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I saw the scar down his calf
long smooth and white
standing out against his tan
in the bright summer light;
whisky surgery he told me,
seeing my curios glance
and I got him talking
while I had the chance.

We both settled down with a beer
and he told me how it had been
just so casually describing, to me,
an horrific dangerous scene.
Fishing in a storm off Iceland
trawling for the cod
risking their lives 
under a fickle sea god.

Then the steel warp parted
catching just him alone,
whipping back to gash his leg
right down to the bone.
The whisky forced down him
until he really didn’t care,
the skipper producing a needle
to sew him up then and there.

And the crew carried on fishing
with no time to waste
every second’s fishing necessary
in the profit’s chase.
He said it really didn’t hurt
with the whisky in his gob
and he reckoned the skipper
had done quite a neat job.

Very soon after that
he decided to come ashore,
said the lure of the sea
didn’t pull so much anymore,
and with a wife and child
didn’t want to push his luck.
As an ex deckie he fairly easily
obtained his docker’s book.

A very quiet person, 
very pleasant and shy
but I go to know him well
as the years rolled by. 
Never again mentioned his leg
which I only saw by chance,
that long smooth white scar
having just caught my glance.

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