Where I Belong

by Alan Doyle

  Ted and Stan were not your typical museum employees, but I loved hanging with them. They were hugely entertaining and like no one I’d ever met. I even came to learn a whole bunch from them, whether they knew it or not.

  For example, Ted helped me fall in love with St. John’s. He embodied the history and spirit of the way the place had been a generation before me—rough and way more clever and complicated than meets the eye. He was an encyclopedia of the recent history of St. John’s. You could walk up and down Water Street with him and learn where all the Portuguese sailors used to go to get drunk and shagged. He would point to the old hardware store and tell you what used to be in the renovated buildings on either side of it, and how Sneakers Fagan and his brother Lefty worked there when a fire destroyed the second storey. Stan, a military history buff, taught me more about the history of warfare than anyone, making it simple and palatable. I remember some discussion about prostitutes and venereal disease, and Stan said, “Yeah, just like the Boer War.”

  “What’s the Boer War?” I asked, and the next day Stan brought me four books on the conflict—with pages marked to indicate the most interesting parts.

  For most of that summer, I hitchhiked to St. John’s every morning and home in the evenings as well. I learned the work schedules of just about every person in Petty Harbour who worked in the city. I knew that if I was up and on the go before seven thirty, I could stand on the bridge and get one of three different rides coming from the Protestant side. If I was a bit later, I would have to walk a little towards Maddox Cove and hitch with some of the Catholic folks who were heading to town. Rain or shine, it did not matter. I always had a gym bag with a raincoat, a can of soup and a pair of spare socks and underwear. Out the door with Mom’s “Be good,” I was ready for anything.

  I worked at the museum for almost a decade, from the summer of 1985 till 1994. It thrilled me that my job was talking to people about the place I loved the most. It was a crash course in all things from Newfoundland. I had no idea how beneficial this would be when researching and learning traditional tunes later in Great Big Sea. I loved meeting people from all over the world and telling them about the history of the country and province of Newfoundland. I loved hearing their stories about where they were from. I loved working with people from all over the island and from Labrador.

  Plus, the girls that worked there were not my cousins.

  There were many great things that happened to me while working at the museum, but the best thing happened while I was walking up Water Street in October of 1992. Walking towards me was Séan McCann. I remembered him lurking in the back of the Rose and Thistle and I remember secretly hoping he dug what he saw of my performance. By then, his band Rankin Street was pretty much the biggest thing in downtown, and every pub and festival wanted the group as often as possible. Bernie had seen them play a few times and suggested that I check them out.

  “You can play the Irish stuff and rock ’n’ roll, Al.” He was certain. “You’d be a good fit with a band like that.”

  But I’d heard through the downtown rumour mill that Rankin Street was folding and that some of the members were hoping to form a new band. I decided then and there that I was going to try to make it happen. Right on Water Street. I was about to say hello to Séan, but he beat me to the punch. He had his right hand out before I reached him.

  He smiled and I shook his hand. “Hey, man. I’m Séan. You’re Alan, right?” he asked with a smile and a twinkle in his eye that made it obvious to me why all the girls wanted to go out with him. His hand gripped mine like he’d never let it go.

  “Yeah, Alan Doyle from Petty Harbour. Love your band, man.”

  But he was not there to be praised and went right back to business. “I saw you play a couple of times at the Rose and Thistle and a few other places.”

  “Oh, really? That’s cool.” I tried my best to act like I had not noticed him in the back of the club with a watchful eye and ear.

  “Yeah, you’re f—king crazy. And you can sing and play guitar really well, man. We’re tearing down Rankin Street and building a new band. You want to come jam sometime?”

  “Yeah, that would be cool, I suppose.”

  That friendly chat started what Nan and I could never have imagined. After a generation or two of the Doyles from Skinner’s Hill making people dance and sing and smile, the family was about to get its first full-time professional musician. And as he fantasized for nearly two decades, Alan Doyle from Petty Harbour was about to play for a living in a real professional band.

  GREAT BIG SEA

  On an otherwise ordinary day late in 1992, the trial meeting for the band that would follow the mighty Rankin Street started as an informal jam at Séan’s tiny apartment in St. John’s. I knew it was a huge opportunity. This was my chance to show Séan and his bandmates that I was the guy they should have in whatever act they formed next. I wanted the day to go well, and the nervous energy had kept me up the night before. I was worried that I wasn’t ready. As it turned out, I had no idea how well every experience I’d had up to that point had prepared me for the opportunity of a lifetime.

  With my acoustic and electric guitar in tow, along with a small amplifier, I knocked on Séan’s door. He greeted me and led me to the living room. He mentioned the next band that he and the boys planned to start was going to be a serious one and a ton of work for not much money at first. I explained about my young life in Petty Harbour and how I’d been working hard and making my own money for over a decade. I told him about cutting out tongues on the wharf and how I had not had a summer off since I was eleven.

  He mentioned he planned to take his new band to gigs out of town and even out of province to play clubs in Halifax and Toronto. I could not believe my ears. He warned that life on the road was no bed of roses and there’d be times when we’d have to double up in rooms and share a bathroom. I said I was not too worried about the sleeping arrangements as I’d spent a significant portion of my young life pooping in a beef bucket. I explained that even at the best of times I was one of five people and a dog sharing a single bathroom, so two in a hotel room was probably not going to be a problem.

  He made a point of saying that he’d learned the hard way that not all club owners were honest and that you had to be on your toes when dealing with them. He laughed as I told him how I once stood shoulder to shoulder with a bass player as we flung Dumpy’s eight balls into the woods as retribution for not living up to his promises.

  We talked about how we’d both learned to sing hymns in church, and he was impressed that I could play a bunch of the folk mass hymns on guitar. Like me, he’d grown up in a very Catholic environment. I told him I’d spent a pile of time on the altar and that I was studying religion at university. Turned out he knew most of the priests I knew, and like me, he had struggled with remaining in the Catholic fold. We even discovered that my high school principal at St. Kevin’s in the Goulds, a great woman and prominent Sister of Mercy, was his aunt Patricia.

  I told him I’d learned some traditional music from my parents and the Wonderful Grand Band. He was impressed that my dad had been on All Around the Circle, a show he’d watched as a kid. He insisted I listen to some other traditional music with him. Séan must have played me thirty albums I’d never heard of—amazing British and Irish bands like Fairport Convention, Steeleye Span and Planxty. I’d never heard traditional music played that way before and I wanted to try it.

  I played my electric guitar and did one of the Staggerin’ Home tricks of wandering from eighties metal to Irish traditional in one medley. I thought it was hilarious; Séan thought it was no joke at all.

  We started jamming and quickly discovered that we could sing in easy harmony with each other because his vocal range practically started where mine stopped. He fed me chili and we sang and played tunes and drank a bottle of rum.

  I stumbled out of there late in the evening with a million new songs in my head. The day had been so much fun it certainly did not feel like an
audition or interview of any kind. Only as I put on my coat did it even occur to me to worry if I had impressed him enough to get a shot at being involved in whatever project he was doing next.

  As it turned out, I need not have worried.

  As I walked towards an awaiting orange Gulliver’s cab, Séan said, “Deadly, man. Let’s book some gigs.”

  We did not know it yet, but we had just started Great Big Sea.

  This is our first-ever Great Big Sea poster shot, taken moments after our first opening show for the Irish Descendants, at Memorial University, March 11, 1993. The smiles say it all.

  EPILOGUE

  Spin the planet like a globe. Does it seem a bit smaller?

  Does the Atlantic Ocean appear a little less imposing? Do the Old Country and the New seem just a little closer? Is that island easier to spot now? Does its shape seem a bit more familiar?

  Look closer and you’ll see how Newfoundland reaches back towards Ireland as it always has, and you’ll see the little bay that leads to that same cove and tiny harbour. The town around the harbour is almost unchanged. It is still split by the perfect little river. You’ll see the bridge that separates what people still call the Protestant and Catholic sides of the town even though religion no longer divides the town in quite the same way. In a bit more and you’ll likely see a young man on that bridge right where we once saw him as a boy. I see him there all the time. His foot is still tapping to a song in his head, but it is tapping louder and with growing confidence.

  These days, he’s always going somewhere, but he’s always coming back, too. He’s got a few stories to tell from the harbour and beyond, but now in his early twenties, his biggest adventure is just about to start. Those eyes that once followed the valley to the road out of town are about to open wider than he could possibly imagine. He’s a pretty big dreamer, but right now on this bridge in time, he could never dream of Great Big Sea.

  There was once a boy who lived in a tiny fishing village on an island in the middle of the ocean.

  That boy is me. This is my story.

  Glossary of Terms

  (Mostly for Mainlanders)

  Bastarding Doyles: According to shop owner Maureen, the wicked crowd from the other side of Skinner’s Hill who left her convenience store door open and wrote nasty songs about local people.

  Bayman: a person from the bay or shoreline of Newfoundland, mysteriously with the exception of those from Quidi Vidi and the Battery shorelines of St. John’s, who are Townies (see Townie), equally mysteriously with the inclusion of people from places like Gander and Whitbourne, which are nowhere near the ocean.

  b’y: Newfoundland contraction for “boy”; a term of endearment similar to “pal” or “buddy,” often used in reference to a boy or man but just as often used in reference to a girl or woman.

  Canadian: A resident of Canada; to my grandfather and others of his generation, a person from the neighbouring country to Newfoundland.

  capelin: A schooling fish known in the olden days for its aphrodisiac powers because women wandering in the sea to fetch them had to lift their skirts, revealing the alluring sight of their bare ankles.

  cod britches: The roe from a female codfish in the shape of a perfect pair of pink pants.

  cutting out tongues: The action of severing the tongue (and the flesh that lies beneath it) of a codfish; a way for young fellas from Petty Harbour to make a small fortune.

  fish: Cod. All other fish in Newfoundland are named by species.

  gulch: A steep and foreboding crevasse along a rocky shoreline often used for the disposal of adult magazines.

  gurry: Fish guts, skin, fins and tails often found in the bottom of a fishing boat or under a splitting table; a grotesque brew that young fellas in Petty Harbour rub on their clothes to gross out their older sisters.

  iceberg: A big chunk of ice in the sea that is of interest only to Mainlanders (see Mainlander). To most Newfoundlanders, it’s about as remarkable as wind.

  kitchen party: A gathering in the kitchen to talk, sing, eat and drink. Historically, the kitchen was often the biggest room in a rural Newfoundland home, and it had heat from the wood stove.

  Mainlander: A person not from Newfoundland; a Canadian (see Canadian).

  make-and-break engine: The simplest but most durable engine found in trap skiffs and small fishing boats. Also know as a “putt putt” from its distinctive sound.

  making fish: Traditionally means the gutting, splitting, salting and drying of codfish for storage and sale.

  Nitzy Pumpkin: A red-haired and freckle-faced person, often of Irish descent.

  out-of-oil party: A Doyle-family tradition held in celebration of a lack of heating fuel; an attempt to stay warm in the winter by heating a room with body heat, alcohol and an electric oven with the door taken off its hinges.

  pew: Not only a seat found in a church but a single-pronged pitchfork used for lifting fish out of fishing vessels and onto stages (see stages).

  putt putt: see make-and-break engine

  Russell knife: A brand of filleting knife used by the best fish cutters in the world; the object of envy of many a young Petty Harbour tongue cutter.

  sculpin: The ugliest fish in the world.

  sounds: The paper-thin strips of flesh that grow along the spinal column of a codfish; an edible delicacy; proof that some people will eat anything.

  stage: A raised platform on a wharf not for live performances but for the making of fish (see making fish).

  Townie: A person from the town of St. John’s; city folk.

  What are you at?: A rhetorical question used as a greeting. The most appropriate response is, “What are you at?”

  Acknowledgements

  This book would not exist if not for the patience and professionalism of editor Nita Pronovost. When I needed guidance, she was the perfect teacher. When I needed reassurance, she offered the perfect encouragement. I have learned more from Nita than I can say.

  Michael Levine got this whole thing started as he connected me with Scott Sellers, Nita, Kristin Cochrane and many others at Random House Canada, and knew long before I did that I had a story to tell. Thanks also to Zoe Maslow, for shepherding through various changes and corrections to the book and making sure nothing fell through the cracks.

  A few select people read advance drafts of this book and their comments were invaluable in its completion. Dawn Chafe, along with husband Karl, Murray Foster, Kerri MacDonald and my brother, Bernie Doyle, all helped tremendously.

  Victoria O’Grady did some early leg work for this book, compiling, copying and editing photos and blogs. I am grateful to her for this and so many other things she’s done to keep my work and home operating smoothly.

  The photos in this book were taken or scanned and reproduced by the amazing Brian Ricks. I am grateful to him and all the folks, especially Margaret Walsh, who so generously made their photos available.

  I discovered I knew none of the mechanics of writing dialogue. I explained my problem to my neighbour Ed Riche as we met one morning while putting out the garbage. He set me straight. Helps to have internationally successful writers in the ’hood.

  Louis Thomas is my long-suffering manager who never blinks when I come to him with any crazy interest of mine, from music to acting to public speaking to writing. His administration and advice in this project have proved as beneficial as ever.

  The cast and crew of Great Big Sea remain at the helm of the Mothership, and I could not have done this without their support.

  My mom and dad, sisters and brother gave me not only their stories and permission to use them but also the cheers and praise I needed exactly when I needed it. As always.

  My wife, Joanne, and son, Henry, give me every reason to do everything.

  Thanks to you all.

  I don’t know

  Where I’m going

  But I know

  Where I belong

  —lyrics from “Where I Belong,” Alan Doyle and Russell Crowe, from Alan
Doyle’s solo album Boy on Bridge, copyright © 2012