The view from the top of the mast was so fascinating that “a minute” turned into ten. From there Elaine had a view of the entire harbour from the merchant wharves, through the general shipping to the navel yards. Three tall ships were in loading with wool, wood and ale; the three main exports off the island. The navel yard was empty but for a few small supply vessels. Out in the centre of the bay a small frigate was swinging heavily at its anchor. It seemed to be the centre of remarkable activity with boats plying from it to the main waterfront and back again.
The smells of the port were all familiar to her: tar, rope, fish, seaweed and that curious salty shoreline smell which carries out to sea and is so welcome to sailors returning from a long voyage. The sounds of the port were distinct to her ears, though to Lydia they mingled into a general cacophony: the chanting and stamping of men working to a rhythm, shouts of men calling from one ship to another seeking news or information from others of their cargo, a fair bit of cursing as the waters were busy and smaller craft often got in each others’ way, singing and music from the taverns on the waterfront, laughter from a party of sailors who had already had a few drinks too many.
This was a different world to Wescliffe, but it was Elaine’s world. This was where her father and she brought their catch on those rare and precious occasions when they were able to put out of CovTol and fish.
“Are you staying up there all day?” Lydia’s call broke in upon her thoughts and brought her back into the here and now.
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