As the old folks would say

by Hubert Furey

  He had gone to great pains to acquire what was nothing less than prize bait. One of his buddies from the Southern Shore had gone to a lot of trouble to bring him fresh mackerel on the job the Friday before, and he hadn’t frozen them, intending for the both of us to go out Saturday morning. However, Saturday had that howling rainstorm I mentioned earlier. In those days you just didn’t go fishing on Sunday—and if we didn’t go Monday . . .

  * * * *

  Perhaps you haven’t met Sam.

  Sam was my neighbour and one of the best representatives of an older generation that knew fishing exactly like the present generation knows computers—inside out. He could forecast the weather with a glance at the sky, position you dead on the marks on the fishing ground, and split fish almost as good as that taxi driver on the Southern Shore.

  (Being slow-moving by nature, he wasn’t as fast—the taxi driver on the Southern Shore could have one sound bone going up to meet the other one on the way down—but, in the peculiar way Newfoundlanders have of equating talent, Sam was just as good.)

  He had fished quite a bit when he was younger, both at home and on the Labrador, but had traded the uncertain and low pay of the fishery of his time for the surer money of ironworking and construction. Like a lot of others of his generation, he retained the old-time skills and still used them every fall to catch a winter’s fish, and he could teach you how to cut and split and salt without talking a whole lot about it.

  * * * *

  So here we were, Sam and I, standing together on the wharf; he, normally quiet and slow-moving, now trembling with eagerness for the quarry, impatient to get a line in the water; me wishing I was anywhere else but next to churning waves that chopped and slapped fifteen tethered boats, raising them and lowering them, raising them and lowering them, raising them and lowering them . . .

  I didn’t as a rule get seasick, but wave action like that, when you’re dead tired and beat to a frazzle, have a mysterious way of interfering with the normal and predictable operation of the human constitution.

  So why was I going?

  Because I was part of a traditional Newfoundland bargain. I wanted a winter’s fish, too. I had the boat and motor—a little green punt with a five-horsepower Johnson motor—and Sam knew how to fish. It was as simple as that. It wasn’t all generosity on my part. Without a boat Sam couldn’t get to the grounds, and without Sam I couldn’t find a fish if I did get to the grounds, with or without the boat.

  Since my stepfather died, God rest his soul, Sam was my new partner.

  It was a good Newfoundland bargain, but it had a downside. If I didn’t go fishing with him when he wanted to—and this morning he desperately wanted to—I could lose my partner, and my chance at a winter’s fish.

  Standing on the edge of a heaving wharf at five o’clock in the morning dying with the sleep is the downside of a good Newfoundland bargain.

  * * * *

  We hauled in the punt, climbed down and stowed our gear, and set about leaving. Sam hauled the anchor, coiling the rhode carefully with one hand as he weighed the anchor with the other, while I deliberated with the motor, praying fervently that it wouldn’t start.

  It worked like a charm.

  I swung the nose of the little punt around the array of boats bobbing in unison behind the wharf—should I say giggling in unison—and headed on our outward journey. Away from the protection of the wharf and the breakwater which sheltered it on the lee side, in the open water of the harbour, the little boat began to pitch and roll, not knowing which end was up.

  Sam wasn’t paying the least bit of attention to me.

  To ensure less waste of time on the fishing ground, he had already begun removing the mackerel from the plastic pail and was methodically cutting them into thin slices, big enough to fit over a hook, and carefully laying them for easy access over an improvised bait board that extended across two thwarts.

  * * * *

  We couldn’t talk over the roar of the motor, so we settled down, manner of speaking, to cover the distance straight out the harbour, which I wanted to do as fast as I could; my theory being that the faster we got out there, the faster we could try for a fish and the faster we could get back in—assuming that the fish would be just as appalled at being below the water on such a day as I was at being on top of it. Hopefully they had simply stayed home, or been in schools or whatever.

  I picked a point on the horizon a little to the right of Salmon Cove Point—I never did learn the difference between port and starboard—and tried to keep the boat reasonably on course in spite of waves that seemed to be bearing down on the aft quarter with more than poetic intent.

  “Where are we going?” I shouted over the noise of the motor.

  “To the Rock,” Sam shouted back, waving his arm in the direction of the mark by that name.

  * * * *

  The Rock!

  I could only think a panicked reply.

  Good Lord! Not the Rock. What was he trying to do to me?

  I thought he might be deterred by the rough conditions to settle for the calmer safety of Freshwater Cove. You could spit to the shore from a boat anywhere in Freshwater Cove and still catch the best kind of fish. I always caught fish in Freshwater Cove, the biggest kind of fish.

  In the tranquility of Freshwater Cove one is perfectly safe. If a boat should sink or be exposed to an unexpected attack from some sea denizen like, say, an eighty-foot-long giant squid or one of those big black-and-white killer whales, you could practically walk to shore in the six shallow fathoms of water.

  “Shouldn’t we try Freshwater Cove first?”

  It was the desperate plea of a desperate man. Perhaps the giant squid or the big black-and-white whales had forced massive schools of huge codfish into the harbour and trapped them in Freshwater Cove just for my convenience.

  The Bible is full of ocean-going miracles.

  Sam didn’t even dignify the question with a verbal response. He just looked toward the cove, his face displaying that peculiar seaman’s expression that signifies absolute contempt for anything less than three hundred fathoms of water.

  He was still looking toward the Rock.

  * * * *

  The Rock!

  I should have known.

  That meant we would be going way outside the harbour—way, way outside the harbour—way, way, way outside until the long, imaginary lines that started from the two churches way back in Harbour Main and Conception Harbour intersected after running endlessly across the roiling expanse of two huge harbours—in the middle of nowhere; an imaginary, obscure spot in the immense, frightening expanse of Conception Bay, where there might be giant squid, or big black-and-white killer whales . . .

  I’d seen all the “marks” on a map once, on a nautical map that my brother had spread over the kitchen table. The Rock was just that, an innocuous-looking tip of rock that rose from the depths of Conception Bay and stopped eight fathoms from the surface, removed just a little from the main ledge that ran out from Salmon Cove Point.

  The ocean is so beautiful when you’re studying it from the warmth and safety of a modern kitchen table.

  From the vantage point of the lowest end of a small green punt in the middle of churning water it looks downright murderous. All I could see was angry, furling water, foam-topped, in constant motion, curling endlessly toward the grey, heaving horizon.

  * * * *

  We passed Moore’s Head and Shipcove Rock and soon the houses of Gallows Cove were behind us. I closed my eyes and sucked in my breath as we rounded Gallows Cove Head and a big cross wave struck the punt, lifting her sideways.

  The head was still a mile away—in outport terms—but I had visions of climbing it, soaking wet, from the ocean side. Sam, seemingly glued to the thwart of the fore-standing room, swayed with the motion, patiently attempting
to affix a piece of mackerel to one of the hooks on his fishing line.

  There’s no sense in not being ready.

  We inched our way through Freshwater Cove, past the Straight Cliff and into Ram’s Horn Bight. The wind picked up, and I wondered about the necessity of going all the way to the Rock when we were doubtless passing uncountable fish directly beneath our feet, or our bottom, as the case might be.

  It wouldn’t hurt to try again.

  “Sure you don’t want to try in Freshwater Cove?”

  Sam was swishing the knife blade in the water to clean it. He turned and looked over the Cove again, as if weighing my request, the knife blade still trailing in the water. The motion gave my spirits hope. I had always known him to be a sensible man.

  “Nothin’ in Freshwater Cove. Not like there used to be.”

  He spoke with a surety of knowledge, with a finality of tone. He could not have seen the sinking feeling on my face.

  “We’ll try the Rock first.”

  There would be no further discussion.

  * * * *

  It had gotten rougher as we plowed across Ram’s Horn Bight, but it was nothing compared to the open water of the bay as we passed the lighthouse and struck out toward the Rock. My mind must have been subconsciously directing my steering arm to hug close to the cliff of Salmon Cove Point, because I became aware of Sam repeatedly swinging his arm outward, a concerned expression on his face.

  I wasn’t getting off that easily.

  The stretch from Salmon Cove Point to the Rock was pure horror, and the waves must have come straight out of a Joseph Conrad novel.

  Sam rocked and swayed with the plunging movements of the boat, alternately looking toward the Rock to make sure we were on course, then back to the neatly arranged strips of mackerel on the bait board. You could tell by his eyes what he was thinking.

  “If every one of them is a big fish . . .”

  * * * *

  Somehow we got to the Rock, and Sam threw out the anchor, waiting for it to settle and take hold before paying out some slack and looping it around the stem post with two “half-itches.”

  Anxiety overpowered me.

  Up to that point I had to focus all my concentration and energies on handling the boat in the rough water, to the exclusion of all other damaging thoughts. The constant movement of the boat assured me that at least we were still afloat, that getting there was of prime concern.

  It had not occurred to me that, once there, all of my motivation to remain in control would instantly disappear, that I would be anchored, literally, to one tiny pitching spot on the ocean surface, where I was helplessly trapped, indefensible against whatever horrors the raging sea wished to unleash.

  As the graplin hooked in the bottom and the boat turned into the wind, I took in my situation at a glance, and was overcome with abject terror.

  From the aft room of the heaving boat I became frighteningly aware of the immense expanse of grey rolling water that separated me from the nearest land, the waves that crested and crashed around the boat, the spume that curled in around the gunnels—and that was just the front.

  When I looked around and behind toward Bell Island and the horizon, and the illimitable reaches of Conception Bay, I saw only one outcome of the morning, only one certain possibility—the pair of us drifting endlessly, bottom-up, clinging in desperation to the keel in the freezing water . . .

  Sam’s line had already hit bottom, and he measured it back an arm and a half’s length, holding it looped around his right hand while he steadied himself against the gunnel with the other.

  * * * *

  I just couldn’t stay.

  The tautness that had been slowly forming in the depths of my stomach flooded through my body and blurred my mind until I became a numb entity, unable to control the feelings of helplessness and terror that swept over me. The water swirled in front of me, making me dizzy. I expected to faint and pitch right in any second.

  “Sam! I can’t stay.”

  That was all I said. He looked at me for just a moment before beginning to haul up his line.

  “You’re the boss.”

  He said nothing else. It was an acknowledgement of the fact that I owned the boat, pure and simple. These people didn’t waste time, energy, or motion.

  If I couldn’t stay, there was only one other alternative.

  He finished hauling in his line and hauled the anchor over the plunging prow of the boat, planting his feet wide and securing himself with his knees against the cuddy, while I got the motor going and we headed in. Then he sat on the thwart in silence and slowly reeled up his line, setting it carefully back in the bucket of fishing gear in the midship room.

  He continued to sit in silence as we headed toward the harbour, his eyes never leaving the rock behind us.

  The day had suddenly become even more dismal.

  * * * *

  We stopped at Freshwater Cove on the way in, and for the third time I prayed earnestly. We moored fairly close to the shore, baited up and threw out the lines, then sat patiently, feeling for the fish in the relative comfort of the sheltered lun. I was reminded of the school poster—“Ships are safe in harbours, but that’s not what ships are for.”

  Everything was perfect as far as I was concerned—except that the fish were somewhere else.

  Where were all those fish I used to catch years ago?

  I perked up in anticipation as Sam’s line suddenly went taut and he rose to a half-crouching position, straining at the line. Thank you, Lord. I leaned over the gunnel breathless with excitement—to watch as a massive flounder churned the water in resistance.

  That was a clear message.

  If the bottom flounders could get at the bait, there wasn’t a codfish within an English mile.

  Just as dejection returned, I was heartened by an immense tug on my own line and I could sense Sam look in my direction expectantly. I was not to be rewarded so easily. After straining happily for what seemed like a very long time to haul the resisting weight to the surface, I was appalled to find myself staring sickly into the malevolent eyes of a huge wolfish, glaring at me menacingly over the gunnel of the boat, his orange-edged blackish-grey tail thrashing the water viciously.

  You haven’t seen evil until you’ve looked into the eyes of a wolfish over the gunnel of a boat at six o’clock in the morning.

  The intent of the look was clear.

  “If you don’t get this hook out of my mouth right now, I’m coming right in over the gunnel of this boat . . .”

  I got the gaff and wrenched the hook free with that practised motion my stepfather had taught me, then slid back along the thwart into the safety of the boat as the wolfish crashed into the water. Before he dived he turned and gave me one last look that said—

  “If you ever . . .”

  I sat on the thwart and wished for a cigarette, but I had given up smoking five years before, and anyway my hands were soaking wet. I glanced forward in Sam’s direction to watch him as he carefully rolled up his line and deposited it carefully a second time into the plastic pail.

  That was an even clearer message.

  * * * *

  Sam hauled the anchor again and the boat drifted back as I repeatedly hauled on the starting cord.

  “Want to try somewhere else?”

  It was a meaningless question, but I had to say something.

  “You’re the boss,” came the reply.

  The tone wasn’t as harsh as before, just disappointed. God put a thought in my mind.

  “Let’s try the Ledge,” I shouted over the motor, which had started just in time to get around another big wave that was bearing down.

  You could catch big fish on the Ledge, really big fish, clever fish.

  Sam looked at me in disbelief. Th
e Ledge was on the other side of the open harbour mouth. A lot of rough water separated us from the Ledge. He looked across the foam-tipped open expanse we would have to navigate in our small boat and he looked back at me, still in disbelief, before he nodded his head affirmatively.

  We would try the Ledge.

  Now the reader might be wondering where I got this sudden—and surprising—infusion of physical and psychological courage; why I had fled the Rock in sheer terror literally minutes before but was now embarking on just as deadly a trek across the fully exposed waters of the harbour mouth, to a fishing mark that was just as open and dangerous as the one we had left.

  The fears and terrors had disappeared. Perhaps it was the brief respite in the tranquility of Freshwater Cove; or the quiet, calming presence of my companion, dispelling my silly fears. Wherever it came from, the old “narve” had returned. Still a bit queasy, as they would say, but with enough sense to trust the older man sitting on the forward thwart.

  If he didn’t see any danger, maybe there just wasn’t any.

  Besides, I was thinking straighter now. As everyone familiar with the Ledge knows, on the new mark Bell Island would be straight behind us. If the punt did flip over and we had to cling to the keel, we would only have to drift eleven or twelve miles before someone would see us and pluck us out.

  They’re always looking up the Bay from out there . . .

  * * * *

  The trip across was exactly as I had expected, an eternity of endless waves. I was drowned in the spray that kept crashing over the side of the boat, and had to bail a good bit with one hand as I manoeuvred the boat with the other, but we finally arrived. Sam took a reading on the imaginary lines that positioned us on the mark, carefully directed me left and right, and then dropped the anchor in a spot I was familiar with, from many such experiences with my stepfather.

  His choice of a mark on the inside part of the Ledge told me that even he preferred being where we were. I could read from his looking out over the water that the outside ledge would be impossibly rough in a small punt. He was a skilled fisherman, with no fear of the ordinary sea, but even he knew that respect had to balance courage, at least where the sea was concerned. He was no fool, either, as they say.