It s only when night falls, the sun like a pool of something molten yet cold on the grey horizon, that I realise just how alone I am on the boat. It s just me, attended by a silent retinue of winches, hooks, scratched plastic tubs and battered steel tables. And then, beyond the chipped paint of the gunwales, the infinite ocean. It s a perfect arena for introspection, scored by the lashings of rain on a hard metal deck. There s not even a bird this far out. There s nothing: just me and the crabs, in their invisible millions. And that s when the speed kicks in.
This week, after twenty years of deadline rushes, mood swings, lost keys and unreplied emails, I was diagnosed (against my every insistence at the start of the process) with ADHD. It s a strange time, as I m having to re-evaluate a lot of things I thought about myself. Many things I thought were deep character flaws are, it seems now, just medical facts – but that doesn t mean for a moment I don t have to do anything about them. That discussion is for another time, however. I ve come here to talk about drugs and industrial fishing.