256 NORTH SEA FISHERS AND FIGHTERS 



with hurricane ferocity straight from the Polar regions. 

 I have seen the coast strewn with wrecks and the uplands 

 by the cliffs covered with enormous trees that have been 

 uprooted and flung down. 



Recollections such as these returned as I looked 

 eastward and saw the tumbling yellow seas and ghostly 

 steamboats which were waiting till the tide served, so 

 that they might seek the shelter of the harbour. The air 

 was thick like fog with snow and spray, and already, 

 three hours before high water, there were signs of what 

 the seas would be like at the top of the flood. Waves 

 were rushing and swirling round the end of the east 

 pier, and the great mass of stonework was from time to 

 time smothered in the breaking waters. The combers 

 were thundering on the beach, and the surf was whipped 

 from the crests and carried townward in a vast grey 

 cloud. Above was the leaden, sullen sky, ahead was the 

 gloomy Castle Hill, alongside was the long procession of 

 the seas, under foot was the slushy snow, and all around 

 me was the swiftly growing storm. From the chimneys 

 of the old town, rising on the hillside, the smoke was 

 caught by the levelling wind and mingled with the ocean's 

 spray. 



I fought my way along the foreshore, and as I 

 passed the lifeboat-house the doors were flung wide 

 open, oil-skinned men were putting on their life-belts, 

 and the crew were standing by in readiness to meet a 

 call. The first of the steam-trawlers, a battered paddle 

 vessel, was making for the harbour, although the tide- 

 ball had not been hoisted. I pressed forward, almost 

 doubled up as I leaned against the wind, and struggled 

 down the Lighthouse Pier, and there I learned once 



