Read an extract from Gerry's book Shipping Out which charts his early career:

"In November and December we sometimes fished for herring on enchanted calm cold nights, when the mast seemed to scrape the sky and the stars seemed near enough to touch. I remember drift-netting for herring one star-filled frosty night: it was Winter Fair time in Aberystwyth, and from early in the evening I could hear the sounds of the fair drifting across the sea. The garish music from the merry-go-round was clear as could be (sound carries well over the sea at night). Most of my friends would have been there, chasing girls.

I was alone on deck; Baden and Jacky, who smelt suspiciously of rum, were snoring in the poky cabin, which also housed the smelly diesel engine - I hated the smell, so stayed on deck. Ever hopeful, I baited a hook and heaved the line over for a wandering whiting or sea bass, but the only thing I caught was a skate. The long line of the nets' corks fascinated me, stretching away from the boat in the darkness of the gentle sea. The only sound was the amiable slapping of water against the hull and the creaking of the steering gear. I watched the distant town slowly and silently go to sleep as the lights in the houses went out one by one. I could feel the vast loneliness of the deep purple sea; it was as though I was the last person alive in the world.

I was content though, and in some atavistic way knew that this was what I was meant to be doing. When the dawn broke in a golden glow over the hills that surround Aberystwyth we hauled the nets aboard, sequined with silver herring. The engine coughed nervously to life and we slowly steamed home, drinking scalding hot tea sweetened with condensed milk, from old chipped white mugs with painted blue handles and rims.

If the tide was right, Baden occasionally let me take the boat up the harbour to the berth. The Aberystwyth bar had to be treated with respect; it was dangerous in onshore winds. As we rounded the wooden jetty, turning hard to port, we would wave to Mrs Walker (whose house stood on the foreshore) if she were watching. She was an English lady who played the piano in the Sailor's Arms and was well liked by the fishermen; her son Peter was in school with me.

I would feel about ten feet tall steering up the harbour, while the gulls wheeled and mewed about the boat, letting the whole world know we had a good catch. I always hoped that Marion Lawson, Cynthia Duggins, Penny Leather, Ruth Jones or June Jenkins would be there to see me: I had magnificent crushes on all of them at one stage or another. That night I knew my mam would bake the herring for us in spices and vinegar.

When the wind was off the land, which was not often, the French crabbers from Brittany would creep in and anchor about half a mile out from the harbour entrance, seeking the shelter of the lee of the land. Once, while out whiting fishing with Baden, we went alongside one on our way home and were invited aboard. She had a white hull, and was a fine looking ship with sails on the main and mizzenmasts, but relied on a powerful diesel for her primary power.

We were made welcome; Baden seemed to know everyone aboard and shared a bottle of wine with the skipper. I had a coffee that tasted far better than any coffee I had ever had before. A grizzled old fisherman gave me a smashing deck knife, but I had nothing to give in return, as my pockets were empty. It was my first taste of the sort of comradeship that seamen share all around the globe. Sometimes, quite illegally, the Froggies (as we called them) would send a small boat into the harbour, and stroll boldly up the town to buy bread from the shop in South Road. God knows what Her Majesty's Customs would have said if they had known. Mind you, none of us was going to tell them.

Some of the out-of-town fishermen crewed trawlers out of Milford, Fleetwood, Hull and Grimsby. When the weather was too bad to fish, we used to sit aboard the Janwal, a Milford boat, yarning and drinking tea; she was the largest of the boats, and hailed from the pretty village of Angle. I loved their stories of gales, and crazy skippers, and drunken cooks. They had a colourful language all their own, their conversation seaweeded with words like otter boards, gallows, bobbins, cod ends, black frost, the hundred fathom line, foul bottoms, dan buoys and purse seines. I was entranced by their stories of trips where they caught a full load of fish, and of pay-offs with a hat full of money.

I desperately wanted to become a deep-sea fisherman myself. I longed to have a pair of white thigh-boots just like those the Milford fishermen wore. Instead, I clumped around in an old pair of leather sea-boots that Baden had given me. Well, he never gave them to me - Baden never gave anything away - he charged me seven and six for them. I was content and happy in those sea-washed days, as the seasons rolled by; mackerel and lobster, whiting and skate, herring and dabs, plaice and sometimes sprats - each had their season. I never had any doubts that one day soon I too would become a proper seaman.

Extract from Shipping Out by Gerry Evans

Shipping Out was published in Wellington, New Zealand in December 2006, by Sarah Bennitt Books Ltd.

• Read about fisherman Jackie 'The Monster' Jenkins...