Bill Griffiths

"Crabs less than 20 in number, Herrings 31 in number, Sole 50 lbs"

Not all expeditions were so successful...

Terry an Sall, Don an Bea had set out for a normal night's fishing. "It's fun," the guys said, cool and nonchalant, hoping to get round the usual male-party outing. And a chance to display their fire-lighting skills, rod-casting mania, hunting pride... "Won't there be lots of other... anglers?... laughing at us?" queried Bea. "We'll do the tricky bits: you reel the catch in, cook it. Let them dare laugh when they see what we catch!" "Will there be anyone else on the beach?" asked Sall, with a slight shiver. "What d'yu mean?" "I mean, will it be empty and... risky?" The boys laughed. "You'll love it," they cried. "In the still moonlight, with the gentle sussing of the waves, the rising of the fish, the spitting and cracking of the fire, the cold of the air and the warmth of the camp..." (On their own, it would have been more like the slicing of the wind, the call of the bugle-hounds, the madness of the shadows...) "OK, OK," said the girls, "it canna be worse than that party we went to last week..."

They were all dressed sensibly. If you lived on the coast, that went without saying. No flaring skirts and V-necks, but jeans and jumpers, and maybe a duffle-coat or army jacket for good luck. "If there's no wood for a fire, I'm not staying," was Bea's promise as they set out. "That's the fun of it... the wood-search," the lads assured them; "gets you warmed up." Though at the first mud-slide onto the beach level, followed by another and another, it seemed less and less likely anyone would dry out or warm up at all. "I thought you meant the Hall Beach," complained Sall, tripping on a stray root, and nearly - nearly - plummeting 3 or 5 feet into a soft bush. Terry saved her, and lusciously checking she was not bruised, started her giggling instead of moaning.

Truth was, they were bound for Frenchies' Bay, a squidge of lonely shore hidden in various folds of cliffs, none of it dangerous, but about the least public fishing stand anywhere on the coast. The 'French' could easily have been smugglers, you might have thought, so remote and secret it seemed as you passed down the earthy tracks to the cove foot. "Frenchies' Fries," laughed Don, "Frenchies' Bottom," shouted Terry, and an embarrassed black cormorant shook itself off some tidal rock and screamed away into the dark. "See, you're upsetting the French," warned Sal, but the lads seemed to think the solemn, quiet beach was just a perfect invite for fooling about, and were keen for kisses before the fire was even properly collected.

"Let's hunt for wood together," suggested the girls, in case they got split up and never completed the first stage of survival. In fact, there was lots of driftwood - this beach was not much used by day or night - and the stuff above the tideline was dry and crackly. Perfect, in fact. With no one else fishing and the mini-bay as deserted as it could be, the lads had to agree a fire would be something of a spirit-raiser, and set to build it to perfection. A modest base pyramid, stacks of different size wood at a proper distance, to windward, if there was any judging, and so forth. It took a bit of starting, for lack of true tinder, but then grew and grew until it looked fit to burn with a shockingly bright and hideous glare, the light rocketing round the cliffs and bouncing off the sea. "We could be smugglers," Terry suggested, "signalling to the crews at sea." "Or wreckers," sez Don, "tricking some vessel in distress to land on our jetty." "Or a lighthouse," judged Bea, "shining out to warn others of peril." "Or a beautiful campfire, where people cook fish n chips," hinted Sall, shaking Terry's arm gently off her, as they sat facing the sea. "I forgot my rod," claimed Terry, for effect.

But she was right: they might as well set up the rods and stands and have something constructive to watch. They pitched them either side of the fire, at a little distance, and assured the girls that the bit crushed live crab was the only thing for cod, before long casting from the shore out into the shelving sea. "Ideal for secret boat landings," commented Don, as they cleared up the fishing gear and resumed their seats by the fire, on some bits of waterproof. It was the cool of the middle night now, and the fire was most welcome. Not that they intended to cook any fish, or even catch any. But they did have a bottle of wine, and by standing that next to the fire, made a warmish, agreeable drink. "Go on, then," said Bea, "have you got the ---" And looking very adult and wise, Dun drew from his pocket the tiny baglet of plastic that contained four pills. A special favour from a friend in the Brig Market. "Don't drop them," he warned, meaning on the sand. And each solemnly swallowed, with a swig of warmed grape. After all, it was much like you'd expect at a party or a city rave; night, out of doors, by the sea - variables only.

There were things they realised they must not do. That was why Don and Terry had packed away the hooks and fish-knives earlier. If they did catch something, they agreed not to try to re-cast, for the hook-end boomeranging round the small cove in the dark did not appeal. Simple precautions they were unlikely to forget, even under the strange power of the elephant-letter.

The fire had dimmed a bit as they sat musing. Don leapt up and tended it, bringing a new burst of energy. It reminded him of the great light-shows in the clubs at town, and he began solemnly dancing round it, in exaggerated steps, like a Red Indian from an old school playground, round some staked fire-victim. "La la!" he shouted, and Terry soon joined him, explaining it was a traditional ghost dance. "Don't," said Bea, "don't invite the ghosts" - casting a chill glance around her. "Where could the ghosts come from?" yelled Terry. After all, the sea didn't look very likely; the cliffs - strangely aroused in the fire - only offered encouragement. "They come," dramatically, "from the other side of the fire!" and leapt through the flames. And "Is there anyone down there?" shouted Don, as he stamped on the sand. So the girls started dancing too. In fact, if only Sall had remembered the tranny, it would have been a passable representation of a tiny fragment of a usual Saturday night.

And they stacked the fire higher. The legend is that fishermen need the fire for warmth and cheer; the reality is, that they hope a fish or two will be drawn to the light, and thus inshore to the hooks. How practical that might be, I do not know. Nothing was caught that night, but something was attracted, though it was not till the main night had passed, and you might almost expect a dot of dawn to relieve the darkness, that the approach became clear.

By then the fire had died down and been rebuilt several times; more driftwood had been foraged; more collecting, dancing, shouting and collaborating been acted through, and a general bottle of soda had circulated. They settled, not to sleep, but more quietly, thoughtfully, as if expecting a miracle, tucked closely side by side. It was then Sall noticed the glow out at sea. A reflection of their own fire, anyone would have thought, but this was a steadier more persistent light: not unlike the average flame-cum-light-bulb whitey-yellow that radiance of any kind seems to produce. As though vanilla were the basic flavour of the spectrum. "It could be a boat on fire," supposed Don, torn between the idea of running off to initiate heroic contact and rescue, and staying in the group. "A light-buoy?... adrift" was Terry's suggestion. The girls squinted and shaded their gaze from the fire... what it was they could not imagine, except that it seemed perceptibly to drift inshore, towards them, changing and growing as it came, like a fleet of candles making for harbour.

Over the next hour, they neglected the fire, and agreed to keep 'ghost-watch' as they called it, smoking occasionally while concentrating their gaze and imagination on the phenomenon at sea, their visitors from outer North Sea High...

Sall was the first to guess correctly. "It's a ship," she murmured, looking at the others for confirmation or contradiction. It certainly seemed that was what it was. A ship of the large-bodied, tall mast old-fashioned kind. But a ship made of light? It shone, simply; did not rage or vary, like a fire on a vessel ought; was not dots and beads like the show a holiday-boat, off course, celebrating a birthday with strings of lamps and flags, might make. Rather, if you had a glass model, of exquisite accuracy, balanced on a table of clear water, and chanced to flooflight it, something of that shine and beauty would describe what they saw. Or thought they saw. "We burned its timbers," Sall explained, "and now it's come to our summons!"

Terry laughed, and stood up, and shivered. He wanted to break the illusion. The others looked away from the sea, at him, and the fire, and smiled in agreement. A wonderful night, but now it must be time to pack up, shed all this, get to bed even. A little walk, some cocoa in the flat, and if they were not totally worn out... They tried not to look out to sea for a while. Ordinary things to do, like tidy the fire. Last of all, reel in the lines. There might be a fish at the end of the line for all they knew, not that it mattered... Better not, in fact - who could be bothered to unhook it now? With a sigh they turned to the rods on the stands, still and unbobbing, which looked clear. "What time is it?" asked Sall. Don checked his watch by the fire. They had not been keeping much count of time that night. He frowned, and shook his wrist, as if electronic time might have a cogwheel jammed. "Two o'clock," he said, puzzled. They had all thought it must be 4 or 5, at least - the usual sort of get-coats-on and thumb-a-lift-home time. But only two hours past midnight. "It's still there," asserted Sall; and they turned again to their sea watch.

In the few minutes of their broken concentration, the light at sea - whatever it was - had come a good deal nearer. It could not be denied; no way to ignore it. The dimming of the fire, the sense of a dawn round the headland - all that was just the effect of the approach of the great illuminated sea-hull. "A ship," they all agreed. "A galleon," breathed Don, in disbelief; "like a picture painted on the water!" Now it was close enough to make out some detail: a heavy hull, clumped off-balance turrets at stem and stern, two sturdy masts, all lined in light, and a mist of glowing neon that could be sails. They clung together and watched, with an admiration and delight that was not entirely chemical. "It's a ghost ship," yelled Don, and began frantically to run towards the path, to get clear of the beach. But he only managed a yard or two, before he stumbled and fell curled in horror on the sand, nursing his soul or his ankle.

Just what had their fire drawn in? What had they signalled to? What had answered them? The incredible possibilities flashed through their live minds, and brought back no echo of a sensible explanation. A ship with flashing guns? A long-lost pirate with dead Dutch skeleton-sailors for crew? A mirage of the coast? A spectral trick of the water, the moon, the iridescent sea-surface? The sight they could not deny, but wild were their more or less unhappy guesses. Sall had run to her Don, to unwind him and comfort him. Bea had sunk on the sand, sobbing and distracted. Terry it was turned the sea, and shouted his defiance.

"I'll board her," he called out; and stripping off his gansey and boots, waded out into the foam that was beginning to radiate light itself, so close was this mighty fleet of light. After a yard or two he could begin to swim, and made direct for the ghostly hull that seemed now to fill the bay with it supernatural brilliance. His idiot-hero action brought the others to the water's edge, in amazement. Don was too strained to follow; the lasses only wondered and yelled: warnings at first, then encouragement. Terry was winning bravely towards his goal, with a strong crawl-stroke that kept him safe through the breakers and the tide-shift. He was almost alongside whatever it was, his body glaring with the reflected phosphorescent light, when he gave a scream, and suddenly spun in the water. His arms went up. Another scream followed. He tried to turn round, start for the shore. He went under. Clawing his way to the surface, he rose with pale chest almost out of the foam, and yelled, and collapsed, and resurfaced, and struggled more and more, as though entwined in some spidery trap.

Then Don realised his pal had snared himself in their own fishing lines. He raced to the rods; one was already jerked free, and sliding into the sea. Don grabbed it, and sent Sall for the other. Might they possibly reel Terry in, as it were? It seemed a cruel thought, if the hooks had jabbed into the flesh, rather than just a wind of line round the ankle, say. Then Terry's body seemed to flash in the water - lit up, like some sort of electric shock - and he was silent, still, hunched and face down in the water, barely floating, like some dead jetsam in the sea-motion. The line would not be strong enough, Don decided. He plunged in the water himself, swam as best he could to Terry's inert form, puppet-drooped under the surface; reached down for his hair, the best hold he could manage, and began - oh so slowly - to tow him back shorewards. In the shallows once more, the girls waded in to help, and the frame of Terry was hauled roughly and desperately onto the drier sand.

Don began pumping his lungs out. Suddenly they were practical again. "Build up the fire," he shouted, hoping to get some heat back into his friend. He had enough of lifemanship to know they must empty the lungs first. Then check for heart-beat and breath. There was no breath, it seemed. Yet Don, exhausted with rescue, must begin to blast air into Terry's lungs, get him breathing again. Sall took over in a while, under Don's guidance, and Bea in turn, and they chafed his limbs and brought him to the fire for warmth. A bit of colour seemed to return. A shallow breathing? A miracle if it did. There was a choke and a burst of sea-foul from his mouth, so they turned him on his side, let it roll out. A coarse, rasping breath followed, that needed no artificial assistance. It was fantastic. The fire warmed him, the jeans Don stripped off, and dried, with his own, before the fire. Sall hugged and held her Terry, and warmth and life seemed to seep back into him; but no consciousness.

Someone would have to go for help. More, it would have to be Don, as only he knew the track up the cliff exactly. Tired as he was, he put back on his wet jeans and boots, and set off up-track at a limping run. There would be other beaches; other night fishermen, somewhere, would know what to do; or a mile or two on, the town itself, with phones and ambulance facilities. On the beach, he left the girls, with the just alive Terry, and the mound of phosphorescent light offshore, that seemed to have stilled and moderated, quiescent and at-anchor almost, but at least no more the major threat. Beside, the tide, it seemed, was beginning to recede.

By the time the emergency services got down, Don showing the way, with stretchers and blankets, oxygen and some warm drink for the girls, dawn was well up; the tide was already half out. Terry had not spoken or opened his eyes, but he breathed and lay quiet. Sal and Bea were shaking and tearful with worry, after some two hours alone by the sea. Don was exhausted as any, and all the youngsters ended up together in the ambulance, on the rough track at the cliff head, for some examination and attention in hospital. They would tell about the pill, it was Terry's life that mattered; but what could they say about the ghostly apparition offshore? How would that help? What had dragged Terry under? The boat's fatal influence? The fish-hooks? The tide?

Wondering round the beach, the ambulance man spotted a great number of flabby gelatinous rings, bright-hued in the sideways dawn-light. Hundreds and thousands of jelly-fish seemed to have been stranded by the tide, slowly to pale and dissolve under the power of the sun. Their long, dangerous, electric tentacles had already melted; only the discs of the central canopy lay humped on the sand, like so-many half-cooked multi-coloured fried eggs, partly transparent, partly vivid and altogether shiny and glutinous. "By," he said, "they must have made a brave sight, swimming in together, in a mass..."