Frank Farland nearly always took his daughters to church on Sunday mornings, but there was one Sunday, every Spring, on which they always seemed to be busy with something else. On this particular grey, blustery March morning they tumbled out of their bunks on to the thickly-painted cabin floor on a fishing boat, somewhere in the North Sea.
They had all crammed in to Mr Farland's little sports car from Horning to Lowestoft docks on Saturday afternoon, to meet the fishing vessel Beccles Aunt. Their neighbour and favourite uncle Dr Dudgeon came too, because he knew more about fish than Mr Farland, and Pete, fisherman of the Death and Glory was squeezed into the back with Port and Starboard, because he knew more about fish than just about anybody.
"Morning, AP," the twins chorused, as they kissed their father on each cheek. "Morning Uncle."
The men were poring over a chart, spread on the cabin table. Mr Farland showed the girls where they were. "Just about here. We should reach the Dogger Bank in about half an hour."
Just then, Pete came scrambling down through the forehatch, looking rather more scrubbed and rosy-cheeked than usual.
"Now up on the foredeck, both of you. Get that bucket over the side and give each other a good wash. I can't take you back to Mrs McGinty smelling of fish heads and bilge water. Don't be shy, Mr Whiting can't see you below the cabin roof. Then come back and get some breakfast down yourselves."
Mr Whiting was the young, red-haired skipper standing at the tiller.
Moments later, the twins joined Pete at the table and all three were slopping hot porridge with cream and brown sugar into their mouths.
"That's the stuff to keep you fishing all day," Mr Whiting called down the companion way. 'Now sirs, if one of you will take the tiller I'll be joining them at table, then it's my watch below."
"That will be me," Dr Dudgeon replied. "But there's only one sir I can see on this ship, skipper. Thanks for getting us here. Have a good sleep."
"Nor-nor-west."
"Nor-nor west it is, Sir," Dr Dudgeon repeated, grasping the tiller.
Come on girls, and you too Pete, get your coats on and come on deck. Better bring your toothbrushes with you. Give Mr Whiting some quiet. Yes, shut the hatch, Bessie. The skipper knows we know where to find him. Now Pete, what do we do next?
"Well, there's the trawl to get ready, then we set up the warps on the winch and after that we just let everything out over the stern, really."
Dragging the huge, black net out of its hatch took all of their combined strength. Starboard handed a corner to her uncle and he pulled with one hand while continuing to steer. Pete laced the ends of some slimy, thick ropes on to the winch and wound it around a few turns using a handle on one side of the windlass.
"That fare be hard work when the nets are full; good thing it's a power winch."
The warps had to be zigzagged into wide squares on the deck, rather like rope doormats; this was to prevent any tangles when the whole lot was pushed over the stern.
"Now, take the tiller please Port. The rest of you stand well back while we heave this lot over. Pete, I want you on the throttle lever. Slow us down a little and get ready to put her in neutral if we need to. If all's well, I'll tell you to increase speed to draw the trawl out good and stright."
"Aye aye sir."
"Good lad. Now, Farland: heave ho!"
There was a splash as the two men pushed the great net over the stern, then the warps snaked over the side at quite a speed.
"Throttle her up just a whisker, Pete. Let me steer now, please Port."
"Nor-nor-west, sir." Port made room for her uncle.
"Nor-nor-west it is."
Author's note: The foredeck washing scene (and the mention of toothbrushes) is in honour of AR's scrupulous attention to hygiene and his avoidance of depiction of any possible impropriety in confined, unchaperoned spaces such as ships. I'm also picking that the only, er, sanitation on a vessel such as this was located over the ship's side, which explains Pete's absence at the start. However, I refuse to depict people cleaning their teeth before breakfast, a Ransomism I never understood. All characters mentioned are Ransome characters; for the surname Whiting I am grateful to Julia Jones.