Ain’t nothing like a smoothhound

WE’D chugged out of harbour and were now anchored about a mile offshore. Fortunately, I’d given the pep talk months earlier: “It may be lumpy, so if you suffer from seasickness bail now.” A few had, the remainder swearing they were rock-hard sea salts, all Cruel Sea bods capable of tying a double sheepshank while swallowing thick cocoa and fatty bacon sandwiches. Now, however, some faces had a chameleon match with the surrounding sea and they needed a distraction.

Adam the skipper had set course for a species day and the bass had sugared