Ghost Ship

A Ghost Story set beside the sea
By Basil John

(Hi Webmaster.... Here is a Genuine untouched photograph taken in 1959 or 1960 with a true story to go with it. I have researched steam fishing (trawling) from Scarborough and the last one to sail from there was in 1954......interesting if not spooky.

This story begins a half century ago in an English east coast fishing town, where, set back from a high cliff edge and almost lost among so many others, there is a small private hotel. It is a late August evening.

The panoramic view from the cliff edge should include the beach, the old town, a crowded harbour and the bay beyond, but is instead the upper surface of a dense cloud from which only the topmasts of boats and the tallest of the town’s chimneys protrude. The view upwards is of a large darkening sky.

But we forget; in the centre of our picture is the town’s lighthouse, its broad base is lost in the fog, but its lantern can be seen clear enough and the light cast from it; a narrow beam moving from left to right over the silent bay; a guiding light intended to reach out over the dark water for a helmsman to steer by. Now it is skimming over the surface of the fog, but is of no real consequence. It is redundant. Its job is done. All the fishing boats are back; safely secured to the quayside and to each other; some head to head and overlapping; others bound side by side, as if in inseparable friendship.

They have evocative names, these brave and cared for vessels, behind which lie unspoken aspirations or dreams; Bountiful ... Our Nancy ... Friendship ... Patricia Dee ... Two Sisters ... ; And as the last of their engines stops, a contented silence falls, to distort time and distance.

A solitary seabird; a Fulmar, skims past in silence and on stiff wings towards an invisible roosting ledge beneath the castle walls and to a grumbled welcome from its partner.

With this, the last of the towns’ fishermen is safe ashore; and in the silences between the long mournful growls from the foghorn, the sound of footsteps and laughter can be heard floating up from the narrow streets and from the open doors of the town’s many taverns and low waves can be heard lapping against some distant obstacle and breaking softly onto broad wide sands, where only a few hours ago, children, and lovers, splashed barefoot and carefree on the restless margin between land and sea.

An idyllic scene; but look there; far out in the bay, or where the bay might be if it were visible. No not so far out, but far enough; there is a light of sorts, a dim glow in the fog. Could it be another boat, its lights dimmed and diffused by the fog.

We must wait for the next passing of the beam to see if there is a tell-tale mast.

Here it comes ...

Yes; there is something. There, in line with the far headland. But there is no mast, or light, only a dark space as perfectly round as a whirlpool; a deep pool in which only a darkened and silent vessel could hide.

The light has passed and we must fix our gaze once more on the spot and wait, with patience for the light to make another sweep. And when it does, there is nothing, only the slow, almost indiscernible, rippling of the fog.

The next day

In the morning the fret is lying some many miles distance out to sea. Burned back from the thankful shore by the summer sun. Early risers are taking advantage of an almost deserted beach and just offshore a crab boat is making its way from marker to marker. And, in the sunlit dining room of our hotel, nine guests have finished breakfast and are about to go their separate ways.

A studious man who sits alone and is in his later years, will shoulder a canvas bag and tramp down the coast in search of semi precious stones; Cornelians.

A young art student, who is here with his friend, will make his way down to the harbour, clutching his sketchbook and easel, to make a drawing or two of the picturesque fishing boats. There is a cash prize offered by the art school for the best work done over the summer holiday.

His friend, who is sitting at the same table; he will pay his respects to his Grand-mama who now lives alone in retirement not so far away. And he will convey love to her from his Papa and Mama.

The two girls, who sit with perfect deportment at a table set in the middle of the room, will – according to their two plainly dressed, elegant guardians ‘... attend to their studies in the for-noon; only venturing onto the beach in the warmth of the afternoon, where, if they do well in their studies, they might take part in the day’s sand castle building competition. The two young men might assist if should they find themselves free.

For the young men, not so long out of ordinary school, it was more instruction than request.

As for the young couple who sit eyes to eyes in the bay window and hold hands under the table ... they will do ‘nothing really’ and be contented.

In the Old Harbour

There is a vessel lying close by the lighthouse, but hidden from common view by the sturdy stone wall of the old harbour. She is a treat for any artist’s eye; an old steam fisherman and all her gear is seized like stone; even the levers, cylinders, con-rods and gearing of her huge steam winch look as if they had not moved in years. And the windows of her tall wheelhouse; they are so caked with salt spray, neither curiosity or sunlight could begin to penetrate them. She is a derelict that has lain here for months if not years; an old trawler out of place and out of time, time that has covered it from stem to stern in rust of every colour, with barely a fleck of paint remaining.

The best view is looking back almost straight at the wheelhouse from the boats fore deck. It is a view against the light, which is not good. But there is an area of deep shade cast from the lighthouse, and it is here, on the slanting deck, that our artist sets up his easel. And with his back to the base of the foremast he opens his sketchbook and begins his drawing.

It is quite cool here in the shade and our artist is thankful to have the use of a new waterproof jacket. It is not really new; only new to him; given, or to be more accurate, impressed on him by the landlady of his ‘diggings’; it had belonged to her dear late husband. He too enjoyed drawing and passing time hanging around the harbour and watching the comings and goings of the many boats. He had brought it back from a jumble sale, or similar, at the fishermen’s mission. He was always bringing things back from there; bits of maritime bric-a-brac and sea stories told to him by retired fishermen who, with their bodies ruined by work at sea, now have little or nothing better to do.

She had known it would suit the young man and that it would fit him perfectly; and it did, and as it was windproof and waterproof, and looked quite like a leather jacket, he was pleased to accept it. Its only fault was that it was grey, a colour that belonged to the past; like this old boat.

The age of steam fishing had ended long ago, during world war two, and this old vessel was built long before that, probably before world war one, and as far as could be seen she had not been updated since; with all her fittings still of iron based metal or tarnished bronze. And one, no doubt, with tales to tell of terrifying high seas, lost fishing gear, ice, encounters with enemy ships, mines, dive bombers and U-boats.

There are huge enamelled lanterns, slung between the fore-mast and the wheelhouse, which once afforded light for the men to work, gutting and cleaning and packing their catch. They have gas mantels, fed via long rubber tubes from somewhere unseen behind the wheelhouse.

It is when our artist is drawing those interesting lamps, there reflectors, and the long taught wire that holds them, with great care; his artists eye darting between them and the paper, constantly judging each curved shape in relation to the next and against the straight wheelhouse with its blank windows, when, and in a moment, all that he has drawn is suddenly totally wrong.

The lamps have moved; the one that was just a moment ago close over his head, is in that instant out of his view, even outboard of the ships side and is swinging back wildly threatening to break loose from its wire and strike him over his head. A fire bucket breaks loose from somewhere unseen and rattles across the after deck;

Our terrified artist cowers; his head bowed; his arms crossed over his head. His easel, his book, his drawing and his pencil fly to who knows where.

The rusty hulk has come alive and is rolling back and forth to the sounds of squelching, scraping and groaning. Terrifying sounds only brought to an eventual end by a fearful shudder that travels from stem to stern and back again; and back again; and back again; and with each successive shock flakes of rust from somewhere high up on the foremast, shower down like confetti.

It has held its pose for long enough against the pressure and has resolved to float on the rising tide.

Our artist, unsteady on the moving deck, recovers his easel, and his drawing, and sits back where he was under the mast. Here to catch his breath and continue his drawing, but the sun is burning straight into his eyes. He can’t see a thing. As for his drawing; it’s not quite as he wished it to be, it is short of some detail, like the builder’s plate that should reveal the vessel’s name, but his only pencil is lost to time among the rusty cables and chains.

It is time to call it a day; to leave the old hulk alone with its imagined memories; to find a stationers, or an art shop, and then a milk bar for a hot coffee. He can always come back tomorrow.

He buys a new pencil, and at the milk bar the young artist hangs up his ‘new’ jacket on the hat and coat stand, props his easel in the space intended for umbrellas, and between sips of reviving frothy espresso he reviews his drawing; It is not at all bad, with areas that surprise him. Could he really draw like this, and this well? If only he’d had a little more time.

He looks at his watch. The sun will have moved around by now. And there’s a little over an hour before he has to meet up with his friend, the two schoolmarm types and those ‘posh’ girls. There is easily time to bob back to the harbour.

But when he gets there, the old hulk has gone. He looks everywhere, and then stands for some time gazing in disbelief at the vacant berth, asking himself how it could be possible for the hulk to have been towed away in such a short time and without leaving a single trace. But it had happened. And on the way back to the Hotel, via the milk bar, he makes a small detour to a spot where he can see for thirty miles or more straight out to sea; and many miles to the north and the south. There is a cloud far out on the horizon, probably the fog bank of last night far; lots of small boats inshore; The Coronia pleasure craft about half a mile out to sea and between her and the fog bank there is nothing.

There is no steam trawler to be seen. But close by, on the crowded beach he can see his art school friend; and close by him and on a collision course, the ladies in their long dark cover-up clothes; and next to them, two straw boaters with the girls underneath. He turns and runs the few yards to the hotel; drops his easel and his sketch book in the lobby, and runs, clutching his coat, down the winding path to arrive on the beach and by his friend’s side; just in time.

A surprise

The girls turn out to be great companions; interesting and dammed good looking to boot, making the afternoon unexpectedly full of pleasant diversions and the sand castles the four build together are splendid. One has a high tower with a room at the very top to represent a chapel; it has a single window that looks out over the sea; the other has the deepest moat that beach has ever seen and impregnable fortifications. Both are, of course, built to the girls' instructions and are a real hit.

The girl’s protective guardians are happy too, and after a little pleading allow their ‘presumed’ fragile charges to ride on the donkeys ... ‘as long as they don’t go too fast and the young men stay in close attendance.

The donkey ride is a true spectacle, the proprietor admitting, with great pride that none of his patrons in over 40 years had looked so serene or as beautiful. He had selected his two best donkeys. And later the girls are allowed to walk back to the hotel in the care of the two young men.

It is a walk with its own pleasant surprise, for when catching their breath at a secluded rose garden, cut into the cliff, the charm of their charges overcomes the young men’s half knowledge that the girls are too young, or too posh, or something else far less tangible, to kiss.

Time passes

The fog returns that evening and the next and the next; and the days between are warm and sunny; and each morning the hotel proprietor enquires as to the activities of the day:

The fossil hunter guy is to add to his hoard of tiny semi precious stones.

The young men will do their own thing ... hanging around the harbour and exploring in the mornings, and as they quite like the girl’s now they will entertain them in the afternoons; not always under the close eye of the ‘eagles’.

And the 'Smiths? They will do their ‘... nothing really’ and be content to have little or nothing tangible to show for it. And they will miss the odd breakfast.

Time passes

The young artist has temporarily forgotten 'the case of the disappearing ship’: and then he sees it again and this time he is with his friend. It is the last evening of their holiday and they are on a late evening ‘sun down cruise’

There is dancing to live music on the Coronia's boat deck and two local girls to dance with. Their little ship has stopped beam on to the shore, so all aboard can admire the sunset over the castle and the town.

It is supposed to be romantic, but the company is wrong, so it isn’t, and the two excuse themselves from their partners, duck through the engine room, where they stop for a little while to admire the immaculate engines, then go back on deck.

They are on the seaward side and the old fishing boat is lying as still as still between them and the horizon; illuminated orange in the sunset. There are no lights; no men on deck or visible in the wheelhouse; no whisper of exhaust steam or shimmer of heat from her stack and not a trace of a wake from beneath her counter stern, or evidence of an anchor.

The artist and his friend know it is impossible to photograph such things; others have tried or have faked them and been ridiculed. True the photographs will be poor, if they 'come out' at all as the light is all but gone; there will be 'loads of camera shake', even though their ship's engines are the smoothest running straight sixes ever built. And their ship is rolling a little in the swell.

The two friends agree; there is ‘no chance, but with the luck they had enjoyed over the last few days ... still worth a try'; he selects B for Bulb, and holds open the shutter; then he winds the film onto the next frame and presses again, this time holding it open a little longer.

And when the film 'comes back' from processing there is no print; everything else has come out beautifully ... including those of the two girls riding on the donkeys and the one of 'his' girl in which she looks 'like a film star'.

It would be years later when our artist uncovers the negatives.

The holiday is over

In the morning the young men, unused to packing, are late for breakfast and miss wishing a last goodbye to their 'girls'. But it does not matter; no goodbye spoken in the light of day could follow the unforgetable of the previous evening. And in the lobby and about to leave; our artist collects the easel he had abandoned on that first day and recovers his sketch book from underneath the hall table.

Embarassed by a little dust the landlady takes it from him and disappears. She is away a little while; and the young artist, concerned, leaves his friend to guard their bags to find her sitting at a table; his sketch book open in front of her; her figures tenderly caressing the exposed surface of the paper. It is as if she is newly blind and attempting for the very first time to read the code. But there is no impression of any kind, only soft pencil marks on paper.

She is startled, and after exchanged polite embarrassed apologies; she explains: '... the drawing is exactly like one that her dear, late, husband once made ... it had been years ago now ... the young man must have found the same old photograph in the town library ... he was often there on rainy days, researching this or that ...'.

The artist says nothing. And in her own time, and without another word being spoken, the dear lady passes him his sketchbook.

In the afternoon there is a change of occupants and that same evening the town is once more inundated by that shallow fog; only the topmasts of fishing boats and the tallest of the town’s chimneys protrude into a darkening sky, and when the last engine in the harbour is shut down silence returns.

Low waves can be heard lapping softly onto the wide sands, and if you were to listen really carefully you might hear embedded in that gentle lapping, the sea’s recorded memories: The sound of footsteps splashing on that eternal restless margin between land and sea; the rattle of a steam winch; the calling out of prices bid for this catch of fish, or that. And other memories; the laughter of the young and carefree: the weeping of the careless and the love of those unwillingly apart in life, but welded together for eternity.

And out in the bay there are diffused glowing lights; now here and now there; electrical discharges within the fog that dance across the bay, from crab pot marker flag to crab pot marker flag. It is St. Elmo’s fire. And far out at sea; where the sky might meet the sea, a silent storm is lighting up the eastern sky.

Thirty Years Later

Our artist returns to stand on the same cliff top. while his dear wife pays her respects to her Aunt who lives in retirement nearby.

The view includes a beach bathed in sunlight and full of holiday makers; the mostly very young are running in and out of the sea and pretending to be frightened by the tiny waves; others, not quite so young are playing ball games, or walking hand in hand on the margin between land and sea, while adults are supervising or baking in the sun. There are donkeys giving rides to children and here and there, there are castles made real in sand.

A passenger vessel sounds three blasts on its horn and emerges stern first from the harbour; its deck full of tippers with delighted faces. This brave vessel served at Dunkirk and was once named The Regal Lady, she is now Coronia 2. It turns its head towards the horizon, wallowing in its own wake; its single engine on standby, while a speed boat roars past, then, with a burst of power, it moves out across the bay, turns towards the north and is lost to view behind the castle headland.

He returns his eyes to the beach and among all the colour sees two darkly dressed ladies; They are sitting alone next to one of few open spaces as if they are reserving it for someone. There is something compelling about them, and he goes down onto the sands to seek them out. They are reading while being guardians of two magnificent sand castles. one has a tall tower with a single window set high up overlooking the sea, the other has huge strong fortifications and the deepest moat he has seen in thirty years.

And at the donkey rides, the one with the larger animals, there is huge excitement and two beautiful girls riding side by side.

Here are some highly recommended books about ghostly ships on the high seas: