by Jim Wellman
Heading the Institute is the perfect fit for Blackwood’s enthusiasm and passion for the fisheries and marine industries. Sit with him for a few minutes and it soon becomes obvious that talking about himself means talking about his work—not surprising, perhaps, when you consider all the great work that is going on at the Institute.
“Last year, we had students from every single province and territory in Canada,” he says. “We graduate 400 students a year here, and in that sense that makes us the largest facility like this in the country.”
Once portrayed as simply the cod college, the Marine Institute has grown to a centre for higher learning that now boasts several bachelor and masters degree programs. Blackwood is very happy to talk about how successful some of its graduates have become. For example, one Marine Institute graduate is first officer on one of the largest cruise ships in the world, while another has a major job with Disney Cruise Lines out of Florida. Others have attained highly successful careers in the offshore oil industry.
Having been on the front lines of the major changes to fisheries in the past thirty years, Blackwood has one pet peeve.
“We had one of the largest layoffs in Canadian history with the cod moratorium in 1992. Five years later, we had moved to mainly crab and shrimp. We shifted to new fishing gears, shifted to new markets, retrofitted vessels and fish plants, reopened groundfish plants to shrimp and crab facilities, and doubled the income [from fishing] to $1 billion a year up from $500 million. If that had happened to forestry in BC or agriculture on the prairies, it would have been hailed as the biggest success story in the history of the country. But not here,” Blackwood says, obviously still frustrated by the fact that the fishing industry is still largely underplayed.
He says he understands people who point out that they couldn’t accommodate all the 30,000 people who lost their jobs in 1992, but the fact that nearly half of them are still working in the industry, most with better pay, should be viewed as a matter of pride and not seen as a failure.
“Sometimes I say that I wish I wasn’t addicted to the fisheries. But I am,” he says, smiling.
Married and a father of two sons, Blackwood doesn’t have a lot of spare time, but when he does get a few days off, he likes to spend time on the water. He has a couple of small pond boats, but his buddy in Lewisporte, Notre Dame Bay, has a powerboat, and they cruise around some of Newfoundland’s many bays nearly every summer. His sons are accomplished hockey players, and chasing them around was almost a full-time job. He likes to go moose hunting when he can find time, but spending time with family and spending time in boats are what relaxes him best.
Glenn Blackwood’s addiction to fisheries is not likely to diminish any time soon.
Chapter 19
The Memories Were All Made Here
Our “Final Voyages” stories have traditionally been about tragic loss of life at sea or the loss of a vessel that sank in the line of duty. A third criteria comes under the heading “There but for the grace of God”—meaning that there was no loss of life or vessel but an extremely close call.
In this chapter, I profile an esteemed fishing captain who made his final voyage in January 2014, but he “crossed the bar” on land after losing a year-long battle with cancer. Because Kevin Fiset was well-known for being more than just a fishing skipper and because he was an avid fan of the Navigator magazine, especially the Final Voyages section, I gave the criteria some flexibility and decided to pay tribute to Kevin in the section of the magazine that his family says would surely receive Kevin’s smiling stamp of approval.
Kevin chats with son Brendon on a leisurely summer’s day on the water.
(Photo courtesy of Brenda Fiset Doucette)
Kevin Fiset was born to be a fisherman. As a young lad growing up in the picturesque little town of Grand Etang on Cape Breton Island, Kevin’s love for the sea and everything about it was obvious. In his early teens, Kevin and two of his buddies, Mark Larade and Jean-Guy Aucoin, built several model fishing vessels that were replicas of boats in the Grand Etang–Cheticamp area. The local newspaper Inverness Oran did a feature story with photos of the boys and their boats. It was about that time when Kevin started fishing with his grandfather every chance he’d get, and there was no question what his future vocation would be—he was a fisherman to the core.
Kevin’s love of fishing was matched only by his passion for fishing vessels—everything from their design to their histories. His sister Brenda (Fiset) Doucette, talks about all the “blue books” she remembers her brother had. Those blue books were Government of Canada registries of fishing vessels, and Kevin viewed them almost daily. His wife, Tammie, says he would even bring the books with him on family excursions around Cape Breton. Every time Kevin came across a boat he hadn’t seen before, whether it was tied up at the wharf, at a Marine Service Centre, or in someone’s backyard, he had to stop, size it up, and note the name, port of registry, and Commercial Fishing Vessel (CFV) number, along with his personal observations about the length, design, and anything else that caught his attention. Sometimes he’d have his blue book with him so he could cross-reference the details right on the spot, or he would write down the information to check on it when he returned home. All of this activity was often to the chagrin of his wife, Tammie, and especially his daughter Hailey. His son Brendon had an early interest in boats, but Tammie and Hailey were not overly excited about spending so much time sitting in the family vehicle waiting for Kevin to conduct his research.
“Sometimes it would take us hours to complete what would normally be a half-hour drive,” Tammie remembers, smiling.
But Kevin couldn’t really stop himself from indulging in his passion. In fact, in recent years it got more intense, especially with the introduction of good, inexpensive digital cameras. Kevin would snap pictures of boats from every angle to add to his already large and growing database of vessel photos to go along with the text data. Kevin shared many of those photos with his Facebook friends, and that would often prompt lengthy discussion among others.
When the government vessel registries went digital and the blue books were no longer published, Kevin got a computer and set it up in the corner of the living room in their modest home in Grand Etang to monitor every single entry. But his blue books remained close by for reference purposes long after the days of electronic registrations. Tammie has them all securely packed and stowed for safekeeping now.
Portrait of the Fiset family, 2006. Tammie, Kevin, Brendon, and Hailey (front).
(Photo courtesy of Tammie Fiset)
It was Kevin’s deep passion for detailed knowledge of fishing vessels that caught my attention. I became a Facebook friend of Kevin’s several years ago, and it soon became obvious that this man had an enormous knowledge of every vessel, its owner, and history. If he didn’t know, it was a challenge that had to be dealt with immediately, and an answer was usually found in short order. On a few occasions, Kevin’s knowledge was a resource base for me at the Navigator when I needed information on a particular vessel. All I had to do was ask, and in jig time I had my reply.
Kevin was a quiet, kind, and unassuming man who also had a third passion. His love of family surpassed all else. Son of Aurel and Germaine, husband to Tammie and father of Brendon and Hailey, and brother to his only sibling, Brenda, Kevin was the consummate family man. He wasn’t one for partying and crowds, but Kevin loved to cook and spend as much time with family as he could. Brenda says he was the classic “homebody.”
Brendon’s first trip to sea as captain of the Hailey Dawn, spring 2014
(Photo courtesy of Tammie Fiset)
“The memories were all made here,” Tammie says in a phone conversation from her home. And it doesn’t take long from chatting with her, Brendon, and Brenda to know that the memories are sweet and built on a foundation that will last forever.
Brenda, a teacher now
living in Halifax, is very proud of her big brother.
“I’ve never known a man so proud to own a boat and earn a living from the sea,” she poetically describes Kevin.
Kevin fished on a number of boats, including some in the offshore fishery, before purchasing his first vessel. He’s from a family of sea people, including his dad, who is known as a top-notch diesel mechanic who practised his trade on board several vessels. Kevin also fished crab for several years but sold his snow crab licence after the crab resource declined.
Brendon has followed in his father’s footsteps and went fishing whenever time would permit during his school days. He is twenty now and graduated from school.
Like his dad, Brendon is a soft-spoken young man who doesn’t make a fuss about most things. He earned a reputation as a good hockey player in the midget league, but now that he’s older, he has retired from the competitive leagues. His focus now is keeping his dad’s dream alive.
Lobster trap buoy memorial Brendon made for his dad (Photo courtesy of Tammie Fiset)
Tammie is very happy that her young son has taken over for his dad and is keeping Kevin’s beloved boat, Hailey Dawn (named after their daughter), and carrying on the family tradition. Although Brendon was young to take on the responsibility of operating a fishing enterprise and fishing a 39’11” vessel, he has a solid support system to back him up. Kevin’s crewman for years stayed on and will be a major asset to Brendon.
Claude Deveau, a fellow skipper from Grand Etang, a relative and close friend of Kevin’s, stated it well. Claude said there are about twenty boats fishing from that harbour and, in a small community like Grand Etang, everyone is like family.
“We’ll all be there for Brendon for as long as it takes.”
With a support system like that, empires can be built, let alone a small fishing enterprise.
Hailey is now fifteen and is a vibrant teenager who is very involved in a number of artistic interests including dance.
Something tells me that I haven’t heard the last of the fishing name Fiset of Grand Etang for a long, long time. I wish them the very best of everything.
Chapter 20
Take Care of Your Mother
The cod moratorium that stunned Newfoundland and Labrador fishermen in July 1992 didn’t put an end to tragedy in the province’s inshore fishery.
Barely a month after the moratorium went into effect, the small fishing community of St. Lewis–Fox Harbour, Labrador, was shocked by the loss of two of its fishermen.
Aeriel view of Fox Harbour–St. Lewis (Photo courtesy of Calvin Poole)
Caplin were plentiful on the Labrador Coast that summer, and on August 11, just a little over a month after the cod fishery was shut down, Ed Poole, his father, Earl, and cousin Wallace left their summer fishing station in Murray’s Harbour to haul a caplin net in nearby Crow Bay.
That fateful Wednesday started out as a beautiful morning. It was sunny and warm, although there was a “bit of a breeze from the southwest,” as Ed described it.
The three men were delighted to see that their net was full of caplin.
“Boys, there’s enough caplin here to feed everyone in Fox Harbour all winter,” Wallace joked as they started hauling the net over the side of the boat.
Ed was in the back of the speedboat, and shortly after Wallace’s upbeat comments he noticed lops splashing over the stern.
“I said to Dad and Wallace that a fair bit of water was coming in, but I don’t know if they heard me or not because they didn’t look back but just kept on hauling more net and more caplin on board.”
Perhaps Earl and Wallace were not worried about anything because, even though it was only eighteen feet, their boat was a flat-bottom design and very sturdy. Ed’s brother Fred says he remembers, when the boat was new, they were testing it out and they were surprised that four or five men could stand on the gunwales and the boat would hardly list at all.
But somehow this time was different, and soon Ed realized that the amount of water coming in was worrisome. He tried bailing out the water, but it was a losing battle as more water was coming in than he could handle. That’s when Ed realized they were in big trouble.
“I shouted to the others to move to the front because the stern was almost underwater.”
His father and Wallace looked back and for the first time realized that the boat was half-submerged. As Ed suggested, they moved toward the bow, but the attempt to level the water inside the boat from back to front was too late and the little boat continued filling with more water.
Ed says he recalls that someone seemed to move too quickly and, suddenly, the boat capsized and all three were thrown overboard.
Ordinarily, getting thrown overboard in the circumstances the Poole men found themselves in that morning would not appear to be very serious. Despite the fact that Ed was the only one wearing a life jacket and the only one who could swim, the boat was only ten feet from shore. In fact, the net was tied to the rocks. What could go wrong? It was a warm day in summer, so it should have been just a matter of one of them getting ashore and throwing a line to the others, and the day should have ended with the men getting no more than a good soaking.
But the ocean doesn’t always behave the way we think it should and, as often happens in times of crisis, people are not always certain about how and why some things occur.
For example, Ed remembers that when he surfaced near the boat, he grabbed his father and kept him close at hand, but at first he couldn’t see any sign of Wallace.
“I looked out to the southeast and there he was, about ten fathoms [sixty feet] away from us. I shouted at him and said, ‘How the hell did you get out there? Come back in out of it!’”
Wallace heard his cousin and looked at Ed, and in a motion that resembled an attempt to walk rather than swim, he suddenly sank beneath the surface.
That was the last time anyone ever saw Wallace alive.
Because Ed was wearing a flotation device, it’s likely that he wasn’t underwater for any longer than a few seconds. His dad, on the other hand, was not wearing a life jacket and had big rubber boots on that were filled with water, pulling him down. Eventually, Ed saw his dad underwater, pulled him to the surface, and starting pushing him toward the side of the overturned speedboat. By then Earl was already fatigued, confused, and likely suffering from water ingestion.
He seemed to know that he might not make it.
Looking at his son, Earl said, “Ed, take care of your mother.”
Just minutes later, Ed Poole realized that Earl had succumbed and there was nothing he could do except hold onto the boat with one hand and keep a firm grasp on his dad’s coat for fear of having him slip under the surface and losing him.
As the boat drifted away from the shoreline, Ed tried to remain focused and figure out a plan to save his own life.
Looking to see if there were any other boats in the vicinity, he saw several whales inching closer and closer toward him, as if they were curious about what was going on. “I looked up to the sky and I said, ‘Well, well . . . here I am up to my neck in water and now I got to deal with friggin’ whales.’”
The whales kept their distance, but Ed had other issues to deal with.
Although the air temperature might have been warm, the water was very cold. He noted that there were seven icebergs in Crow Bay that morning, and the boat was drifting straight toward one. He wondered whether he’d try and get on a berg if the boat came close enough but worried that it might even be colder on the ice than in the water. He didn’t have to make the decision.
“Something strange happened. The boat was headed for the ice, but suddenly she took a turn and moved away and circled around, almost as if someone took her in tow or something,” he says.
Fox Harbour–St. Lewis (Photo courtesy of Calvin Poole)
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p; Meanwhile, back in Murray’s Harbour, Ed’s mom was anxiously glancing at the kitchen clock. Earl had told her that they’d be back by ten o’clock, but it was almost noon.
They should be back by now, she thought. She wondered if the men were having engine trouble. She contacted Tom Holley, a family friend, who knew exactly where the Pooles’ caplin net was, and he left immediately to check on his friends. At first there was no sign of the Pooles’ boat, but as he drew nearer to their net, he saw a flash—like sunlight reflecting from a mirror. In later chats about the events of that day, Tom and Ed figured that what Tom saw was a reflection of the sun on Ed’s sunglasses.
Whatever it was, it gave Tom cause to take a closer look, and a minute later he saw Ed, still clinging to his father’s jacket with one hand and the overturned boat with the other.
Fortunately, Tom Holley was a big, strong man. Otherwise, it would have difficult to get Earl and Ed from the water into his boat. He managed to haul Earl in first and then got Ed on board. Tom says Ed was groggy and wanting sleep, but he started to come around once on board the speedboat.
It was miraculous that all he felt was groggy. They figured Ed had been in the ice-infested ocean for about two hours and twenty minutes before Tom showed up. Ordinarily, most people would have been in an advanced state of hypothermia within twenty to twenty-five minutes, but somehow Ed Poole is different than most people and is still alive to tell the tale.
Wallace’s body was recovered the next day, and although fishing communities have long been accustomed to tragedy at sea, the shock and sorrow is no less crushing when it happens to your own.