Sunny, clear skies, brisk wind from the south east. My sails are full!

Writing a series of articles on seal hunting, can't help but imagine myself on the sea ice, club in hand looking for a wet-eyed baby to skin. In the old days they'd be on the ice 12 hours a day with little food and no shelter, straining to hear the bosun's whistle that would tell them to get back to the ship double quick. Those wooden schooners would be crushed like wet paper in the ice, so if the wind changed or the temperature dropped, as it does very quickly in the North Atlantic springtime, they had to haul ass. Hard biscuit and tea for supper, sleeping three to a bunk in the same clothes you were wearing two weeks ago, assuming you got a chance to sleep.
What desperation must drive those men to the gory killing grounds? My sympathies are with the seals, but if it was your brown eyed baby or mine and this was the only chance I had to make some cash all year, sorry mama seal.