Stormhav — the longliner Renat Besolov worked on

This was the newest vessel of all I had worked on. Everything here was built from scratch and to the latest standard: new cabins, linen, deck. In comfort the Stormhav stood far apart.

Showing the cabin to colleagues from my previous job, I would hear: “Is this an officer’s cabin?” No — an ordinary two-berth deckhand’s cabin. A heated floor, a table and chair, space for a suitcase and linen, my own vacuum cleaner, a drying spot, a constantly running fireplace with temperature control, an en-suite shower and toilet with a heated floor. There was even a painting on the wall — everything to the latest standard.

Two share a cabin — one on the upper bunk, one on the lower. The watches are arranged so that while one sleeps, the other works. In effect you live in the cabin alone: your neighbour is always on watch, then you swap. Very convenient — nominally two of you, yet in practice always alone.

This was my first experience on a longliner. The vessel has a fully automated longline-setting system — about 40,000 hooks, loaded by sectors. Each hook is baited automatically with herring. Every deck-crew member has his own section and, in effect, his own productivity figure: the bridge shows sensor data for each sector. The captain sees the baiting quality in real time and can call the deck: “Michael, bait better.” Besides the longline, the vessel also fishes with nets (garn).

On fish there is noticeably less gear than on a crab boat, where you handle thousands of pots. Here much is automated: in the factory you work with each fish by hand, but on deck you don’t haul every metre of rope. So it is more interesting and easier. The rope they use is strong, four-strand — to hold the fish.

Before this I had never worked on a fish factory — and was surprised how much harder it is than on a crab boat. On crab there is one product, snow crab; the system is honed and in time you work almost on autopilot. On fish, about fifty species were caught, and each was further sorted by weight: up to 500 g, 500 g–1 kg, 1–1.8 kg and over 1.8 kg. Plus each batch was caught by net or by hook, and you must not mix them. The combinations are enormous: you have to identify the fish correctly, choose the category, record it all in tables and make no mistakes. Many of the names I heard for the first time in my life.

Only three worked in the factory, and one was always asleep, relieving another on waking — so in practice there were always two. The moment one stepped away, you were alone for the whole factory: you run to one end to open the sluices so the fish soaks in water and bleeds; to the other to pull out and pack the finished blocks; then you quickly cut cod on a special machine. Very energy-intensive work. I had never before worked a knife a whole watch through — you literally never let it go for the entire voyage.

Before processing I always first soaked the fish in running water to bleed it. Only after lying the required time did the fish go onto the conveyor — and then came butchering and freezing. This was one of my duties, alongside printing labels, preparing the freezing equipment, sorting, packing and stowing the finished product in the hold.

Arriving on the vessel, I knew not a single species of fish. Telling them apart was hard: there are two outwardly similar species distinguished only by some thin white stripe. I spent a lot of time learning the names, since in the factory you print the labels yourself, and printing the wrong name on a fish is a serious violation. Fortunately I made no such errors: better to check once more and ask.

Sometimes large halibut turned up — one is probably over a hundred years old. Each fish is butchered in its own way: a halibut doesn’t fit in the freezer, so it is butchered in a special manner and hung in the hold to freeze fully. Here I gained great experience in butchering different species. It was this very experience that later produced that seafood classification table on the main BFISHERMAN course.

Among the whitefish catch came the red rockfish too — one more of the dozens of species I had to recognise, sort and pack correctly in the factory.

This fish is a grenadier (rattail). Social media once shared its photo captioned as if sailors had found an unusual monster, but there is nothing supernatural about it: it is not an ancient or prehistoric species, but a modern deep-sea fish. It lives at depths from 50 metres to more than two kilometres — hence the unfamiliar appearance.

Newcomers on the fishing fleet earn as much as the experienced — as on a crab boat. There is virtually no difference in pay: the minimum wage in Norway is regulated by industry, and everyone earns the same. You can’t pay less even if you wanted to — the law doesn’t allow it.

A 16-year-old lad worked with me in the factory — an apprentice from a maritime school (a lærling). He did all the same work with no concessions. When a vessel takes on such an apprentice, it is granted an extra quota — several tonnes of cod plus bycatch, which is quite profitable; in return the apprentices themselves are paid less.

Our cooks earn about 10,000 euros a month — over 100,000 Norwegian kroner. A cook works always, in any weather: cooking when everything is heaving is hard, but it is worth it. Cooks are often foreigners, sometimes Norwegians; few have full formal training.

You can order a lot for the ship — through the cook it comes out noticeably cheaper. Non-alcoholic beer the cook arranges with wholesalers in advance, and you collect the order on board; the cost is taken from your first wage. The most common items are cigarettes, snus, energy drinks and soda, sports nutrition. But all this is issued only beyond the 12-mile zone from shore.

I had a metal locker. On new vessels it looks pricier and more solid, but there is a catch: close the lid, put something wet in — and it doesn’t dry. Far more practical are open drying racks or simply hooks on the wall near a heater. A metal box looks cool but is inefficient — and for the next watch you sometimes have to put on still-wet kit.

Cleaning on the Stormhav was done by every crew member: keeping a cleaner for twelve people is too costly. Each had his own list — on which day and for which spaces he was responsible. This way we saved on a cleaner and in effect got that money added to our wages. All the documents lay in the mess room, the common gathering room — you could read up on them.

The Stormhav’s captain Jon-Atle Bjørnø is a well-known figure. In February 2025 his small fishing boat capsized in icy water off the island of Sørøya; he and his mate ended up overboard. For about twenty minutes he kept afloat; his body temperature fell to a critical 30 degrees. Chance saved him: a 330 Squadron rescue helicopter happened to be finishing an exercise nearby, instantly caught the distress signal and arrived in just five minutes. Both fishermen were saved. A few weeks later Jon-Atle returned to fishing, and has since been active in maritime safety.

I was new to this company. At the time my colleague Ania, who worked on deck, raised an important subject — the use of banned substances on vessels and the harassment of women in the Norwegian fishing industry. As far as I know, Ania publicly stated that she had been harassed by one of the managers; I personally was not a witness and can neither confirm nor deny the specific accusations. Nonetheless the story drew wide attention: the Norwegian media wrote about the Stormhav, the subject reached national television, and Ania began to be invited to discussions on working conditions and the position of women in the industry.

In Norway they film a show called “Toll” — about the work of customs at sea, in the air and on land. Once the crew came to us on the Stormhav too. On that occasion a person who used drugs was identified on board — though you could not tell it from him at all: an ordinary, normal man, only with the odd change of mood. For me it came as a surprise.

Sometimes lads from a near-criminal background ended up aboard — some with convictions, but long since back on their feet. You can’t single them out: they are just like everyone — they work, obey the ship’s rules, and anyone can be dismissed for breaking them. So now and then you meet interesting people with a story of their own.

A short break between processes in the factory. On a tight schedule you value such pauses especially — time to drink some water, catch your breath and back into the rhythm.

The onset of a storm. The smaller the vessel, the harder it rolls — and the Stormhav was more compact than my earlier ships, so the rolling here was noticeable. You had to get used to it and keep working regardless.

The smaller the vessel, the more it is at the mercy of the waves and the more it is thrown from side to side. The Stormhav is smaller than the ships I had worked on before — in displacement and in other respects. So you have to get used to the motion and work no matter what.

On small vessels anything not secured risks falling: even without a storm the slightest wave can tip something over, so it is best to always tie everything down. Here, for instance, at night the cook ties up the eggs so that by morning they have reached room temperature and can be put to use.

Our crew. By tradition I always ask the lads to take a photo against the vessel, to keep the memory of the voyage. This was my last voyage on the Stormhav: at the time the crab boats paid more and more interestingly, and I wanted to get onto a trawler, a larger longliner, or back to crab. Besides, the 16-hours-a-day schedule proved too hard for me — on a crab boat you can work 12 on, 12 off and earn the same. We fished in the Norwegian and Barents Seas.