mack the knife

"Mack the knife"

While having a quick read through the stories so far, and thinking which disaster to about write next, it suddenly dawned on me that the "Prof" wasn't the only disaster area. It must seem blatantly obvious to anyone reading these stories that I wasn't the safest person to be round.

This short story adds to that perception.

Sunday. We all troop off down to the jetty to clamber aboard the M.F.V. (see photo ) to go fishing. This vessel was crewed by our friends the Naval Detachment. The “crew” usually consisted of two matelots, the coxswain and the engineer. Payment for their time and labour was in the form of a case of beer from each of the passengers. This could sometimes be a little dodgy. It wouldn’t be the first time that the “fishermen” had found it necessary to find our their own way back to Terra Firma because the crew were too far gone to stand, let alone operate a boat.

We'd spend about an hour to an hour and a half getting to the area where we were going to drop anchor and start fishing. This part of the trip was normally taken up “Trolling” for the Biggies. Things like Tuna, large Barracuda, shark or anything else stupid enough to latch on to our brightly coloured lures.

Sometimes we were quite lucky and some decent sized Tuna ended up in the Kitchen Freezers.

However, the day in question didn’t provide any “on route biggies” so as soon as we reached our chosen location we dropped anchor and started to prepare for a good days fishing.

I can’t recall all the names of those on board, but I know for certain that there was “Yorkie”, myself and our friend “Big Mac” . At this point I should explain that he was not a Burger. He was a huge Jock, not to be trifled with. A smashing bloke, but still someone to be wary of. We’d never seen him in action, and we weren’t going to point him in that direction. (see photo)

On board the boat was a box type affair fixed to the deck with a lid that arched upwards and outwards when opened. This was the “Bait Locker”. This was usually filled with ex fish caught while sitting behind the NAAFI consuming vast quantities of Ale.

The sea was like a mill pond, not a ripple in sight. Ideal for a quiet days fishing. A few beers were the order of the day, purely medicinal, dehydration and all that stuff.

Big Mac was like a kid with a new toy. He’d been to Honolulu and had treated himself to what he called a fishing knife. I don’t really care what he called it, it looked more like a Samurai sword. It was bloody enormous. The way it just sat there glinting at you was enough to frighten you to death. This ton of highly polished steel was Mac’s pride and joy.

“Aye, ye can use the wee thing, but dinne damage it” That sounds about right, but I’m not too familiar with the Scottish dictionary. I think the English translation is “ of course you can use my little knife, just don’t cause any damage to it”. I’ll stick with that.

We’re doing quite well, pulling in the odd Tuna. Small shark here and there. What better way could you use up the time between cans of beer?

Yorkie caught the bottom. He thought he’d got a world record fish on the end. He was trying to convince everyone on board that the motion of his line being pulled under, then coming back up was a fish. It took the rest of us and the Navy especially to point out to him that it was the swell of the sea. Eventually he caught on and the line was cut.

This is where I make my big mistake of the day.

Yorkie’s line was cut, so mine was going over the side. Check the line, all in good order. Trace and hook, take a sub to break that. Bait, decisions decisions decisions. What sort of bait should I use?

Lift lid of Bait Locker, faint sliding sound. Wonder what that was?

I soon found out.

This huge suntanned form suddenly hurtled across the deck. Almost went over the side in his frantic attempt to grab the glinting object heading rapidly towards the water. Too slow, missed it.

“Ye stupit bludy Sassenach, ye bassa (something to do with the validity of my Birth Certificate I believe). Ma wee knife, ye lost ma wee knife".

“Oh, that’s what the sound was”. This was only a thought. If I’d uttered those words I may have ended up as just another part of the contents of the Bait box.

Never have I been so scared in my life. Chatty had lost Big Mac’s Knife. What now? Did I have an option? Big Mac’s wrath or a swim with the sharks? I think the sharks seemed favourite because without a doubt I’d be with them one way or another. Dive in or be thrown in?

The seconds ticked slowly by. I was still dry so I’d not been thrown to the sharks. I felt no pain so I’d not had my skull crushed. Something was amiss, why was I not dead?

I looked around to see Mac leaning against the railings. I looked for a tear, none. He was twitching, but even that was subsiding. Then, he uttered the words, “ I suppose we can all mack a wee mistake, that’s a new wee knife ye owe me Chatty”

Now I know from experience how the condemned man must feel when told he’s been granted a reprieve.

Me, as bad as the “Prof” surely not.