Northeastern — the third crab fishing vessel Renat Besolov worked on

Over time the crew became like one big family. There is always turnover at sea — one man today, another tomorrow — but it was on the Northeastern that the feel of a real team took hold: shared jokes, greetings on holidays even when you are at home. We are bound not only by the sea but by the shore: we keep in touch and visit one another. This is not the kind of job where you earn your money and forget the people — here colleagues become part of your life.

I joined this crew no longer the youngest — with three years of experience in the crab fleet, and so more confident. Even though the crew was already settled, the lads listened to me, asked how we had done this or that on other vessels, how to do it better. A good attitude that I liked.

By Renat’s recollection, the crew jokingly called the Northeastern the “brother” of the legendary Northwestern from Deadliest Catch (Discovery). The snow crab fishery in these latitudes of the Barents Sea did later draw the show’s makers: Sig Hansen, the Northwestern’s captain, came to Norway. By Renat’s account the interest reached their vessel too, but the captain declined to be filmed.

Many of my shots from those voyages made it into newspapers, magazines and interviews — and so a great many people learned about the Norwegian crab fishery. I had no professional camera; I shot on a phone, which died almost instantly in the cold, but these frames convey all the character of a crab fisherman’s work.

The captains were good and let us take photos. Meeting a big iceberg, the captain would draw closer and we would study it. On large icebergs you can see signs of life — tracks of bears, seals and fur seals. A trip to these latitudes on a nuclear icebreaker costs around 30,000 dollars for two weeks; working as a crab fisherman you get here for free — and earn money besides, with a wealth of impressions and friends from all over the world.

We saw polar bears very often — thousands of kilometres from the nearest mainland, in the middle of the Barents Sea, they move right across the ice. At first it seems the animal is drifting helplessly on a floe in the open sea, but in fact this is its natural habitat.

Sometimes you are at work — and years later you look at the photos and think: my God, how did all this happen. In the moment your sense of danger blurs: you simply go on watch and do the routine. Only once you sign off ashore do you realise how harsh the conditions were — the cold sometimes reached minus 30. An interesting place to test yourself; and yet, remarkably, none of us ever fell ill.

On a crab boat’s deck you have to dress light: the effort is intense and you sweat fast. Dress warmly and you can barely move, and your body stops breathing. So we dress to be slightly cold on stepping out — you warm up as you work. You can’t always change, and have to endure to the end of the shift. Sometimes you are soaked to your very underwear — as in this photo.

Sometimes curious sea creatures turn up. There are tales that the Barents Sea holds many sunken warships — battles of the Second World War were fought here, and now and then something unusual comes up from the bottom. Among the ordinary catch, besides crab, is the spotted wolffish — it hunts crab and swims straight into the pots.

Snow crab (Chionoecetes opilio) is the Northeastern’s main catch. It is raised from the bottom in pots at depths of around 300 metres, then processed and frozen right on board: the finished product goes to the seafood market.

The crab brought up is sorted right on deck: marketable animals are picked out and made ready for cooking and freezing. The work goes fast — live crab must reach processing without delay.

In the grounds where we fish snow crab, red king crab turns up very rarely. It lives at the same latitudes on the Russian side, closer to Novaya Zemlya; in Norway such animals are a great rarity in the open sea. The Norwegian king crab lives in the coastal zone and is usually taken by the small-boat fleet.

When the ice comes in or pots are lost, we drag for them along the bottom with this grapnel. It is dangerous work: the grapnel has sharp points and, under heavy tension, can behave unpredictably and shoot off toward any part of the deck. There have been plenty of injuries from this, so such operations are entrusted only to experienced crews.

Working on a crab boat — or sending out a CV for one — you need to know the knots in advance, having learned them at home: every day on deck you tie and join ropes of different kinds. Over time all of this went into the main BFISHERMAN course — so that when you send your CV you are no longer a novice but understand the work and the knots. You do it bare-handed in the cold, gloves are almost impossible; the skin wears off your hands, but it is worth it.

Before hauling and setting pots, the deck is made ready: the lines are laid out, ropes and fastenings checked. The speed and safety of the whole watch depend directly on order on deck.

Before every departure the captain gathers everyone for a general meeting: rotations on Norwegian crab boats run every four weeks — someone goes home, someone joins new, and all must be brought up to speed. Newcomers are always briefed on safety — shown the fire hydrants and the rescue equipment. The introductions take about an hour, after which the chief mate shows the new lads the vessel itself.

Here are Renat Besolov’s first charges: we worked as a close-knit team. Already by then Renat was deck boss, with five men under him — later ten.

In time Renat had ten men under him — in this shot, eight. In the dense ice beyond the Arctic Circle the work grew hard: the pots are difficult to find, and for several weeks the vessel lay drifting, waiting for a wind to push the ice aside. You cannot haul pots in the ice — they crumple, being made of thin metal tubes covered with netting.

Sometimes the Barents Sea greets you harshly — in this photo the thermometer read minus 20, and we had to dress very warmly. The main working language on Norwegian crab boats is Russian: there are many foreigners from the former-Soviet states — Moldova, Ukraine, Russia, Belarus, Kazakhstan. Norwegians respect foreigners: they don’t ask to go home every month and work long and hard. By law 50% of the crew must be local (Norwegians or foreigners with local registration), but the other half may come from any country.

Crews vary. On the Polaris, for instance, everyone stood at his own station with no rotation at all. As deck boss on the Northeastern I was always for training everyone and swapping people every hour — about how long one line takes. The man who spent an hour hauling pots can now sit and pack bait into cans and rest; the one who ran and stacked pots can take on something else. So we settled into five main deck stations: everyone knew his job, and the work ran smoothly, one after another.

Newcomers join us often, and we treat them well. It is in everyone’s interest that a newcomer master the processes quickly and the work get into a rhythm: fail to train him and you will spend the whole voyage partly doing his job. When a role is covered, each does his own, and there is no need to keep working around someone.

In ice conditions I often stood at the wheel. As shift leader I coordinated the work and warned the lads not to go out on deck needlessly, so I was mostly on the bridge, keeping the link between captain and crew. When the captain had to step away, he would ask me to take the helm. Once he was gone a long time — and the cook brought a pizza up to the bridge. It was a fine touch.

As on the Hunter, on the Northeastern I had an additional emergency role — ship’s fireman. Drills were held regularly: checking the gear, rehearsing the procedures, inspecting the equipment.

Once a Norwegian navy ship bunkered beside us; sailors stood on deck discussing something. I was working at our rail, came over, took in their ship and asked whether I could take a photo. They said: yes, of course, no questions — and even stepped aside so as not to be in the frame. Imagine the same in another country — it would be an event. Here it all went easily and simply.

Between seasons the company calls us in to prepare the pots and all the gear: to fit out the vessel, sort and repair the ropes, and get fully ready for fishing. Interestingly, ashore you are paid not by the day but by the hour, and we usually work 12-hour days with no days off. In Norway Saturday is paid at one and a half times the rate, and Sunday at double: on Sunday alone you can earn 500 euros — which used to be an average monthly wage in Moldova.

A month of shore repairs at 12 hours a day with no days off came to about 10,000 euros converted from kroner. As deck boss I was responsible for forgetting nothing ashore: run short of pots, buoys or rope at sea and there is no making it up. The count runs into the thousands: some count cans, others pots, others measure rope, someone brings sacks up on a forklift — and all of it must be kept under control, counted over and over.

I always brought a needle and a few threads: gear tends to tear, and this way overalls can be mended. Norwegians, like many Europeans, simply throw a torn item away and buy a new one — a seamstress does the sewing, and most of them can’t use a needle themselves. We foreigners always have a needle and thread to hand: tear a trouser leg, stitch it up and keep working.

Sometimes we got so stuck in the ice that there was no way ahead, and we had to wait for another vessel to help break the ice around us. The captain calmly let us out onto the ice — to take photos and video — but lookouts always stayed around the deck watching for polar bears: predators, after all, and dangerous.

In the photo, about 240 kilograms of finished crab. For some reason diesel began to seep in the hold and got onto the boxes. The crab itself didn’t absorb it — the packaging is multi-layered — but you can’t put that into the finished product, and the batch was written off as spoilage. So, over a trifle, the whole crew loses money. The crab, of course, wasn’t thrown away: some we ate, someone took a box home — it is perfectly good, only no longer of marketable appearance, and repacking is not allowed.