by Jim Wellman
Not all of her shipmates liked the idea of having a woman on board and made no bones about letting their feelings known. It wasn’t the old superstition that a woman on a boat would bring bad luck. It seemed they thought a woman wouldn’t be able to do what they considered a “man’s job.”
She smiles when she recalls incidents when doubters watch her every move wondering how capable she was. She remembers more than one occasion while crab fishing when she was under close scrutiny.
When the heavy crab traps started coming out of water, Lesley grabbed the first pot and carried it to the deck with the ease of any man.
“They’re there lookin’ at me with the jaw just hanging open,” she says.
Some of her shipmates who didn’t want a woman on board at first are now some of her best friends.
“Some of the guys are fine, but some just seem to want to try and twist your mind,” she says.
Lesley earned the respect of one or two shipmates once during a seal-hunting trip.
“We were sealing, I was the gunner on board the boat—up in the bow—and one of the boys had trouble getting from the ice and back on the boat. I managed to get him alongside [the boat] and grabbed him by the back of his pants and flipped him in over the gunwales,” she explains in a matter-of-fact tone of voice.
Fun in Northumberland Strait; Confederation Bridge to PEI in background.
(Photo courtesy of Lesley Peddle)
The body weight of a bulky fisherman, combined with several pounds of heavy boots and clothing, is not easy to haul up the side of a boat to safety. It is my guess that, besides being relieved to be safe on board the boat, that sealer was impressed with his rescuer.
“I think the guys realize that I’m not out there to make their coffee,” Lesley says with a grin.
When Lesley is not riding her Harley, cruising in her truck, scuba diving, fishing, or cooking, you might find her at her artwork. She likes to draw landscapes, fish, and animals. She wishes she had more time to pursue her artistic passion, but even a person who approaches life with the energy of a volcano has to draw the line somewhere and recognize that there are only twenty-four hours in a day.
Lesley truly enjoys her job, and though it’s not on the front burner all the time, she has given thought to owning her own vessel and enterprise one day. She is also actively involved in building her own dog-breeding kennel business. Lesley Peddle has lived more life in the six year’s since her near-death experience in 2009 than most people do in sixty years. And I think she’s only just begun.
Chapter 14
Beware a Greasy Sky
No matter what career they choose, most Newfoundland and Labrador men are avid wildlife and outdoor enthusiasts. They long for a day in the woods moose hunting, rabbit catching, or for a day on the water fishing or saltwater bird hunting. That lifestyle has always been part of the province’s culture and continues to be just as strong today as ever.
In December 1965, Don Reid was branch manager of the Bank of Nova Scotia in Lewisporte, on Newfoundland’s northeast coast. His friend and colleague Ken George was assistant manager and loans officer at the same branch.
Frank Greenham in his home carpentry shop
On Saturday morning, December 11, 1965, both men were up before dawn and wondering how they would spend their day off. Both observed that the weather was more like a day in August than a couple of weeks before Christmas. The temperature was about twelve degrees Celcius and there was not even a hint of a breeze.
What a great day on the water, they thought.
One of Frank Greenham’s hobbies is model boat building
Ken, owner of a twenty-one-foot motorboat, phoned Don and suggested they go turr (murre) hunting. It didn’t take much arm twisting to get Don on side, but they both agreed that because Notre Dame Bay was full of small islands, it would be wise to have a fisherman or someone who knew the bay intimately to accompany them. After all, regardless of the nice beginning to the day, the northeast coast of Newfoundland is an area that can produce rapid change in weather, especially in December.
They both thought their friend Frank Greenham from Newstead–Comfort Cove would be the ideal person to join them. Ken’s boat was docked in Cottles Island and Frank was located along the way to the island from Lewisporte.
“I wasn’t fussy about going when Don called,” Frank remembers.
Among other things, Frank owned and operated a small garage and service station at the junction of what is now called the Road to the Isles and the branch road to Comfort Cove.
“Saturday was always our busiest day of the week, but it was more than that. There was something making me feel uneasy, like an inner voice saying I shouldn’t go out in boat that day,” Frank recalls.
“Come on, Frank, take a break, you deserve it,” Don said, laughing, knowing that Frank worked hard and a turr hunting trip would probably be good for him. Frank turned to his wife and asked if she could take care of the business for a couple of hours if he decided to go with his friends. She agreed, but Frank says that she, too, felt a strong and strange sense of uneasiness.
“Meanwhile, I was concerned about saying no to these fellows, because even though they were good friends, they were also my bankers and I wanted to stay on their good side, ’cause you never know when you might need their help,” Frank says, smiling.
So, despite being busy and feeling a little edgy, Frank agreed to join his banker friends. Because the plan was to be back home by lunchtime, Frank didn’t bother dressing in clothing that he would ordinarily wear on a boating trip in December, and he didn’t bother taking any warm clothes with him. He left his rubber boots, coat, and mitts at home. He didn’t even bother to bring a lunch. The only thing he took was his twelve-gauge shotgun.
When Ken and Don arrived at the service station to pick him up, Frank jumped in the truck dressed as he would for working at the station on a warm day. Perhaps it was partly due to the way he was dressed, but Frank immediately noted that both Ken and Don were wearing rubber boots and warm clothes, appropriate for surviving a winter storm.
“Glad you could come, Frank,” said Don. “We’ll get a good meal of turrs today for sure. I hear there are lots of them just out the bay. I have a drop of black rum, too, so we can have a little nip on the way.”
Frank facetiously replied that he didn’t like rum, but it might come in handy.
About 9:00 a.m., the putt-putt sound of Ken’s make and break four-horsepower Acadia engine echoed off the cliffs on a perfectly calm morning. Frank soon forgot about his previous nagging concerns as he sat in the front of the small boat and enjoyed the spectacular scenery of sunny Notre Dame Bay and the reflections on the calm ocean from several of the dozens of islands that dot the bay’s coastline. It was indeed a great day on the water.
“How far out the bay did you say the turrs were?” Frank asked Don.
“About eight or nine miles out from Western Head,” Don replied.
Frank suddenly realized that they were not going to be back by lunchtime—not in a boat that only steams about five miles an hour. Steam time alone would be at least four hours, and that didn’t include hunting time.
“How much gas do you have, Ken?” Frank called to his buddy at the back of the boat with one hand on the tiller.
“I got a little bit there. Why?” Ken replied.
“Because we’re still going out and we’ll have a long way back in,” Frank said.
Frank was about to follow up with another question, but that’s when Don sang out that he saw a turr. Ken slowed the engine and, within a couple of minutes, the first turr of the day was in the boat. Shortly afterwards, there were another two birds on board and more sighted a few yards away.
Things were going just great, and Don’s promise of getting a lot of turrs looked very likely. But in all the excite
ment, Frank noticed that the sky was no longer blue.
“I noticed that the sky was already very dark to the southeast and it was moving our way,” Frank says.
Keeping an eye on the changing weather, Frank thought he should alert his friends. “Boys, there’s a greasy-looking sky to the southeast. I don’t like the look of it at all. I think there’s snow in it and I think we should head for land.”
Don and Ken agreed that the sky did indeed look “greasy” and realized that it was about 1:00 p.m. and darkness would soon be closing in, especially if it became overcast and started to snow. They also realized that they were about two hours away from land. Their concerns heightened when they noticed there were no other boats in the area in case they needed help.
As Ken started the little four-horsepower Acadia engine, the wind suddenly breezed up and the ocean was no longer calm.
“It was no time before there were whitecaps on the water and the temperature started to drop,” Frank says.
What was supposed to be a fun three- or four-hour turr hunting trip became the longest nightmare in the lives of three men.
Glancing at the dark, menacing sky to the southeast, Frank knew that there was snow coming soon, possibly within an hour. As the waves starting foaming into whitecaps, and with the temperature dropping, the experienced seaman worried they would wind up in a snowstorm and lose sight of land.
Being caught offshore in a December storm in Ken’s small open boat in Notre Dame Bay, Newfoundland, was a scary thought. It was then that Frank remembered he was dressed only in street clothes, without even a jacket, warm boots, or gloves to wear.
“Ken, get out your compass. I think we should take a bearing for Black Island because it’s the closest point of land and there are people living on the island,” Frank said, explaining to his friend that they might need to get ashore soon.
Ken looked through a couple of boxes on board his little boat and soon realized that he had left his compass home on the kitchen table.
“I remember saying to myself, ‘My God, this is not looking good,’” Frank recalls.
Having determined earlier that they were also low on gas, a compass was more essential now than ever in case they wound up adrift. Don may have been silently sharing Frank’s thoughts and decided that now was as good a time as any to pour a drink of the rum he had brought along.
“Here, boys. Have a little nip of this to keep your blood warm,” he said, passing Ken and Frank small plastic containers filled with his favourite brew.
After assessing their options, Frank looked at Don, who was “on the tiller” steering the boat, and offered some advice.
“Keep the wind on her port bow—on the left side of your face, Don—that way we should stay headed toward the island.”
Minutes later, the wind increased significantly, seas grew rougher, and snow started lashing against the men’s faces as they peered straight into the brewing storm, hoping to get an occasional glimpse of land.
But their hopes were in vain. As it grew colder and winds increased, visibility was reduced from kilometres ahead to mere metres. Frank says he also remembers thinking that the wind had changed from the southeast to the northeast, although he couldn’t be certain.
“With a southeast wind, temperatures don’t normally get all that cold, and I can tell you, sir, it was getting colder by the minute,” he recalls.
By 4:30 p.m., conditions had deteriorated. It was almost totally dark, the temperature had dropped to below freezing, and winds had whipped up to about forty miles per hour, creating high waves. But worst of all, it was now snowing heavily. In a nutshell, they were caught at sea in a small twenty-one-foot open boat in a full-blown northeast Newfoundland blizzard.
Shortly after dark, the winds and waves were so high that the boat wasn’t making any headway at all. As the men huddled in conversation, they decided that keeping the engine running was merely wasting valuable fuel that they might need later. As Ken shut off the motor, Frank pointed out they needed to keep the bow headed into the wind, because now that they were drifting and at the mercy of nature, a strong gust of wind combined with a large wave hitting the side of the boat could easily capsize it. Frank noticed there was no anchor on board, so he filled a five-gallon bucket with water, lowered it a few feet below the surface, and tied the rope to the stem of the boat, to make what is known as a sea anchor. The weight of the bucket helped keep the little boat heading into the wind.
Now that the engine was shut off, the sounds of the howling winds and roaring seas seemed louder and more ferocious than before. With nothing more to do than sit and pray, the three men hardly spoke. Freezing spray was constantly blowing over them, and while Ken and Don were dressed appropriately, Frank, clad only in light clothing, was already soaked to the skin and losing body heat.
“I was shaking like a leaf on a tree, and that’s when it first dawned on me that we could be out there all night, because there was no point in sending out a search party in that kind of storm,” Frank recalls.
About midnight, the three bird hunters heard what they initially thought was a strange sound. At first, neither of them thought it was the sound of an engine or a vessel because it was more like a rumbling noise. As the sound grew closer and louder, Frank, who was a mechanical engineer, recognized the familiar rumblings of a large vessel rather than the small fishing boat or pleasure craft that they were expecting to hear. They didn’t have any flares to fire, so they frantically shot off several rounds of gunshots in hopes that someone on the approaching ship would hear them.
But it was not to be. A couple of minutes later, the sound of the vessel that came close enough for them to feel its wake faded into the darkness.
Surprisingly, the men were more philosophical than dejected about losing the possibility of rescue.
“It could have been worse,” one fellow said. “We could have been cut down and smashed to pieces and no one would have ever known.”
Nodding in agreement, the other two were somehow buoyed by the fact that they were spared certain death, and now they seemed more determined to survive the storm. In their moment of appreciation, another fellow chimed in with a reminder that their small boat was handling the rough seas like a trooper.
“You know, that little boat rode the tops of those waves like a duck,” Frank says. “It was almost like she was in someone’s big hand that was keeping her afloat on top of those high breaking waves. I’ll never understand it as long as I live.”
Even though the boat was riding the seas very well indeed, spray from the cresting waves kept throwing water over the gunwales. Taking turns bailing out water, all three were in surprisingly good condition and said that if they could hang on till daylight, the storm might lose some of its fury and a rescue party would be along to bring them home.
Little did they know that there would be yet another night and two days of hell to go through before home would become a reality.
Surviving Saturday afternoon and night on board a small open boat in a December blizzard required tremendous determination and strong survival skills.
Don and Ken huddled on the floorboards in the midsection of the boat as Frank placed his cold wet feet between their bodies to stave off frostbite. As the boat drifted aimlessly in Notre Dame Bay, they hoped and prayed that they would see land soon. Their hopes of better weather conditions at daylight were dashed when, if anything, it seemed to get worse with strengthening winds and even colder temperatures.
Meanwhile, back home, Frank’s brother Jack contacted the owner and captain of a large passenger boat to ask if he would consider searching for the overdue bird hunters. Captain Harvey Bulgin was an experienced mariner and didn’t want to give Jack false hopes.
“Unless they reached land somewhere last night and got ashore, their chances of surviving this storm in a small boat like that are not very good,” he s
aid.
However, he obligingly left his home port of Summerford and searched for some time, but visibility was nil in the blizzard and his search turned up nothing. Turning to Jack, Captain Bulgin said he had never seen a storm any worse and it was simply too dangerous and futile to try going on. Jack understood and agreed.
Despite their faces, feet, and hands being numb from the bitter cold, the three men were still determined to fight the still-raging storm conditions on Sunday morning and make it through another day. Surely their drifting boat would have to strike land somewhere soon, they thought. Finally, Frank thought he saw a flashing light. Not sure if he should say anything at first, because he was aware that hallucinating is common when one becomes hypothermic, Frank remained quiet but looked more intently through the drifting snow. A few seconds later, he saw another flash.
“Boys, I think I see a light,” Frank exclaimed. Don and Ken raised their heads and both confirmed that Frank was not hallucinating.
“Yes, yes it is, I can see it, too,” they both said, daring to hope their ordeal might soon be over.
“I wonder if it’s a lighthouse? Ken, see if the engine will start. Don, take the tiller, but be careful and keep away from the shore for a while until we size things up,” Frank said, taking control of the situation.
“I couldn’t believe it, but that little engine started on the first swing of the flywheel,” Frank says, smiling.
As the small motorboat rode the waves, the three men kept scanning the shoreline for a suitable place to land. Rounding a headland, they could hear the distinct blast of a foghorn, but they still had no idea where they were. The water was slightly calmer than they had experienced for the past twenty-four hours.
“Let’s try to land in there,” Ken shouted, pointing to a small rocky cove. “We’ll probably lose the boat because there’s no beach, but we got to try to save ourselves.” Frank and Don nodded in agreement as they prepared to jump as soon as the boat struck the rocks.