I hung off the bow of a twisting, pitching fish-boat in twenty-foot seas; someone had to secure that 'Scotchman.' This large orange rubber ball, flopping and tugging on the end of its line, could pull us broadside to the seas. I remembered an old sailor's advice. He had said, "She's whimsical lad. She can be as smooth and gentle as the loveliest maiden or as harsh and implacable as a virago. Treat her with respect and acknowledge her supremacy, for she truly is a moody mistress."

Now we were trapped on the swirling seas, not able to turn and run for shelter: a curious feeling grew in the pit of my stomach. A mixture of fear and excitement, a feeling of being alive, totally alive, brought on by the nearness of death, gave me extraordinary courage. Someone had to secure that 'Scotchman.' It had to be me; there was no-one else, just the skipper and me.

And the skipper was needed at the helm. His skill kept the Kajak bow to the sea. "I'll keep her steady as I can," Bob, the skipper said. His following words, "Hold on" were redundant; oddly, they still rang in my ears.

The 'Scotchman' was nothing more than a big orange float. This large rubber ball was sometimes a boat-bumper, and sometimes it was anchored in safe harbour and used to secure the boat. Now it was trying to kill us. Tasting my heart, feeling it caught in my throat with its drumbeats, pom-pom-pom, reverberating, I screwed my courage together and opened the hatch.

Blasted by the wind, as horizontal rain cut into my eyes and raised welts on my face, I whispered a prayer said on widow's walks throughout seafaring nations: "Lord have mercy on the poor sailors on such a night as this."

I was blessed with my two strong hands. I would need at least one to haul in that blasted 'Scotchman.' That left me one to hold on with; it would have to do. Even one split second of inattentiveness as the deck bucked and pitched would toss me into that green-mawed maelstrom as certainly as a rodeo bull throws cowboys.

Crawling out on deck, I took a last look at Bob's craggy, wind-torn face as his gnarled hands gripped the wheel. The grim look of concentration on his face was fearsome, as he held her head up to the raging seas. Feet on the narrow gunn'l, body almost parallel to the ocean, I felt the sea lick my back, as if she were tasting me before swallowing me whole.

"Hold on," the skipper's last words still rang in my ears. I was white knuckled--a grip as hard as death, a grip as tenacious as life kept me from her maw. Inching along the greasy gunnel, I was feeling a little confidence now that I had beat her once--she had tasted me but could not eat me.

"Remember respect," whispered the old sailor in my mind as I discovered how different the bow deck was from the gunn'l--a larger expanse of slippery wood and fewer grips to hold. That's where the 'Scotchman' must be secured, on its stanchion in the middle of the open bow deck. Plunging, twisting, bucking, the Kajak dropped her bow into the massive green waters as if praying for life. Her prayers answered, she rose, shed water only to smash down again, and again.

The 'Scotchman', like a ling cod that has felt the cold steel of a hook and knows that it is in a fight to the death, was slapping and banging on the end of its line trying to break free or sink us. This orange ball tossed the bow around as if it were a ping-pong ball in a hurricane.

I crawled across the deck from one delicate purchase to the next; my concentration was so all-consuming that my fear left me. When I grabbed the end of the line, keeping the 'Scotchman' captive, I nearly went me overboard. But a tenacity, a will to live, and a strong right hand kept me aboard the Kajak. Hand-over-hand as I reeled in that overblown ball, I realized that I'd never before had a large fish on a handline--a fish as large or as determined as that big orange ball.

But I was determined to win. It was our lives that I played for. With stakes like that I was not going to lose. Not to a 'Scotchman,' nor to that harsh mistress of the deep green eyes. Not this time. Winding line around the snubbing post, like a cowboy bringing in a recalcitrant, stubborn steer, I gained. A few more tugs and I'd have it aboard. Secured to the deck, this large orange blob, once dangerous, was now just dumpy, and lay inanimately.

I started to relax and let my guard down, but the sea blew a cold wet breath down my neck and reminded me that although the Kajak might be safe, I still was not. It was time to start the short, slippery crawl back inside.

My hands were worn raw, but they had been a cracked, bleeding lifeline to safety. They were tired. They were cold. They gripped the grab rail the way a baby grips a finger.

I could see Bob, the skipper, through the portholes. I could see that he and the Kajak were back in close communication; his grip had softened on the wheel and while his face was still a picture of concentration, the deep worried furrows were gone and there was even a slight twinkle in his eyes, as if the sun were peeking through from behind the clouds.