Jose Quezon’s hands moved like the parts of a well-oiled machine. Standing over the sorting table, his right hand picked up a prawn by the tail and swept it in one motion to his left. He ripped off the crustacean’s head, leaving its fleshy tail cupped in his palm. When the sea was calm, Quezon could tail between one and two prawns per second, filling a plastic basket with twitching bodies at his feet. The heads went down a metal chute back into the water, along with sea slugs, starfish and other lifeless muddy bycatch.
It was April 1 2021, and the Northern Osprey, a 20m fishing trawler that sails out of Kilkeel, Northern Ireland, was in UK waters near the Isle of Man. The forecast was favourable: fair weather, good visibility, a moderate breeze from the east. Quezon’s sea-steady body absorbed the boat’s movements over small, white-capped waves, as his hands continued to work.
The boat and its crew, four Filipinos and one British captain, had been at sea since dawn two days before. But Quezon had been at sea for the majority of his adult life. He had worked as a deckhand in the Philippines for 14 years and, since 2009, on British-flagged boats fishing out of UK ports. Technically, Quezon lived in the Philippines. But each year, he boarded a plane in Manila and flew to Belfast in Northern Ireland or Aberdeen in Scotland. When he arrived, his visa gave him 48 hours to transit through the UK to join a ship, which he’d live on for the next eight to 12 months.
These visas, written into UK law in 1971, are intended for use by merchant seamen working in international waters. Holders of a so-called “transit visa” are not subject to normal immigration controls or protected by the UK’s employment laws, since they are technically only passing through the country. But in recent decades, the domestic fishing industry has become dependent on them. As a result, many staples of local fish and chip shops, as well as supermarkets, are the product of a largely invisible workforce. While British consumers imagine their seafood is caught by a local captain birdseye, much of it is, in fact, fished by low-paid migrants employed through an immigration loophole that leaves them vulnerable to exploitation.
This story of four of those men is based on extensive first-hand accounts, corroborated by medical records, contemporaneous messages, photographs, employment contracts, and vessel-tracking data.
Aged 51, Quezon spent more time on cold British boats than at home. The $1,450 he earned each month would not have met the UK’s minimum wage for the hours he worked. But it was seven times what he earned in the Philippines; it allowed him to support his wife and educate their three children. In any case, it was not in Quezon’s nature to complain. On April 1, steeped in fuel oil, fish guts and silt, he was content. He did not know that, within a fortnight, he and another Filipino in Kilkeel would sustain life-changing injuries at sea. Or that by the end of the year an additional crewmate would suffer the same fate, and one other fisherman would be brought home in a box.
Cheap labour
As the sun rose the next day, the wind picked up, sending white horses running over the water. It was Good Friday. In the deeply Catholic Philippines, Quezon would not have been working. But on the British boat, flocked by screeching seagulls, he continued to pull prawns apart. Over the din of the engine, one of Quezon’s crewmates called out to him. There had been an accident on a nearby boat, the Strathmore. A wire rope had fractured and partly ripped off the tip of one of the crew’s fingers. When he heard who was hurt, Quezon’s heart sank.
Quezon first met the injured man, Andrew Garay, more than a decade ago in a Manila dormitory maintained by the employment agency that arranged their overseas contracts. They soon realised they were distant cousins. Most years, they spent a few weeks together, taking safety courses and medical exams. “How are you, gaw?” they asked when they saw each other, using the slang for “cousin” in Cebuano, one of the languages of the Philippines, as they slapped hands.
With a 4in height difference, the cousins made for an odd pair. Sturdy and tall, Quezon was self-assured and careful. Slight and two years younger, Garay could be shy and easily distracted. In the evenings, they took turns cooking Filipino dishes with Magic Sarap, a seasoning they packed in bulk, along with vitamins, nuts and medicine. At sea, Quezon and Garay kept in touch over Facebook Messenger.
By the time of Garay’s accident, the pandemic had thrown off the cadence of the cousins’ international trips.
As news of Garay’s accident spread on the Northern Osprey, Quezon grew anxious. Injuries weren’t uncommon in their line of work. On average, 38 fishermen are killed or injured on UK-registered vessels each year, according to the government’s Marine Accident Investigation Branch (MAIB). A fisherman is six times more likely to die at work than those in the most dangerous job on land. Even so, in the Philippines, wounds inflicted during Holy Week are said to take a long time to heal. Picturing his cousin’s face, Quezon bowed his head to pray.
Around Kilkeel, the mountains of Mourne sweep down to the sea, and dry stone walls cut through picturesque coastal fields. In town, the commercial harbour is a functional place lined by functional buildings: seafood processing plants, mechanics’ workshops, a workers’ café. Over the past 70 years, as a result of government policy, international disputes and overfishing, the community’s fortunes have declined along with much of the UK fishing industry.
In 1948, the value of fish and shellfish landed ashore by the British fleet was £47.2mn, accounting for 0.4 per cent of the UK’s GDP. By 1990, the figure had dropped to 0.06 per cent of GDP. When earnings no longer justified the tough working conditions, the industry shed British-born workers. In 1948, there were 48,000 fishermen in the UK; now, there are roughly 11,000. The government does not keep official statistics on migrant fishers, but experts estimate overseas crew account for more than half of all deckhands.
In Kilkeel harbour, the number of boats has dwindled to about 50. Some make good money, but others struggle. Pressure to keep prices low hasn’t helped. Seafood from the boats owned by Quezon’s and Garay’s employers is sold in major British supermarkets, including Asda, Tesco and Morrisons. Young’s Seafood and Whitby Seafoods, two of the largest producers in the UK, have processing facilities in the harbour. The supermarket chains pledged to investigate the allegations in this story. A spokesperson for Whitby called them “deeply concerning” and said the company was awaiting the outcome of an independent investigation.
Kilkeel’s fishing businesses are typically intergenerational. Two decades ago, when three generations of one local family were lost at sea, every boat in the harbour joined the search. Months later, at the funeral for a grandfather, father and eight-year-old, all named Michael Greene, hundreds turned out. In front of the port, a wave carved in granite stands as a memorial to those who have died “in pursuit of their calling”.
As it became more difficult for the boat owners to turn a profit and to find crew, they turned to overseas labour, like much of the industry in Scotland, Northern Ireland and the east of England. Many residents in Kilkeel came to see crew from the Philippines, as well as Ghana, Sri Lanka and India, as extended family. Some said they make better colleagues than locals: harder working, more reliable, less likely to abuse drugs or alcohol.
Their living conditions were starkly different. Fishing boats regularly return to harbour to process their haul, shelter from bad weather and perform maintenance. Technically, there are some circumstances in which overseas crew can stay onshore when their vessels are in port. But in practice, complicated immigration and maritime regulations mean that migrants like Quezon and Garay continue to live onboard to avoid violating the law. To leave the port area, they must request shore leave from UK immigration authorities through their employer. Though those in Kilkeel didn’t seem to mind if they walked into town or took a taxi along the Mourne Coastal Route.
Consumers imagine British seafood is caught by a local captain birdseye but low-paid migrants account for more than half of all deckhands on UK fishing boats
Quezon and Garay both worked on boats belonging to prominent fishing families. Officially, their contracts listed a recruitment agency in the Philippines and the Anglo-North Irish Fish Producers Organisation. Known as ANIFPO, the Kilkeel-based industry group manages members’ quotas and provides administrative support for the employment of overseas crew. But on a day-to-day basis, the Filipinos interacted with individual boat owners, their families and the British-born men they worked alongside.
Garay worked for John More, who owns the Strathmore and several other boats in Kilkeel with his brother-in-law David Campbell and another business partner. Campbells have been fishing in the area since 1895. Garay’s main contact was Campbell’s wife, Gail, who runs their office. He seemed to have drawn the short straw with his captain: Stephen “Milky” McMurray was seen as young and rash, often shouting and swearing at his crew. The 30-year-old didn’t hurt anyone, but his yelling made some crew panic.
Quezon’s employer, Kearney Trawlers Ltd, is owned by John Kearney, who has run a fleet of trawlers out of Kilkeel for almost five decades. In recent years, the 75-year-old passed day-to-day operations to his children; Quezon tended to liaise with Kearney’s daughter, Joanne.
In separate statements, representatives for MFV Strathmore Ltd, Kearney Trawlers and ANIFPO disputed aspects of the accounts in this article. MFV Strathmore’s spokesperson wrote that “all its crew are treated as valued and respected members of the team.” Kearney Trawlers’s statement noted the company is “proud of its crew” and “fortunate that almost half their crew are from the Philippines, a nation of highly regarded seafarers.”
On their days off, Quezon and Garay often strolled around Kilkeel harbour or lounged in a centre run by the Fishermen’s Mission, a national charity with Protestant roots, where they washed their clothes and called their families over free WiFi. At other times, chaplains from Stella Maris came to the port to minister, handing out warm clothing and snacks. (The international Catholic charity, which traditionally works with overseas merchant seafarers, has increased outreach to fishermen in response to the rising number of migrant crew.) In the evenings, the Filipinos gathered around the karaoke machine one of Garay’s crewmates brought from home, belting out songs that reverberated off the cabin’s plywood walls.
Danger at sea
The Northern Osprey was in the final stretch of a nine-day outing. Crew sorted, gutted, cleaned, iced and packed the catch, while the nets went back in the water. The cycle continued until the weather turned, the hold was full or market prices lured the boat to port. Some days, the crew had been lucky to catch a few hours’ sleep, their exhaustion overpowering the drone of the engine.
Quezon knew it could be worse. The year before, his friends had told him that William Kearney, one of John’s sons, sometimes took the migrant crew to the family workshop on their days off. Migrant crew are allowed to do some onshore work related to their vessel, such as mending nets or unloading a haul. But Quezon said that, in 2020, he too worked in the Kearney workshop for two weeks. He said the Kearneys had them refurbish more than 10 trawl doors, when each boat only has two. Kearney Trawlers denied this. “Any manual work carried out by the crew in the yard fell within routine ship business or fishing gear maintenance,” it said.
Locals often saw migrant fishers working onshore. Over the course of reporting this story, I spoke to other migrant crew elsewhere in the UK who said they had been required to work on land or were otherwise mistreated. The International Transport Workers’ Federation, Stella Maris and the Fishermen’s Mission shared more than a dozen recent accounts of alleged abuse involving employers elsewhere not detailed in this article, including several which are the subject of modern slavery investigations. “It’s not right,” one retired captain in Kilkeel told me. “They’re the same as ourselves, not different people. If it wouldn’t be for migrant workers, there wouldn’t be no boats.”
In the Philippines, working abroad conveys a certain status; Filipinos account for more than a quarter of the globe’s seafarers. So the migrants in Kilkeel tended not to publicise the downsides of their life in the UK. On Facebook, they didn’t post photos of the cabins they shared with four or five others for hundreds of days on end. They didn’t talk of the cuts and cracks on their salt-chapped hands. Instead, they shared pictures of themselves on deck in the sun or posing in second-hand leather jackets and trainers.
It’s not right. They’re the same as ourselves, not different people. If it wouldn’t be for migrant workers, there wouldn’t be no boats.
Quezon’s captain on the Northern Osprey, Alan Carson, was kind. Crew considered him less rash than Garay’s skipper. Although he sometimes swore and shouted, Carson only seemed to do so when he was worried about the catch. Even if the work wasn’t finished, he’d allow them a break to eat. Between hauls, he told jokes and funny stories. He and Quezon often had long conversations in the wheelhouse, the small room at the boat’s helm.
When Carson turned in to sleep, he trusted Quezon to take over, as he did in the early hours of April 7. Around 5am, the Northern Osprey’s crew prepared to shoot the nets off the stern. The sun had not yet risen, but a bright dawn lit the sky. The trawls began to roll off two large metal drums into the water, followed by the chains and weights that held them in position on the seabed. As the winches turned, Quezon noticed a tangled chain. It was connected to one of the trawl doors, a steel panel 4ft by 5ft, which kept the nets open and aligned underwater. Quezon signalled to his crewmate at the controls to lessen the tension, then reached forward to disentangle the links.
Suddenly, Quezon was crying out in pain. Instead of halting the release, his crewmate let the gear go. The chain Quezon was trying to untangle was dragged into a pulley, taking his hand with it. Trapped between the roller and the chain, the weight of the steel door pulled Quezon further between the two. For several seconds, the machinery operator seemed not to notice. The deck erupted in shouting as the crew tried to get his attention. When the man finally came to his senses, he panicked and fumbled with the controls.
Finally, the winches stopped. Quezon pulled out his hand and keeled over. Rushing to his side, Carson raised Quezon’s arm to lessen the flow of blood spilling out of his blue rubber glove and on to the deck. At first, no one dared remove it. Then Quezon began peeling off the torn glove. The wind picked up small scraps of stained blue rubber and carried them into the air. Quezon’s left palm and fingers had been ripped apart. Carson sobbed beside him, as he bandaged the crushed hand. Quezon thought only of his children.
A few weeks later, Quezon walked into the wheelhouse of a trawler owned by the Kearneys. Garay was sitting inside, looking at his phone. It was the first time the two men had seen each other since their accidents. They slapped their good hands together. “We had the same luck, cousin,” Quezon said, letting out a grim little laugh.
“Andrew Pungkol, Ike Pungkol!” Garay cackled, using the Cebuano word for amputee.
The cousins exchanged stories. “What about the guy that did this to you? Did you get revenge?” Garay asked, half joking.
“No cousin. Doing something crazy wouldn’t help.” Quezon shrugged. “Accidents are part of the job. Anyway, it’s not really his fault.”
He couldn’t blame the man, who had also stayed beyond his original contract by several months due to the pandemic. He’d begun to slip up as a result of stress and fatigue, but Quezon was sympathetic. The Kearneys, he believed, were partly responsible. They hadn’t found a way to send him home or let him fully rest. (Kearney Trawlers denied any wrongdoing or that it fell short of its responsibilities.)
“How is your hand, cuz?” Quezon asked, changing the subject.
“Not good, not good,” Garay said, lifting his damaged finger.
My hopes and dreams are crushed. I’m done
While Garay only had a bandaged digit, Quezon’s whole hand was wrapped in gauze. Two of his fingers had been crushed, and his little finger amputated. His middle finger was now held together by wires, his hand a patchwork of skin, nerve and vein grafts. In truth, Quezon thought Garay was being a bit of a wimp.
But he tried to distract him all the same. They exchanged funny stories about the tasteless hospital food and the British breakfasts Quezon had in the small hotel he stayed in before coming back to Kilkeel. Captain Carson’s wife and mother-in-law had cared for him well, visiting every day. But the sausages and eggs left him feeling hungry. His first meal back on the boats – fried fish, rice and a spicy sour tomato soup – had been a salve.
Quezon was now staying near Kilkeel port, in an apartment arranged through the Kearneys. He had his own bedroom, a separate shower and bath and, out front, there was an apple tree in full blossom. He was alone most of the time, but far more comfortable than on the boat. Other Filipinos brought him fish, cleaning and cutting it for him. He hoped that, with rest and the physical therapy provided at Ulster Hospital, he would be able to fish again before his contract ended in the new year.
Quezon and Garay were still being paid while injured; local fishermen would not be. Locals typically earn a share of catch, which means they share the risks – bad weather, breakdowns – with boat owners. But, when at sea, the harder they work, the more they stand to make. For migrant crew on fixed monthly wages, longer days at sea make the job more dangerous.
Kearney Trawlers and MFV Strathmore said crew are paid according to industry norms, around £25,000 per annum, including food allowances and bonuses. But according to crew on the companies’ boats, as well as signed contracts they showed me, they were making roughly £14,000 a year. As an engineer, Garay earned a little more, about £17,000. Cash bonuses, crew said, amounted to some £200 per month. These are at their employer or captain’s discretion, not a contractual right.
Boat owners are legally required to report accidents to the MAIB “by the quickest means possible”, according to the agency’s website. But Garay’s injury would not be reported for 60 days; Quezon’s would go unreported for 189 days. Kearney Trawlers said its protocol at the time prioritised medical treatment and “has been revised to ensure that any serious accident or injury is reported to the MAIB as soon as practicable”.
Garay realised his injury wasn’t as bad as Quezon’s, but he felt hard done by, in comparison. He was still living on the Campbells’ boats in Kilkeel harbour, moving his belongings when the trawlers went out fishing. His finger had started to hurt from climbing the ladders in port and moving around the cramped cabins. Cooking for himself was difficult, so he relied on the Filipino and Sri Lankan crewmen inviting him to join them for meals. Otherwise, he had bread with coffee. Garay knew he wouldn’t get in trouble with the authorities – they were being lenient because of the pandemic – but he couldn’t stop thinking if he had gone home as planned, his hand would be intact.
Less than a month later, Garay stood on the quayside in Kilkeel, a suitcase and backpack resting at his feet. A grey curtain of May drizzle hung over the harbour, obscuring the forest of masts and cranes. He shivered. Mario Durens, his crewmate and a friend of his and Quezon’s, sat by his side. The 50-year-old, one of the longest-serving migrant crew, had worked for the Campbells and John More since 2015. Now he was seriously unwell, and his illness had convinced both men to leave the Strathmore. They waited anxiously for a car to pick them up.
At first, Durens had tried to hide his stomach pains from crewmates but, soon, everyone on the Strathmore noticed him wincing. He started to look weak, the skin under his eyes turning black, and was told to rest on the boats in port, like Garay. When he got worse, Durens, who was a cancer survivor, asked to be admitted to hospital. He tried to explain his symptoms in limited English, but John More and Gail Campbell said he did not need to go, he later told Garay. MFV Strathmore denied “the suggestion that any crew member did not receive prompt and appropriate medical attention.”
As Durens’ condition worsened, McMurray, the skipper, asked Garay to go back to work, despite his ongoing rehabilitation. Garay hesitated; he’d already missed one physical therapy appointment because he had been at sea. Not that the captain wasn’t trying to find workers elsewhere. On the afternoon of May 17, he posted on Facebook, writing: “Strathmore looking [for] a man for the prawns for a trip. Sailing tonight msg me if interested”. “Men are like hen’s teeth,” a friend commented. “Tell me about it,” McMurray replied.
When McMurray asked him to go fishing again on the morning of May 20, Garay looked at Durens across from him in the galley. Sitting with his legs stretched out on the banquette, propped up by pillows, his pale face lay like a moon against the red upholstery. His blood tests had come back anaemic, a potential sign of resurgent cancer. Garay felt as if only bad things had happened that year. First his accident, then Quezon’s, now Durens’ illness. He feared getting hurt again. He did not want to end up as helpless as his friend. (MFV Strathmore denied that injured crew undertook “inappropriate manual fishing work” and said it facilitated travel to medical appointments.)
Leaving the boat meant potentially breaking the law, but it was Garay’s only way out. He didn’t feel he could turn to the Fishermen’s Mission, because of its ties to the Kilkeel community in port. But he had been in touch with a volunteer at Stella Maris, the Catholic charity. He told Durens he’d decided to ask to be taken away. “Take me with you,” Durens said.
Garay didn’t think to tell Quezon. His cousin was being looked after. There was hope for Quezon, he thought. Garay went down into the cabin and made the call. His nerves frayed during the hours of waiting that followed. When a message informed him a car was finally en route, he helped Durens carry his rucksack off the boat. The injured man and his sick friend attempted to blend in with other workers in the harbour until a silver saloon pulled up. Soon, the Mourne Coastal Route was passing by in the gathering dusk.
Parts in a machine
As spring turned into summer, the tree outside Quezon’s flat dropped pink blossom to the ground. Quezon was struggling. The Kearneys did not visit him, and his Filipino friends were at sea for longer. Often, when he walked to the port there was no one to talk to. His employers arranged taxis to take him to physiotherapy, but he still had very little movement in his hand. Cooking and washing were difficult. After five months alone, he was starting to lose hope he would ever work again.
Garay was faring better. Stella Maris had arranged for him to stay in a halfway house in Belfast. The hostel, which has room for about 20 tenants, has a family atmosphere. When I visited, I found the finance manager in the kitchen, checking on a shepherd’s pie. Residents thought Garay quiet but kind; he seemed to find ways to do little favours for all of them.
Quezon and Garay were no longer living near each other, but messaged regularly. Conversation often turned to their friend Durens. Since leaving Kilkeel, he had been in the hospital in Newry. A CT scan revealed bowel cancer, which had spread. Eventually, less than a month after he left the Strathmore, he was moved to hospice care. “They abandoned me,” he said, when he finally told his friends what he thought of his employers. “When serious illness manifested in a crew member, we maintained daily communication, over the most difficult of circumstances, showing deep concern and compassion,” MFV Strathmore said.
Durens died on June 16, thousands of miles away from his wife, Vilma, and their seven-year-old son. Vilma sent messages to his phone all summer, even though she knew there was no one there to reply.
That autumn, Garay received some good news. He was finally going home. In mid-September, a spread of Filipino dishes was laid out in a little house on a hill in north Belfast: peppery chicken adobo marinated in soy, vinegar and sugar; pork belly fried in lemongrass, ginger and star anise; and jackfruit boiled in coconut milk with dried fish. Local Filipinos had heard about Garay’s experience through their Catholic church, and the parish priest had offered to host a leaving party.
It was a sunny day, and the group carried sofas outside. In the distance they could see Black Mountain, rising behind the city. Guests belted out karaoke ballads: “My Way” by Frank Sinatra, Puccini’s “Nessun Dorma” and some Bruno Mars songs. Garay still felt a phantom pain now and then, an electric shiver where the tip of his finger had been. But, that day, he didn’t care.
Later, when Garay said goodbye to Quezon at another party near Kilkeel, their conversation turned to Durens’ widow. She would soon have his ashes, which Garay was taking back with him in a wooden box. The group decided to get one last photo together. In the picture, Garay’s smile doesn’t reach his eyes, suspended between the joy of heading home and what he was carrying back.
In the months that followed his cousin’s departure, Quezon’s mood deteriorated. He spent days slumped on the sofa, with little reason to leave the apartment. The photo from the party came back to bite him when Joanne Kearney saw it on Facebook. Noticing the Stella Maris volunteer in the shot, she questioned Quezon about it: “You left [the port] and did not tell us??” she wrote on Messenger. Ever since, he sensed his employers’ attitude change.
The next time Quezon went to physical therapy, Joanne Kearney gave him a form for his doctor to sign. One of the clinic staff said that doing so might indicate Quezon was fit to go home to the Philippines. Quezon’s therapist refused to sign, instead writing a letter to his employers that it was “imperative” he continue treatment. He also needed more corrective surgery. At Quezon’s next appointment, William Kearney accompanied him to request the signature in person. Again, the therapist declined. (Kearney Trawlers said it had been advised by the Fishermen’s Mission that the paperwork had to be completed at every medical visit.)
Then, in early November, Quezon was lying on the sofa when his phone bleeped. It was a message from Joanne:
Joanne KearneysaysPlease move to Northern Dawn to stay and sleep in please today
Jose QuezonsaysWhy I can stay in northern dawn ma’am Joanne.
Joanne Kearney saysPlease move to sleep and stay in Northern Dawn today
She didn’t explain why, but Quezon already knew it was because a Filipino named Michael Susada was moving in.
Two months earlier, Susada had been badly injured onboard another Kearney boat while in international waters.
Andrew Garaysays‘Cuz, I heard there’s been another accident, your crewmate from your same employer
- Jose Quezon
saysYea Michael [Susada] of [the Northern] eagle. Don’t tell any Filipinos here yet ‘cuz.
It took two days to get to the nearest hospital in France, during which time he only had access to paracetamol. Back in Kilkeel, Susada had been asked to return to work before his now amputated finger had fully healed. As he was tying up the boat, Susada’s wound reopened. He’d sent Quezon a photo of the bleeding stub.
Kearney Trawlers said Susada “was provided with gloves and told to wear them whilst onboard boats. Mr Susada has admitted that he failed to wear the gloves he was given. We were not informed of any further infection to Mr Susada’s wound as a result of the reinjury.”
There was space for two in the flat. The owner told Quezon she was happy for Susada to sleep on a camp bed. But Joanne said the owner didn’t want two Filipinos staying there. Quezon didn’t want to cause any more trouble, so he lifted himself off the sofa, and headed towards the harbour.
On the Northern Dawn, Quezon slept in a dark cabin on a slim, bottom bunk. He crawled into the oval opening headfirst, curling up in a foetal position to fit his limbs inside. The November nights were damp and cold, the heating unreliable. When the boat went to sea a few weeks later, he was told to move to the Antares, which belonged to the Campbells and John More, his cousin’s former employer. It was bigger and more comfortable, but cramped enough that he still knocked his injured hand against the bulkheads. Kearney Trawlers said that “the trawler is the fisherman’s home whether at sea or in port” and that “assurance that the accommodation on board meets all industry standards” is provided through inspections by the Maritime and Coastguard Agency.
To keep from despair, Quezon followed a strict routine. In the morning, he looked for a WiFi signal to call his family or chatted with Garay online. Then he walked along the harbour to see if there were any Filipinos around. If not, he went to the flat to see Susada. They got to know each other well. Quezon teased Susada for kicking him out of the comfortable apartment. But if he could do so without the Kearneys knowing, he stayed there all day, catching up on sleep in the warmth.
I tried to accept everything, to numb myself to all the bad treatment. But when the time came to go home, I was unable to hold back my tears
On November 22, Joanne circulated a letter among the migrant crew. “I have been made aware the crew members are contacting an outside representative,” it read, possibly referencing a call Quezon made to Stella Maris seeking help for Susada. “I am also aware that crew members have been leaving their port without permission or making our office aware. Sadly the actions by these crew members are beginning to ruin the trust and faith we have placed in our Filipino crew.” It concluded by noting they would make reports to local police and UK immigration authorities “if necessary”.
Kearney Trawlers said the letter was “written with the professional and personal welfare of the crew in mind”. The company added that crew activity within the UK “must be closely monitored” to avoid penalties or deportations. “It was therefore normal practice for crew to inform their skipper of their intention to leave the port.” But to Quezon, the mention of immigration authorities and the police read as a veiled threat.
Not long after, Joanne asked Quezon to come to her office. She and her father smiled as they informed him he was going home. His ticket was booked for December 20. He would not be able to attend his next hospital appointment and had not been discharged from the doctors’ care, but he would be in the Philippines by the end of the year. The Kearneys wanted to know if he was happy.
To Quezon, going home meant no corrective surgery, no more physiotherapy, no chance of finding another job abroad – only private medical care and school bills he couldn’t afford. Quezon felt exhausted. He texted his cousin: “Pungkol – I’m being sent home.”
Kearney Trawlers said that Quezon’s manning agency, Eagle Clarc Shipping Philippines Inc., agreed to repatriate him and that it “was advised that the only remaining care he required was physiotherapy [which] could be properly concluded in the Philippines”. Eagle Clarc did not respond to a request for comment.
Before his scheduled flight, Quezon went to a Christmas party thrown by Stella Maris in Ardglass, a port town north of Kilkeel. In a church hall, a live band played Filipino music and a whole roast pig lay spread eagle on a buffet table. Quezon sat on Santa’s lap like a child.
When Quezon left the gathering, the priest waited for a taxi with him. “We will pray for those who have treated you this way,” the clergyman said as they stood in the dark. The sentiment caught Quezon off-guard, and he began to cry. He had barely admitted to himself how the past eight months, the past decade, had made him feel, what it meant to be as disposable as parts in a machine.
Back home
The UK is in the midst of a heated immigration debate. Prime minister Rishi Sunak’s government has pledged to reduce net migration, as have previous Tory administrations. As part of broader reforms, the 2022 Nationality and Borders Act introduced stricter measures, which came into effect in April. The rule effectively closes the loophole created by the ambiguous wording about boats operating “wholly or mainly” in UK territorial waters. Now, boats with crew who enter the UK on a transit visa are no longer allowed to fish in UK waters at all. Vessels fishing within the 12-mile limit must apply for skilled worker visas if they want migrant crew.
The new rules have roiled both the industry and welfare campaigners. Industry argues that English-language requirements for skilled worker visas are too high and that the rules create arbitrary inequity in the fleet’s access to workers. Many smaller boats have been tied up for months because they can no longer employ overseas crew.
Welfare campaigners point out the problem persists because boats that fish entirely outside the 12-nautical-mile limit can still legally use transit visas. More than 1,200 individuals working on these boats will remain just as vulnerable, they argue. Campaigners want legally binding agreements that guarantee migrant crew’s rights and conditions at work, and for fishermen to have access to trade unions, as seafarers do. “The government and seafood companies have turned a blind eye to the open secret of migrant labour exploitation in UK fishing for too long,” said Chris Williams of the International Transport Workers’ Federation, a global union advocating reform. “This should be about workers and working conditions, not where the fish is caught.”
In a letter sent to the industry in April, the UK’s Home Secretary Suella Braverman wrote that, “the historical use of transit visas to employ foreign nationals who do the majority of their work in UK waters means they have been working illegally.” A government spokesperson told me it has “offered a generous support package to help [the industry] adjust to the UK immigration system, but the sector must urgently tackle the increasing levels of labour abuse being discovered at sea.”
When nationality is recorded, Filipinos suffer the second-highest number of fatal accidents or injuries on UK-registered fishing boats
Data from 2012 to 2021
| Country | |
|---|---|
| United Kingdom | 186 |
| Philippines | 34 |
| Ghana | 8 |
| Spain | 7 |
| Indonesia | 4 |
| Unknown | 118 |
Source: UK Marine Accident Investigation Branch |There is believed to be considerable under-reporting of fishing vessel injuries to the UK’s Marine Accident Investigation Branch. Of those injuries that are reported, nationality is recorded 69 per cent of the time.
Quezon and Garay have now been home in the Philippines for more than a year. With the help of lawyers, Quezon is challenging the sum of about £10,000 he was offered for his injuries by an insurance agency in the Philippines. The Philippines government’s social security system and overseas workers agency paid him about £2,000. Garay has not yet received an insurance offer. Government agencies paid him the equivalent of £150.
Susada, who was sent home in early 2022, received the equivalent of a combined £900 from the Philippines social security system and overseas workers association. He rejected an insurance payout of about £1,500 and is awaiting a second offer. Durens’ widow was recently offered an insurance payout of around £18,000 for her husband’s death, double the initial offer. She accepted.
Back home, Quezon and Garay live barely a mile apart, near General Santos City. But the cousins rarely see each other. Quezon helps his wife run a small kitchen. He has not been able to afford corrective surgery or physiotherapy, but manages with one hand. He described his family as naningkamot, which means striving. So far, he has been able to keep his children in school. Garay regularly checks in on Durens’ widow and, for now, his wife is providing for him; he drives her to work every day.
The last time the cousins saw each other was on December 28 2022. In an outdoor restaurant decorated with Christmas lights, they shared a meal with the interpreter who has worked with me on this investigation. I joined via video call. Garay chattered away, occasionally interrupted by Quezon’s thoughtful interjections. Neither could believe the cost of prawns on the menu. Before the meal ended, I watched them take a photo together, fairy lights sparkling in the sky behind them. Then, with their good hands, they waved goodbye.
Antonia Cundy is an FT special investigations reporter
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