The Shipping Forecast

Tyne - Part 3

Now the inn-keep shuffles to the sound, insistent banging on both door and in mind. Opening to light that blinds and air that needles; Freeman the fish standing at door, men, boys and women shuffling harbour-wards.

"We'm out," states fish; turns to join the crowd, Bamforth the inn-keep hurrying to follow, clear head now and urgent to task.

Down to the harbour, gathering quick, bold men and worried wives, looking to sea and the evil shore, breakers large and killing-quick. Gibson the harbour master turns and shakes his head. Whispers of insistence, nods of agreement, the willingness to try and brave face to match, the order given and the boat brought out.

See her emerge into sunlight, out from slumber; blue, red, white, polished and pin-neat, varnished smooth and always-new, pride of the town. The Robert Whitworth, ready, aye, ready for service. Oilskin slick and cork jacket tight, men at rope and wheel, haul and roll down to the harbour. Oars shipped, willing hands wait for the order - waiting in vain.

Storm refreshed, turns its wicked self to blow teeth into the face of lifeboatmen, assaults the shore with waves large and spume heavy. Gibson turns and shakes his head again, draws on his pipe and eyes his men; "We'll take her to 'em."

Only four of us left firm of mind - two lying listless in fate. Wind turns - cruel jest. Easier now in bay but deadly still near shore. We can't get in, yet one of us wants to try. We argue and fight among ourselves. Stupid and wasteful, we scream obscenities and anger 'tween our faces when we should be as one. Gestures of rage and frustration, shaken fists and tears.

Drifting nearer, sound of rolling death increases and scares. Furious rowing to get clear; further torment to body and soul. Too tired to keep rowing. Too keen to live still. We can't get in! Oh Lord, if help don't come soon, we be lost! Lord, please, hear my prayers! I've a long life to live and deeds to do yet.....

There's only four of us left!