I never went "spratting" it was too cold. And one trip "weeding" was enough for me. My father resisted the temptation of the white weed for some time, saying, "I'm a fisherman, not a gardener". But in the end, like most others, he succumbed.
So once more I was off at the crack of dawn, down to the Leavings and, what was to prove the best part of the day; a big "fry up"! Bacon, sausages and steak with chunks of bread and butter, and, as always, "fisherman's tea". 
This time we headed south to the weed grounds off Southend.  It was a bright, sunny day but quite choppy. By the time I surfaced, as we rose on the waves I discovered that we were in the midst of numerous smacks, all dredging. I was soon to discover that weeding was a hard, arduous task for the men with no jobs for me to do, except keep an eye on the fire and the kettle. As the weed was brought on board it was boxed up. The smell was horrible and there was no escape.   I was really thankful when my father passed me the tiller and said "keep her Nor’, Nor’West" as he and his crew disappeared down the fo'c'sle for a well earned smoke and mug of tea. As we landed our "catch" at Woodrope I decided never again!

Part 3.
Oystering

A day on the oyster beds was more to my liking. I'd usually go when it was a mid-morning tide. This meant leaving home in daylight, after breakfast in fact, and setting off on the "Phae" to the oyster beds near the Shingle Hills. while my father prepared the dredges, steered and kept an eye on the engine, it was my job to pump out the bilges.
Sometimes we'd be there to clean the bed. This is important earlier in the year, before May when the oysters would start spawning. The "spat" that was cast from the oysters, cling to articles on the river bed and quickly form a shell. But they like clean "culch", mainly dead shells, to cling to and if you want a good "harvest" you must make sure the beds are clean. About every 15 minutes the dredge, a triangular metal frame with a metal net, would be hauled up with the help of the capstan. It was dunked a number of times as it reached the surface to get rid of mud, and it's contents spread over the large shelf on the after end. The oysters, ware and half ware would be returned to the bed. "Five fingers" (starfish) put in a bucket to take home for the garden. Other predators like limpets, whelks and crabs would be killed. The slipper limpets eat the oyster food, spoil the culch and are so prolific they smother the oysters. "Five fingers" inject a poison to kill; sea urchins scrape off and devour the growing spat; whelks bore through the shell and suck out the meat through the hole and crabs crush the brood with their claws.
The days we went "oystering" as opposed to "cleaning", the procedure would be much the same except that this time we were sorting out the "ware", fully grown oysters to be cleaned and packed ready to send to market. We were always going to "make a fortune" from oysters, but one disaster after another hit the oyster trade. Apart from the natural predators, there was disease, bitterly cold weather that killed maturing oysters, and floods which brought down mud which suffocated them.
My fondest memories of oystering is of Sunday mornings when my Dad would say "who wants oysters for breakfast?" and we'd set off for the oysterbed, haul enough oysters for the family and return home and fry a wonderful breakfast of bacon, eggs and oysters. What a treat!!