Brexit: notice of bad weather for Boulonnais fishermen

From our special correspondent on board the

Laurent-Geoffrey

At this hour, the wind is the only passing on the quays where the sticky humidity of a November night shines.

It is half past midnight when the moorings fall back on the

bridge

.

The propeller stirs the black water, the fishing boat detaches itself and slides between the jetties of Boulogne-sur-Mer.

Pale lights, shutters closed, the city is sleeping, even earlier than usual in these times of pandemic.

Laurent, Cyril, Jordan and Jean-Louis, they go to sea. One night on the water, one more, a tide similar to so many others, rough, exhausting, but carried by the passion of a profession and the human bonds that unite the crew.

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The small, superbly comfortable gangway is lit by the radar screens, the navigation computer and the instrument lights.

Above the wheelhouse, a photo of a baby and a crucifix.

Still numb by their meager end of the night, the men speak little.

The silence is broken by the hissing

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