“Hello. You and your sister must be new to town… of course. I haven’t seen you before.” Norman quickly deduced.  “You foreign types are usually very sturdy.  Shapely rear, sturdy sides, two large… yes all very practical. The older one wears a dirty band of blue or black.”

Norman paused his quiet monologue and looked up from his telescope on the West Cliff to add the details of these new ladies to his records.  All boats were ladies of course from the smallest fishing skiff to the grandest warship.  These two were new visitors to Whitby. By their design they appeared to be deep sea trawlers, but he couldn’t read their names from up here.  He would have to go down to the harbour and ask about them, so he could record their names in his little black book. 

Norman should have been a sailor.  That would have delighted his young self and probably pleased his father, but in truth Norman had once had a queasy time in a rowing boat and had never worked up the courage to try it again, let alone the bravery to go to actual sea.

Still, he couldn’t think of a better away to spend an afternoon.  It had been a quiet one thus far, just a couple of fishing boats and the collier Northern Belle ironically heading south. Norman swung his telescope close in shore to peek on the harbour below.  From up here, the couples strolling the harbour and fisher families tending their nets all looked like ants on a picnic.