Trawler by Redmond O'Hanlon

the eyes, and the cold, so very cold…)
    “OK. So you don’t understand? Huh? Well, you have to imagine the main warps way astern plunging down to the doors, the otter-boards. And the doors are bouncing and banging along the bottom, a kilometre or so down. Imagine
that—
it’s pitch darkness down there,
really
black, because sunlight penetrates no more than 30 feet below the surface of the sea, and the pressure! One atmosphere per 10 metres. One mile down it’s a ton, plus, to every square inch, and that—that’s where Edward Forbes in your century, the nineteenth century, thought no life could exist. He called it the azoic zone. Azoic zone! And he was wrong, so very wrong. It’s full of animals—and Redmond,
what animals.
You’ll see—in less than half an hour you’ll see, right here and now, down there” (he jerked an emphatic forefinger at the slimy deck) “right below us, in the fish-room. I promise, just wait—it’ll change your life!”
    “Yeah?”
    “Aye. For sure. But those doors—they’re on the way up now—but just think of them still on the bottom. OK? So they’re frighteningthe fish towards the back of the triangle, the following net. And they keep the mouth of the net open—because they’re so designed they want to sheer off port and starboard, but they can’t, because the warps are pulling them forward, and astern they’re attached to the sweeps, the two cables towing the net. Now, half-way along the sweeps, either side, the headline is attached—the rope which becomes the upper lip of the net. It’s buoyed up with floats. And a length behind it the sweeps themselves curve inwards to become the groundrope—and that’s rolling along the bottom on your car tyres, the rock-hoppers, the lower lip of the net. Sweet as a nut! Because the fish—before they even realize it, the net is above them! They’re funnelled towards the cod-end. And there you go. A catch!”
    “At last!”
    “So you got it? You understood? You can picture all that?”
    “No. I can’t.”
    “Look—I know it
sounds
complicated, but we’re not talking gluons and quarks and string theory and the origin of the universe here—it’s ropes! It’s cables! So let’s start the other end, shall we? Here—on deck, right here. So—those main towing warps” (Luke released my arm, to point aft with his right hand) “they’re being hauled by the main winches. And at the moment they’re controlled by the auto-trawl. The computer system. As they are throughout the tow. But Jason will take over from it before the doors arrive. And, as I said, the doors are made fast to the gallows—or sheaves, if you prefer. The warps are slackened and attached to the single sweep aft of the door by the pennant. This is hauled until the tension is taken off the doors. The doors are then disconnected from the system—at the back strops.”
    My mouth lockjawed by the cold, I said, or thought I said, “Wassa pennant? Wassa back strop?”
    Luke ignored me, his eyes set on the appalling swell astern. “Here they come!”
    The massive rusted rectangles of iron, the doors, hoisted, clattered tight against their derricks, the gallows, to port and starboard. Bryan and Robbie to starboard, Allan and Jerry andSean to port, crowded round the derricks, obviously engaged in intricate tasks which yet required great strength (oilskins taut across the shoulders).
    “So now the single sweeps are hauled on to the main winch,” said Luke. (And you’re a natural teacher, I thought, but manic. Or maybe it’s just all this excitement, the being at sea, the hunting … but please, I haven’t eaten a thing in years, and I’m fizzed up with Lucozade, and dizzy…) “And when the double sweeps, the doubles or spreaders, arrive at the block, the boys will attach a messenger chain from the net drum to each one. They’ll slacken the singles until the messengers take the strain. The doubles—they’re hauled on to the net drum, on the deck below, and