Bay of Hope

by David Ward

  Four

  An official with the provincial government’s Department of Municipal Affairs will be in McCallum in late August to hold an information session about possible resettlement. Apparently, a recent unofficial poll in McCallum resulted in 79 percent of eligible residents voting for resettlement.

  — The St. John’s Telegram,

  August 2, 2013

  I wish the town of McCallum had kept its name Bonne Bay. It was changed to honour the Newfoundland governor shortly after the time of his term. Bonne Bay is a poetic title and fitting tribute to the Southwest Coast’s French history, and it’s semantically correct given that “bonne” means “good.” The only pleasure I get from knowing this outport was named after a British colonizer comes from learning that Sir Henry Edward McCallum didn’t get along with politicians, including Newfoundland premier Robert Bond, the son of a St. John’s merchant. That’s why Henry served such a short time as governor of Newfoundland (1899–1901) before being appointed elsewhere, because of the tension between the two men.

  Henry’s fast transfer out of Newfoundland was unfortunate, given that every region Henry governed — except Newfoundland — grew immensely. Henry McCallum was a huge success. It appears that Newfoundland’s failure to grow as much as Henry’s other colonies — Lagos, Natal, Ceylon — is a direct result of government’s long-term mismanagement of the island’s fishery and extended economy, because Newfoundlanders gave birth to a comparable number of children, but with there being no work, Newfoundlanders were forced to assemble their families elsewhere. All of which makes me wonder: If government post–Henry McCallum had been competent, how many people would reside in Newfoundland now? And how many would live in McCallum, a community that, while its population peaked at 284 in the late 1980s, has the same number of residents today — 79 — as it did when Henry was governor?

  It’s easy to see why rural Newfoundland is dying. Children grow up and leave for work or school and don’t come back, while the rest of us just get older. You don’t have to be a mathematician to figure out what happens next. What I don’t understand is why so many people from elsewhere feel compelled to tell McCallum residents that their hometown is at death’s door. I write for a Newfoundland newspaper — I’m trying to live The Shipping News dream — so, via email, snail mail, social media, and site visits, I meet a lot of people, many of whom insist on telling me that the outports are dying. But, never mind me, nobody is on the receiving end of this unwanted information more than McCallum residents, who habitually hear it from friends, family, and others who have moved away. Like the inhabitants hadn’t noticed. I suspect this need for the informer to feel smart at the expense of others is similar to what followers of professional wrestling face when non-fans insist on telling fans, “It’s fake, you know?” No kidding? Or, as they say in Newfoundland: “The devil?”

  Scroll through Newfoundland newspapers online. Whenever an article appears containing content about an isolated outport, a lot of readers post heated comments implying that every outport person deserves to rot in hell for finding themselves in a situation where government has offered them a buyout. It’s unsettling to think that so many of this angry gang are out there, holding on so tightly to their badly informed beliefs. These ignorant individuals, behind anonymous names like “God Bless Britain” and “u don tno,” see themselves as having a keen understanding of Canada’s most complex socioeconomic issues.

  The groups that represents these haters — their governments — are not a lot different. The only difference is that, for governments, silence is the tool of choice because not standing up for rural populations ruffles the fewest feathers — a significant part of any government goal.

  I suspect that most politicians are too full of fear to act otherwise. I’m sure some of them went into service with the best intentions, but, once within their power-worshiping parties, they find themselves neutered by pompous blowhards who use intimidating tactics like humiliation to keep their doubters at bay. Otherwise, how did Premier Danny Williams consistently get away with placing smiling, clapping women — like McCallum’s member of the house of assembly — behind him whenever the camera was on, in an effort to capture the female vote and the male viewer? Why would any self-respecting woman agree to such lapdog duties unless she felt she had no choice? So, while this pitiable group of politicians may not have the same desire that their voters do to repeatedly point out to outport people their eventual expiry, they do make daily decisions, behind closed doors, that contribute to the death of rural Newfoundland.

  Consider the predicament faced by McCallum’s adorable charmer Sidney Simms. Sid has leukemia. He’s been battling this horrible disease for seven years, but when I try to talk with him about it, he just gives me a big smile and giggles, “Beautiful day, isn’t it?”And then, in classic Newfoundland fashion, he partially repeats himself: “Yes sir — beautiful day.”

  I’m not sure why Sidney won’t share more. Maybe he believes that talking about his illness will interfere with his efforts to live life to its fullest. Or maybe it’s a point of accomplishment — few of us ever courageously confront the face of death and stare it down as successfully as Sidney does. So perhaps Sid has decided he doesn’t want to talk about his war with cancer with someone who hasn’t experienced such sickness.

  I don’t blame Sidney if he sees me as unworthy of his hard-earned wisdom or if he thinks it’s none of my business. I also wouldn’t condemn him if he was scared, but I don’t believe that fear is the cause of Sidney’s silence. I think he’s full of stubborn pride. He’s the last guy who would want to believe he was better than anyone else, in need of sympathy or wanting for anything other than a day of good weather. Because Sidney and his partner, Olive, are full-time fishers. Up before dawn in an effort to bring in their bounty, these two strong souls look for little more from life than occasional time with their out-of-town kids.

  But I hear that Sidney’s leukemia is kicking up again — that he’s going to have to get tested for it more frequently. Nothing too demanding or costly at this point in time, I’m told. Nothing that should keep him from sleeping in his own bed or so far from home that he can’t scratch out a living, as long as the province of Newfoundland and Labrador and a few of its ratepayers are agreeable to making some minor changes to McCallum’s ferry schedule.

  “Fat chance that’ll happen,” my officemate used to say, during the part of my life when I was paid by the province of Ontario.

  “It’s better for one voter to die than to allow another to get pissed off at the party,” the politically sensitive professor preached. “Especially during an election year.”

  As for the flexibility of ferry users, I believe that those with the most are often so full of fear that they can’t consider giving up even the tiniest bit of what they grasp onto. That’s why the most contemptuous relationship on the Southwest Coast is between two towns — McCallum and its nearest neighbour, Gaultois. The battlefield on which that war is waged is the Terra Nova — the fifty-year-old former hydrographic vessel that connects the communities with goods and services.

  The Terra Nova is the lifeline that gives Gaultois three times more service than it does McCallum. Yet Gaultois argues McCallum should get no assistance from the Terra Nova — a claim that might have been worth considering when Gaultois once housed a stinky old fish processing plant of economic importance, but today it makes no sense whatsoever, given that Gaultois is experiencing deathly circumstances similar to what McCallum is.

  I learned of this tension between the two towns when I naively questioned why the Terra Nova only overnights in Gaultois, and residents of that outport threatened to throw me overboard for asking. It turns out that where a ferry ties up is a matter of convenience, pride, and safety. But don’t take my word on it. Ask the gentle giant Donovan Tucker, a skipper from Wareham, Newfoundland, who covers for other skippers around the world when they’re sick or in need of a holiday. Donovan says
, “As captain, I have to put safety ahead of everything else. So it’s my job to consider a worst-case scenario.” We are talking in the Terra Nova’s wheelhouse, a location I feel privileged to be in, given that this area of high responsibility is often off-limits to all but the captain and crew.

  “So say you get an emergency call in the night from McCallum and the ferry is tied up in Gaultois,” Tucker cautiously articulates. “It would probably take us at least an hour and forty minutes to get her to McCallum. And then we’re talking another hour and a half before we get our emergency situation to an ambulance in Hermitage.

  “We’re also talking about a trip across what is sometimes pretty rough water. There’s no guarantee we’re going to be able to make that trip without going inside.”

  “Going inside” refers to a safer, more sheltered, but more time-consuming route around Long Island, but only if winter ice doesn’t render that alternative route unnavigable.

  Tucker continues, “That means, on a good night, it takes us more than three hours to get an emergency case in McCallum to an ambulance in Hermitage. In comparison, if you have an emergency in Gaultois, you’re talking about what could be a twenty-minute ride in a speedboat across what are smoother waters than you’ll see on the trip from McCallum.

  “Now, I’ve got nothing against Gaultois. Those people deserve good emergency service too. But it doesn’t seem right that the people in one community are looking at a three-hour wait for an ambulance, while the other town is looking at twenty minutes for the same thing. Even if she was tied up in McCallum and we had to go to Gaultois in the night, we’re talking about a little more than a two-hour wait for an ambulance for Gaultois people. I’m not saying that’s a short time — I wouldn’t want to wait two hours — but it is an hour less than what McCallum people face today.

  “So, nothing against the people of Gaultois,” Donovan patiently repeats, “I’m just thinking about how to reduce the risk of someone getting sick or hurt in McCallum before we could get them medical attention, without costing Gaultois too much of a service they are entitled to too.”

  Yet Gaultois yaks on. Like when they privately and publicly push for the people of McCallum to lobby for their own ferry, even though such divisive direction doesn’t fit with current economic times — an era when provincial governments are insisting municipalities amalgamate.

  That’s why McCallum residents are recommending that the two towns refine working relationships already in place, insisting the way of the future is about greater cooperation and sharing. The people of McCallum believe that the biggest reason the province is pushing for resettlement is government doesn’t want to spend the $50 million required to replace the decrepit Terra Nova.

  Then there’s the confrontational question I most frequently field from Gaultois folks: if the situation was reversed, would you give up and downgrade what little bit of service that you have to help us? To which I can say without hesitation, I most certainly would. It brings me great pleasure to know that, on several occasions in the past, with a couple of ferries out of commission at the same time, the province decided McCallum had to forgo some service in an effort to support people in other isolated communities. Doing so genuinely makes me feel that I am part of the great outport tradition of looking out for the needs of the whole, ahead of the wants of the individual. And if any McCallum residents feel differently about the province’s occasional decision to sacrifice service under such circumstances, I don’t hear about it. In fact, my family, friends, and I have found that the Newfoundlanders’ willingness to share sets them apart from the rest of Canada. But I am no longer blind to the fact that not every rural community thinks the same.

  Five

  The Chair of the McCallum Relocation Committee is in the process of organizing a second expression of interest concerning possible relocation. The Chair said that in a small community like McCallum the required 90 percent vote needed for possible relocation actually means that two or three households can determine whether a community relocates or not. . . . There are eight students in the St. Peters School while there are 27 people in the community in the 25 to 50 range while there are 50 people in the 50 to 80 age group.

  — Clayton Hunt, The Coast of Bays Coaster, September 23, 2013

  So the natives are restless regarding resettlement. Some are excited at the possibilities, while others are afraid. But both camps contain their share of angry personnel.

  Anger has been an influencing factor in my life. My mom and dad were both angry, but it is my father’s rage that I remember most. Dad’s losses of control were dramatic. Even sober, his fury could fill the house. A shift worker, my father would explode if we woke him up from an afternoon nap. His anger only subsided after he unloaded it on the rest of us. It would take a long time of watching Dad stomp around the house repeating, “Poor Wally Ward,” before we finally got some peace. He needed to get over feeling sorry for himself first.

  Like many little boys, I copied my father’s behaviour. Especially the blaming. I also learned it’s okay to inflict your pain on others, and that that act is easier to accomplish if your victim is smaller and weaker than you are. I was unintentionally taught that a male doesn’t have to take responsibility for the agony he causes unless he tries his luck on an even meaner man, at which point the instigator should be aware that he is at risk of losing his front teeth.

  I remember being eleven years old and crashing and banging around my bedroom, hollering as loud as I could that one day, everybody was going to regret the way they had treated me. Not that anyone ever did anything especially bad — I just felt compelled to tell them that after I ran away, they were all going to wish they could take back every despicable act they’d ever inflicted on me. I pictured hopping a boxcar to British Columbia with a hobo stick over my shoulder — the kind of rucksack I had seen in the comics, with a bandana on the end, tied in such a way that it could carry my belongings. After an extended period of me angrily warning my family about their pending remorse, I remember Dad saying, “That’s enough.” He said it in a civil way, but I knew how serious he was. I realized my rant was over. Yet there was never any talk about the source of my anger, the useless way in which I had conducted myself, or how I might approach things differently next time. Nobody on either side of the argument apologized. Maybe Dad thought I was learning manly conduct. Or perhaps he was too insecure to see himself in my destructive behaviour.

  No wonder I was so bad at managing my anger throughout my marriage to Janet. I quickly defaulted to feeling sorry for myself, and I never questioned if it was wrong for Janet to fear me. Not that she was ever at any physical risk, but I’m sure she didn’t know that.

  I loved my anger. It made me feel safe and in control. I remember ripping a door off its hinges. Janet had closed that door in my face. I believe she meant to insult me, but even if she did intend to offend, Janet didn’t deserve to be reminded that I was strong enough to destroy that door.

  With Carol, I quickly learned that I had to get my anger under control. When you’re in a second significant relationship and the same ruinous patterns are repeating themselves, you’d better summon up the courage to look in the mirror. The idea of accusing Carol of being responsible for my anger quickly became unpalatable. So I went to work on studying my psychological shortcomings and gradually learned to recognize my role in our confrontations earlier and earlier.

  After seeking considerable professional assistance, and reading several books on the subject, I have learned to identify when anger has a hold on me early enough in the process that I now make smarter choices regarding how I want to respond. Yet I don’t believe anger is a bad thing. Quite the opposite, actually — I think anger is good information; it is telling us something is wrong and needs attending to. My anger informs me that I’m afraid, that I am in a scary situation I can’t control. But how I react to that realization is entirely up to me. How I deal with my rage can be good or bad, so
the only action I’ll now allow myself is to react responsibly. I no longer want to subject anyone else to my pain.

  I know a Newfoundlander who poured hot tea on his wife while she was nursing their daughter. When that girl turned six her father told her, “It’s time I taught you your mother is a whore.” That guy once steered the family boat between some ridiculously dangerous rocks, with the innocent child in the bow proudly pulling on the painter, while he threatened to sink them all because he’d left his jigger behind and blamed his wife for his forgetfulness. It was only a pretend trip to the store on the part of the mother that got the guiltless out of the house. As it was, it took years of work from that emotionally damaged woman’s extended family, a team of pros, a few close friends, and a new partner to keep her from going back to her abuser.

  I wonder how that fellow feels about it all now, what with the two most important people in his world living in Gander with another man — a good man — while he sits in a lonely old shed on Trinity Bay. I wonder if the things that guy held onto so tightly — the matters he refused to budge on — seem as important to him as they once did. I too have dug in my heels, and I can’t recall what the issues I clung to are anymore. But they sure seemed important to me at the time — so much so that the thought of giving them up made me seethe with senseless anger.

  Which brings me back to the amount of anger happening in McCallum around resettlement money. Many who want to accept the government’s offer are blaming those who wish to stay for standing in their way. This resentful crowd talks like it’s their money already, when it is actually only an enticing offer. And those who don’t want to go are so mad about the criticism they’re receiving for resisting that even if they do see good reason to change their mind, they won’t, because of the large anger they hang onto for their accusers. Of course, there is still a crowd that is being classy about it all. McCallum really does contain some elegant individuals.