10/05/2026
Today, on National Fishing Remembrance Day, we pause together to honour and remember those who lost their lives at sea in the fishing industry. For communities like ours, shaped and sustained by fishing, this is not a distant history but a deeply personal one.
Burghead has known loss across generations — fathers, husbands, sons, brothers, friends — taken in the course of honest, hard work. Too often, those left behind were denied the comfort of a final goodbye, left only with memories and the endless horizon where their loved ones were last known. Some have no grave to visit, only the sea itself, carrying both sorrow and remembrance.
Today, and every day, we hold close the memories of those we have lost. We also hold with equal care the families and loved ones who have carried on with quiet strength and courage. They are remembered, they are honoured, and they are never forgotten.
The Sea at the Broch
At the Broch, the sea still minds their names,
Wha steered oot bye the harbour mouth.
Strong men wi cauld, sair-worn hauns,
An hames wae love left on the sooth.The mornin brake wi salt an hope,
A wave, a prayer, a waved‑aff hand.
Nane kent whit fate the tides wid bring,
Nor if they’d reach hame safe tae land.
Some never came tae rest on shore,
Nae stane, nae grave tae mark their sleep.
The sea itsel becam their hame,
The weel that hauds them fast an deep.
An here we bide, the wives, the bairns,
Wi empty chairs a words unsaid.
Bit aye we carry them wi pride —
The loved, the lost, the Broch’s deid.
Sae weel‑dae sea, be kind, be still,
Mak gentle bed for those ye claim.
The Broch aye minds, the Broch aye kens —
They’re lost tae sicht, bit nae tae name.
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The Sea at the Broch
At Burghead, the sea still remembers their names,
Those who steered out past the harbour mouth.
Strong men with cold, hard‑worked hands,
Leaving homes full of love behind them.
The morning broke with salt and hope,
A wave, a prayer, a hand waved goodbye.
No one knew what fate the tides would bring,
Or if they would reach home safely again.
Some never came back to rest on shore,
No stone or grave to mark their sleep.
The sea itself became their home,
The deep that holds them close and tight.
And here remain the wives and children,
With empty chairs and words left unspoken.
Yet we carry them always with pride —
The loved, the lost, the dead of the Broch.
So rest well, sea — be kind, be gentle,
Make a peaceful bed for those you’ve taken.
The Broch remembers, the Broch knows —
They are lost to sight, but never to name.
