Luminous patches of phosphorescent light begin to move in the water,
"The mar-fire's rising," say the fishermen, the herring are stirring.
"Let's make a shot; up with the gear," cries the skipper, and nets are
hauled from below, passed over the bank-board, and paid out into the
sea--a solid wall of meshes, floating upright, nine feet deep and a
quarter of a mile long. It is a calm, clear night, just light enough
to see the buoys on the back of the first net. The lamp is fixed on the
mitch-board. All is silence, only the steady plash, plash, plash of the
slow waters on the boat's side; no singing among the men, no chaff, no
laughter, all quiet aboard, for the fishermen believe that the fish can
hear; all quiet around, where the deep black of the watery pavement
is brightened by the reflection of stars. Then out of the white
phosphorescent patches come minute points of silver and countless faint
popping sounds, The herrings are at play about the nets. You see them in
numbers exceeding imagination, shoals on shoals. "Pull up now, there's
a heavy strike," cries the skipper, and the nets are hauled up, and come
in white and moving--a solid block of fish, cheep, cheep, cheeping like
birds in the early morning. At the grey of dawn the boats begin to run
for home, and the sun is shining as the fleet makes the harbour. Men and
women are waiting there to buy the night's catch. The quay is full of
them, bustling, shouting, laughing, quarrelling, counting the herrings,
and so forth.
THE FISHERMEN'S SERVICE
Such is the herring fishery of Man. Bishop Wilson knew how bitter a
thing it could be if this industry failed the island even for a single
season. So, with absolute belief in the Divine government of the world,
he wrote a Service to be held on the first day of the herring season,
asking for God's blessing on the harvest of the sea. The scene of that
service must have been wondrously beautiful and impressive. Why does not
some great painter paint it? Let me, by the less effectual vehicle of
words, attempt to realise what it must have been.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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