The following maritime account is shared with kind permission from John Tantalon, author of North Edinburgh Nightmares and other works on Edinburgh’s haunted history. A respected chronicler of ghost stories and local folklore, Mr Tantalon has spent many years collecting the city’s supernatural traditions—both in print and on foot, through his popular guided walks
This particular tale was passed down to him by his grandfather, a former trawlerman, and is among the earliest stories to have sparked his enduring interest in the uncanny. It is presented here as it was told, capturing the chilling mystery of a “fourteenth man” who was never meant to be aboard.
Further information about John’s work, including details of his books and ghost walks, can be found at North Edinburgh Nightmares. You can also follow his ongoing projects via Instagram.
I grew up in Granton, close to Granton Harbour. The location, now known as Wardie Bay, is filled with history and many fascinating tales.
Granton first appears on maps in the seventeenth century, relating to the now-demolished Granton Castle. The name is presumed to come from Grant’s Town or Grant’s Dun (hill). The term also appears in Granton Burn, which runs through Caroline Park down to Granton Beach.
In 1834, Edinburgh debated the need for a more significant harbour. As President of the Institution of Civil Engineers, James Walker oversaw a committee—including Admiral David Milne—to choose between three options: an extension to the existing Leith Docks, a new harbour at Trinity, or a new harbour at Granton. The initial bid for Trinity did not receive parliamentary consent, and in 1836, local government decided on a second Bill promoting Granton. It received Royal Assent on 21 April 1837.
During the First World War, the Navy used Granton Harbour as the base for minesweeping manoeuvres. Mainly Scottish trawlers and their crews were called into active service and conscripted as part of the Royal Naval Reserve. During this period, the harbour was officially renamed “HMS Gunner”, after the largest trawler in its fleet.
As a youngster, I spent much time with my grandparents and was fortunate to hear many stories from various parts of the world. My grandfather was a great storyteller. He served in the Royal Navy and achieved the rank of Chief Petty Officer. During World War II, he took part in minesweeping duties across the Forth Estuary. When the war ended, my grandfather commenced a career at sea as a trawlerman. It is here that the story begins.
During his years working for HMT (His Majesty’s Trawler), my granddad sailed on many trawler ships out of Granton Harbour and the Forth. The routes would lead as far as Iceland and the Faroe Islands. During one voyage, the vessel named The Alma crew witnessed something unusual. In his words, the fish in those seas were monsters of the deep.
Depending on distance, the crew could amount to as many as thirteen men on a voyage. One of the crew members, Geordie Walker, was situated at the rear of The Alma working on maintenance. From out of nowhere came a substantial wave. The torrent battered the unaware trawlerman, sending him over the side of the boat and into the icy depths of the water.
The crew members immediately ran to aid their colleague from the sea. Before they could, Geordie Walker returned—catapulted from the water. The man launched back onto the deck of The Alma, but on the opposite side. The fortunate Geordie had travelled beneath the boat and back onto the deck in some miraculous twist of fate.
The crew took Geordie below and resuscitated the shivering man. After a while, he regained composure and was ready to discuss the incident with the team. The boat’s captain could not comprehend how Geordie came to go overboard; Geordie was a hardened naval man who had previously sailed on many voyages. That wave size would not usually catch such a crew member off guard. Geordie then relayed a very different version of events.
He claimed that when the tide arrived, so did another crew member—one he had never seen before and had not recognised. The man either attempted to push him overboard or tried to grab him to save him. The captain stated that this was impossible, and that he must have imagined it with the shock of being in such icy waters. However, Mr Walker was adamant that the man had stood before him, and managed to describe him right down to the tattoo on his left hand. The mysterious fourteenth man had the word SlangeVar with a harp below it; he remembered the design as clear as day.
At this point, my grandfather paused and returned to his duties.
The rest of the trip went without incident. The crew landed a successful catch and returned to Granton, making good time. The Alma docked at the Middle Pier of Granton Harbour, and the men concluded their duties and made their way to the nearby Granton Tap pub. While in the nearby pub, my granddad took Geordie Walker aside and told him a story.
Now, so shall I.
The previous year, the crew of The Alma had returned from a successful trip to the waters around the Shetland Isles. The weather was good for that time of year, and the vessel was packed with a substantial catch. The voyage to Granton Harbour was smooth, with calm sailing conditions.
The Alma docked at the Middle Pier, and after unloading the boat, the crew departed the vessel one by one. A local man named Mr Ross began to climb from the ship when something unexpected happened. The crewman lost his footing on the steep metal ladder that ascended the Middle Pier and, in a split second, lost his grip on the rusted handrail.
The man crashed head-first onto the stern wooden deck of The Alma. The force of the impact was so severe that his head split in two. My grandfather attempted to hold the terrible wound together and call out for help as poor Mr Ross gradually passed away, the life drained from his fractured body. When help arrived, they attempted to feel for a pulse on the dead operator’s hand—the cold, dead hand with the word SlangeVar tattooed upon it.
Stories such as this remind us how the line between memory, folklore, and the inexplicable is often blurred—particularly at sea, where superstition and saltwater run deep. We are grateful to Mr Tantalon for allowing us to share this account, which stands as a testament to the enduring power of a well-told ghost story.
If you, too, have a tale to tell—whether passed down through family, overheard in a local pub, or encountered firsthand—we would be most interested to hear it. You may submit your own account for consideration via our correspondence page.
