Seven hundred and seven strokes from the shore. No more, no less. Hudson had convinced the owner of the dory to let Hudson take it out on Christmas morning. He had left the gathering at the Smith house early so that he could set out from shore with the rising sun. Normally he would have raised the sail far earlier, but the tradition was firm and he followed it faithfully. He rowed out the seven hundred and seven strokes, through the chunks of ice in the harbor.
Despite the overcast day and the bone-chilling cold on the water, Hudson had raised a faint sheen of sweat by the half-way mark. He paused long enough to rearrange his plaid around his waist and strip off his shirt before he resumed rowing. When he completed the seven hundred-seventh stroke, he rested against the oars for a moment before he shipped them and dropped his anchor over the side.
Standing, Hudson took the cast-net in his hands, then lifted one balled fist to his forehead and chanted a phrase quietly into the wind. ?A Righ nam feart ?s nan neart tha shuas, Do bheannachd iasgaich dort a nuas. Suidhim sios le ramh ?na, m? ghlac, imirim a seachd ceud ?s a seachd. Tilgidh mi mo dhubhan sios, ?s an ciad iasg a bheir mi nios, an ainm Chriosda, Righ nan Sian, gheobh an deoir e mar a mhiann.? As the sun lifted over the waves, he cast his net upon the waters, and watched it settle into the waves.
The strap around his wrist tightened as the net filled, and he set his weight back as he pulled in the drawline. Silver-bodied fish, subtly different from the haddock and whiting he was used to, flopped heavily against the net, and he wrestled the weight over and into waiting bins with the ease of long practice. It was in that pull and draw that Hudson gained the scars on his hands. The knots and twists of the net caught against his palms, and when he heaved up the weight of fish the cord bit in and sliced. He barely noticed the fresh cuts adding to the marks already present.
The first catch was a large one, and he cast his net out six more times, for a total of seven, before he stowed the gear and fastened on the lids of the bins. He pulled up the anchor and then turned the boat to bring it back to shore. Returning took much longer than seven hundred and seven strokes, but the catch was worth it. The entirety of this catch would be given to those in need. Only once it was distributed would Hudson celebrate the rest of Christmas Day.
((The translation of Hudson?s chant is: ?Thou King of deeds and powers above, Thy fishing blessing pour down on us. I will sit me down with an oar in my grasp, I will row me seven hundred and seven strokes. I will cast down my hook, the first fish which I bring up in the name of Christ, King of the elements, the poor shall have it at his wish.?))
Despite the overcast day and the bone-chilling cold on the water, Hudson had raised a faint sheen of sweat by the half-way mark. He paused long enough to rearrange his plaid around his waist and strip off his shirt before he resumed rowing. When he completed the seven hundred-seventh stroke, he rested against the oars for a moment before he shipped them and dropped his anchor over the side.
Standing, Hudson took the cast-net in his hands, then lifted one balled fist to his forehead and chanted a phrase quietly into the wind. ?A Righ nam feart ?s nan neart tha shuas, Do bheannachd iasgaich dort a nuas. Suidhim sios le ramh ?na, m? ghlac, imirim a seachd ceud ?s a seachd. Tilgidh mi mo dhubhan sios, ?s an ciad iasg a bheir mi nios, an ainm Chriosda, Righ nan Sian, gheobh an deoir e mar a mhiann.? As the sun lifted over the waves, he cast his net upon the waters, and watched it settle into the waves.
The strap around his wrist tightened as the net filled, and he set his weight back as he pulled in the drawline. Silver-bodied fish, subtly different from the haddock and whiting he was used to, flopped heavily against the net, and he wrestled the weight over and into waiting bins with the ease of long practice. It was in that pull and draw that Hudson gained the scars on his hands. The knots and twists of the net caught against his palms, and when he heaved up the weight of fish the cord bit in and sliced. He barely noticed the fresh cuts adding to the marks already present.
The first catch was a large one, and he cast his net out six more times, for a total of seven, before he stowed the gear and fastened on the lids of the bins. He pulled up the anchor and then turned the boat to bring it back to shore. Returning took much longer than seven hundred and seven strokes, but the catch was worth it. The entirety of this catch would be given to those in need. Only once it was distributed would Hudson celebrate the rest of Christmas Day.
((The translation of Hudson?s chant is: ?Thou King of deeds and powers above, Thy fishing blessing pour down on us. I will sit me down with an oar in my grasp, I will row me seven hundred and seven strokes. I will cast down my hook, the first fish which I bring up in the name of Christ, King of the elements, the poor shall have it at his wish.?))