Two weeks ago I found myself five miles out in the North Sea, in the dark, with an engine that had just decided it had done enough for one lifetime.
It didn’t fade quietly either.
Smoke started pushing out from the engine and within moments it seized completely. One second the trawler was alive with its usual rhythm ,the hum of machinery, the steady pulse beneath the hull, and the next there was nothing but silence and the sound of water moving past a boat that could no longer move itself.
When an engine dies at sea, you realise very quickly how much of your life depends on that single piece of metal.
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It was night. Properly dark. The kind of dark you only really experience offshore.
The water was choppy, the wind had a bite to it, and the North Sea had no interest in my plans.
My batteries were slowly draining, so the lights were minimal.
Out there, alone, drifting.
For the first hour or so the mind does what the mind always does.
It runs ahead of itself.
What’s broken?
How bad is it?
How much is this going to cost?
How long will I be stuck?
And the big one every fisherman knows but rarely wants to face:
How am I going to pay the bills if the boat can’t fish?
The mind loves these questions because it believes thinking about something is the same as solving it.
But somewhere in the middle of those four hours drifting in the dark, something changes.
You realise a very simple truth.
There is absolutely nothing you can do.
The engine is seized.
The sea is the sea.
The batteries drain at whatever speed they drain.
The boat drifts wherever the water takes it.
And strangely…
that’s when the tension disappears.
Acceptance is not giving up.
It’s simply seeing reality without arguing with it.
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Eventually help arrived.
A friend of mine, Jamie, came out with his boat and towed me back in. Moments like that remind you how much people quietly look out for each other in this line of work.
Four hours drifting alone in the dark ends very differently if someone doesn’t answer the call.
We made it back into Port Seton Harbour.
Since then the engine has been craned off the trawler and taken away by lorry to be inspected. At the moment it’s a waiting game.
It might be repairable.
But the chances are it will need replacing.
And engines… well, engines aren’t cheap.
The boat doesn’t earn money while tied up.
Bills still arrive whether you’re fishing or not.
So yes, the financial stress is there.
Anyone who works for themselves will understand that feeling. The quiet calculations running through your mind.
How long can this go on?
What happens next?
But again, the sea has already taught the lesson.
Worry doesn’t repair an engine.
Stress doesn’t speed up a mechanic.
Thinking about a problem for twelve hours instead of one does not change the outcome.
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Sometimes life does exactly what the sea did to me that night.
It cuts the engine.
It stops the forward motion you were relying on.
It leaves you drifting for a while in the dark wondering what happens next.
And in those moments the only real option is the same one I had five miles out in the North Sea.
You steady the boat.
You conserve what power you have.
You call for help if you need it.
And you accept the situation as it is, not as you wish it was.
Eventually something moves again.
A tow arrives.
A repair happens.
A new opportunity appears.
The strange thing about life is that it often looks like disaster while you’re inside it.
Only later do you realise it was simply a pause, an unexpected one, an expensive one perhaps, but a pause nonetheless.
For now, Childrenshope sits quietly in Port Seton Harbour, a little lighter without her engine.
And like those four hours drifting at sea, there’s nothing to do but wait, watch the tide come and go, and trust that sooner or later…
the engine will start again. ⚓🌅
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