It was the dead of night as storms battered the port of Grimsby. They named the tiny baby Jimmy. He broke away from his mother with just a whimper, his flesh clear like parchment, without a single blemish. His mother held him to her breast, wondering how this wee soul would survive in a harsh and unforgiving world.
Scars came in many forms. First and foremost, there was the inner scarring of his father’s disappointment and disapproval. Arthur was six feet, three inches tall and an amateur boxer, known for his powerful left jab. He had imagined his son might one day grow to be a fine sportsman and on each dreaded birthday, from the age of five, Jimmy was subjected to the humiliation of being measured against the wall. His father muttering about his damnable height, saying “is this child ever going to grow?”. His mother defending him weakly saying, “leave the child alone Arthur”. Jimmy, unable to look his father in the eye, wondering how he would ever make up the lost inches or somehow gain his father’s approval.
He was a hyperactive, accident-prone child; trouble followed him like the evening shadows. By the age of ten Jimmy had notched up a number of ugly scars from various incidents. One early act of self-sabotage, running into a lamp post when he was five, left him concussed with a nasty gash to the head that required several stitches and a short stay in hospital. Then there was the time he tumbled off a pier ladder in Grimsby harbour. The tide was out and he struck his face on a rock, badly lacerating his cheek. Visits to the local GP were a regular occurrence for Jimmy, though his mother, a slight, practical woman with delicate hands became quite adept at tending to his wounds.
Education passed him by like a freight train, leaving him planted on the platform with little to show for the many hours studying cloud formations through the catchment windows. His main subject being the science of bunking off.
In spite of his size, he was strong and wiry and when threatened, let his fists do the talking. He felt compelled to pass on what his father dished out, after a drinking bout, when he might dispense a slap across the back of the head or push him around like a featherweight on the rope-less canvas of the world. When he was fourteen his nose was broken by Hermon who, two years older, towered over him, although Jimmy gave a good account of himself and landed a number of useful punches that left angry, purple bruises for Herman to remember him by.
Jimmy couldn’t wait to break free from the shackles of school and on his sixteenth birthday, followed his father to work the North Sea fishing grounds out of Grimsby. Notoriously dangerous work, that required adhering closely to safety regulations, something Jimmy was inclined to flout given half a chance. More accidents, more markings; including damage to his upper arm and a dislocated shoulder caused when a line suddenly became taught. His leg was also broken when a winch slipped, dragging him into the winding mechanism.
In spite of these misadventures Jimmy somehow survived, marrying Mary, who calmed him, softening his inner wounds. She was a kind, local girl who smiled at everyone she met. When he felt someone was getting at him she’d say “Jimmy, just let it be”, to which he might reply “aye you’re probably right, what would I do without you?”.
She gave him three daughters whom he loved dearly. He was happy not to have sons for fear he might repeat his father’s violent behavior and at least the girls would be safe from the perils of life at sea.
Naturally superstitious, he eagerly took on the sailor’s tradition of being tattooed, believing they were talismans to ward off bad luck. These striking images tended to follow a maritime theme: the usual anchor; the lighthouse and the schooner; along with more sentimental offerings such as the names of his wife and daughters, emblazoned on whatever bare patch of skin was left to fill. They became an illustration of his time spent on the rolling sea, where harsh conditions were an accepted part of life.
Over the years his children grew, finally leaving home, Jimmy felt like it had all been a dream; although life had in many ways been good, he felt it had passed him by.
Inside, the twisted darkness that fell into him during childhood and the layers of regret over allowing his father to dominate his life, still haunted him. He thought “I’m fifty two, no, fifty three”, he could hardly tell any more, looking older than his years in the dark puzzle of time. Jimmy had heard about people taking the wrong direction in life but had never before thought it might apply to him. He’d seen life at sea as a way of breaking free, but now it felt like just another trap.
He’d chosen the wrong path.
One perishing winter’s day, Jimmy, along with the trawler’s crew, were twenty-five miles out from Grimsby. A storm warning had been forecast for the following day by which time they should have returned to the safety of the harbour. Of course, forecasts were not always accurate – this happened to be one of those occasions. Jimmy was working up forward, stowing away equipment and ruminating about his life, having neglected to don his life jacket. Regulations stated that life jackets should be worn at all times, but they were cumbersome. The sea seemed relatively calm, Jimmy felt safe enough. The captain shouted from the bridge, “Jimmy! Life jacket – that storm is coming in sooner than expected.” “Aye captain, I’ll just finish this first,” Jimmy said as he continued securing the forward deck. He became aware that dark clouds were rushing in at an alarming speed as the sea started to flex its muscles.
A freak wave smacked against the port side launching the bow of the ship out of the water, completely taking Jimmy off guard. Instinctively he steadied himself against a bollard, but a moment later the ship swung back to starboard and since he had been bracing himself against a force from the other direction, he was sent slamming into the bulkhead. Dazed from taking a blow to the head, he staggered about the twisting deck when a gust of wind caught him and off he went over the guard rail. He made a desperate grab for the rail. For a few long seconds, he managed to hang on and then the trawler lurched upwards a second time and his grip failed.
North-sea temperatures in December rarely rose above 8 degrees and survival time was short. In spite of living a life at sea he was one of a surprising number of fishermen who never learned to swim properly. Jimmy soon started taking in water, as he flailed about desperately trying to cling to the surface of the fathomless depths. He thought of Mary and the girls, how he had rushed out without saying goodbye and feared he would never see them again.
Though frantic efforts were made to save Jimmy, by the time he was finally fished out he resembled one of those porpoises you see washed up on Mablethorpe beach. His life terminated by the drowning sea. Things had come full circle, he had both entered and left this world during a storm.
Across the years his appearance had dramatically changed. His body had become a tapestry of scars, moles and tattoos. When Jimmy died the skin that held him was more like burnished leather, with lines and wrinkles similar to contours on ordnance survey maps or craters of the moon. His life etched in strokes of colour and pain, cancelling out the milky, innocent flesh of his birth.