what the North Sea sunset/sunrise always brought to mind. It amazed me how the invisible sun would move scant inches, right to left along the horizon in a journey that took what felt like minutes rather than the prescribed hours.

Also amazing was the sun’s subtle transformation. It would disappear from view as an autumnal burnt orange and reappear as a brilliant, golden-yellow, as though its brief foray through the realm of poisidon had cleansed it of the previous day’s woes.

In the summer of ’94 I knew I was fortunate. I was physically strong and doing a job that few women even dare dream about. I could hang from the rigging in a gale of wind and splice a rope, use the Decca system of navigation, read a depth sounder and interpret it in terms of possible catch, turn the boat without tangling the gear and bring that same boat along side the harbour wall under the surprised gaze of local tourists. I worked the winch with the reputation as one of the safest winchmen in the Manx Fleet. Sometimes I would land bigger catches than my Skipper and witness his public displays of mock disgust and his private glances of admiring approval.

That summer brought with it the full range of human emotion and experience. I lived day-to-day and moment-to-moment and I’ve never been so alive before nor since. Yes, I knew I was fortunate but I had no way of knowing I would only have two more virus free summers before finding myself on a merry-go-round of fatigue, aches and pains, dodgy guts and number-watching.

In spite of it all, I’m fortunate here and now in the summer of 2005 as well. I still posses the fighting spirit that made me the only woman* in the Manx fishing fleet and that fighting spirit is essential for a person living with hiv. I can still find it within me to look for the adventure in life and the inspiration of sunrise.

And I can lie on my bed and think about life at sea.



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*There were one or two other women who tried fishing for a few months. I fished for five years.

For the map and/or geography buffs out there, the area of the North Sea I fished would be contained in the box of (lat and long) 2-W by 58-N, 0 by 58-N, 0 by 56-N, and 2-W by 56-N, as well as the inland strip off the coast of Scotland from Buckie in the north, right ’round the corner to Arbroath to the south.