The Deadly Sea

by Jim Wellman

  He ran forward again and picked up a coil of 3/8-inch rope, but when he reached the stern section of the boat again, Gerry froze in his tracks—he could no longer see Ward.

  Being the only one on board the fifty-eight-foot vessel meant that manoeuvring the boat and hurrying around the decks in the dark took time. Although Gerry knew his boat well and moved with good speed, time was running out. He ran to the wheelhouse and, at 4:58 a.m., sent a frantic distress signal on channel 16 very high frequency (VHF) radio advising that he had a man in the water in position latitude 44°18’42”N and longitude 65°41’18”W.

  Gerry was a seasoned captain, and although his heart raced he was still in control of his emotions, and he continued to do what he had been trained to do in situations like this. He put the Silver Angel’s engine in gear and started searching for Ward, hoping for the best but also knowing that, without a life jacket or any flotation device, Ward was in serious trouble in the frigid waters off Nova Scotia in May.

  Gerry’s frantic mayday call transmitted successfully, and fishing boats in the area immediately swung their bows toward the location of the Silver Angel. Within minutes they were on the way to assist Gerry in the search. A Cormorant helicopter and two Coast Guard ships later joined the two dozen fishing boats and spent a day searching the waters for Ward Wickens—sadly, without success. The life ring that Gerry had thrown to his deckhand was recovered, but there was no sign of Ward.

  When fishermen die at sea, it is often difficult for loved ones to find closure because, in many incidents, the body is never recovered. For long agonizing days, weeks, and months, those left behind grieve, but still cling to a tiny shred of hope that their son, husband, or brother made it to safety somehow.

  In small fishing communities, everyone is touched because, besides the immediate family members, the entire town is extended family.

  It was exactly that way when thirty-three-year-old Ward Wickens fell overboard from the fishing vessel Silver Angel near Cape Sable Island, Nova Scotia, on May 3, 2011. He was never seen again and an entire community mourned deeply.

  Ray Belliveau was one of those grief-stricken people.

  “It was the worst day of my life,” he says.

  Ray’s company, Charlesville Fisheries, owned the Silver Angel, and Ward was both an employee and a friend.

  Some things about that day still seem surreal to Ray, but he remembers that the Silver Angel and Captain Gerry Henneberry arrived at the dock in East Pubnico at ten o’clock that Tuesday morning. Ray went on board to talk to the captain of his vessel to learn more about the accident and also to try and help Gerry.

  “I did all I could to comfort Gerry—he was not in a good state,” Ray recalls.

  Comforting Gerry was one thing, but when Ray received confirmation from search officials that there was no hope of finding Ward alive, he knew the worst was yet to come. He knew he had to drive to Bear Point, Shelburne County, to talk to Dana Wickens, Ward’s wife.

  “She already knew that Ward was gone, but I had to go anyway. It was just the right thing to do,” Ray says, adding that not a single day has passed since May 3, 2011, that Ward hasn’t crossed his mind.

  His mind racing wildly with emotions and fears, Ray asked a friend, who was also a fishing captain, to go to Bear Point with him. They left East Pubnico and drove through the fishing villages of Woods Harbour and Shag Harbour before finally arriving at Bear Point.

  “We arrived there around noon. I can’t tell you what that was like—it was tough,” Ray said. “All I could do was express my sympathy and offer any help that was required.”

  And he did help. Ray won’t disclose the amount because it is a private matter, but he has contributed financially to Dana and her family.

  Two Transportation Safety Board of Canada investigators came to East Pubnico that week and checked out the boat. Everything on the Silver Angel complied with Transport Canada regulations, but Ray soon learned that the Nova Scotia Labour Department also had jurisdiction over occupational health and safety in the fishing industry. Like most other vessel owners and fishermen in his region, Ray was not aware of that, but it soon became apparent that his company, Charlesville Fisheries, was deemed to be at fault under the Nova Scotia Occupational Health and Safety Act regulations, and the company’s health and safety program had to be modified.

  On December 19, 2012, Charlesville Fisheries Ltd. pleaded guilty to committing an offence contrary to the part of the Occupational Health and Safety Act that requires employers to ensure that their fishermen wear personal protective equipment while working. Ward Wickens was not wearing a personal flotation device (PFD) when he fell overboard from the Silver Angel.

  Ray Belliveau addressing an audience in Moncton about the importance of safety and knowing safety rules and regulations and vessel owner responsibility

  Despite the fact that Ray Belliveau’s company had been in total compliance with Transport Canada’s rules, and even though Ray voluntarily committed to make financial contributions to Dana Wickens, the court had no choice but to sentence Charlesville Fisheries. However, the judge found a “creative” way of penalizing the company.

  It became obvious during court proceedings that Ray Belliveau was not the only vessel owner who was unaware that provincial health and safety regulations overrode Transport Canada’s requirements, or even what those regulations were—far from it. In fact, it’s believed that a sizable majority of vessel owners were unaware of it. The judge realized that an education program was needed, and as part of the sentence Charlesville Fisheries was ordered to make a donation to the Fisheries Safety Association of Nova Scotia. The company also received a fine, but the judge took into account the fact that Charlesville Fisheries provided financial assistance to the family of Ward Wickens.

  But the financial costs didn’t end by paying a fine. Ray won’t say how much he voluntarily paid to the Wickens family, but a huge increase in insurance premiums and Workers’ Compensation Board payments on all five of his vessels has cost his company in excess of $250,000.

  But perhaps the most creative penalty the court added to the company’s sentencing was ordering Ray Belliveau to make three public presentations outlining what went wrong on the morning that Ward Wickens died and what could have prevented the accident.

  As difficult as it was for the soft-spoken Ray Belliveau to stand in front of three separate audiences and discuss the details of the worst day of his life, he embraced the concept.

  “Even without the court requirement, I wouldn’t have any problem doing those presentations,” Belliveau said during his first talk in Digby. “This is something I believe very strongly in. Hopefully no one else in Nova Scotia ever has to go through what the Wickens family, and we, went through.”

  I attended Ray’s presentation to an audience during the Fish Canada Workboat Canada show in Moncton in January 2013. He has long finished his three required presentations, but his sincerest hope now is to do everything he can to prevent another death at sea that doesn’t have to happen. Driven by that inner conviction, Ray will sit and talk with anyone who will listen.

  Listening to Ray talk about the accident, one is struck by his sincerity, modesty, and integrity. It is easy to tell the man is still dealing with the hurt of losing Ward Wickens, and as he goes through the details, one can’t help but feel his personal pain. Speaking softly, he explains how Captain Gerry Henneberry was unable to conduct an effective rescue mission for Ward because it was impossible to manoeuvre a large vessel and be in all the right places to get a man overboard back on the boat.

  Ward was not wearing a personal flotation device of any kind, and though it is impossible to force crew members to wear PFDs at sea, Ray has made it mandatory as his company’s new safety policy, and there will be consequences if a crew member is found in contravention of the policy. On the first infraction they will be given a severe repri
mand, and on the second they will be fired.

  He also has made it mandatory to have at least three people on his vessels at any time. Company vessels also now have ladders on board that can be placed over the rails of the boat to help retrieve individuals who have fallen overboard. He has also posted notices on his vessels indicating that wearing a PFD is mandatory.

  “We never felt we were operating our vessels in an unsafe manner, although we actually were,” Belliveau said. He adds, “We were woefully unprepared with only two men aboard. Once Ward went overboard, it was impossible for Gerry to operate the vessel and keep Ward in sight, especially as he wasn’t wearing a PFD.”

  In a report, the Transportation Safety Board said that, from 2000 to 2011, it recorded forty-seven fatalities involving crew members falling overboard out of a total of 153 fishing boat deaths. If Ray Belliveau gets his way, those numbers will be significantly lower in the next eleven years.

  Chapter 24

  Fishing and Fancy Cars

  “I have my own town—Saulnierville.” That’s how Hubert Saulnier from Saulnierville, Nova Scotia, jokingly responds sometimes when strangers ask where he’s from.

  Saulnierville is a picturesque French Acadian community in southwest Nova Scotia, about a twenty-minute drive north of Yarmouth. From a long line of fishing families, Hubert is one of the best-known fishermen in his area. The fifty-nine-year-old has always been an active community and industry supporter. Among other positions, he is president of the Maritime Fishermen’s Union (MFU) local in his region. He dreams of uniting fishermen in southwest Nova Scotia in a more powerful unit, similar to the Fish, Food & Allied Workers (FFAW) in Newfoundland and Labrador, where the union represents and speaks for fishermen with collective bargaining certification to negotiate fish prices and other matters on behalf of all fishermen in the province. In Nova Scotia, the MFU doesn’t have mandatory dues rights and can only speak for those who voluntarily pay membership fees. Nova Scotia fishermen also have about sixty regional associations scattered throughout the province. Hubert believes the larger, single-unit model would work better for fishermen because of the strength-in-numbers concept. But Hubert has an interesting philosophy on growing the union.

  “We don’t go knocking on doors looking for new members. I’d rather have a smaller number who believe in the cause and who want to work hard for the union than have a huge number of people who don’t want to be there. That doesn’t work.”

  Besides the MFU, Hubert is part of many other groups, including the Marine Rescue Auxiliary (Coast Guard), Fundy Fixed Gear Council, the Council of Canadian Professional Fish Harvesters, and he serves on the LFA 34 advisory committee. He is also involved with a couple of organizations in Maine. Lobster fishermen there may be from a different country, but they have a lot in common, in some cases sharing the same lobster stocks.

  Hubert Saulnier

  Hubert is often called on to speak at fisheries forums around the country. He enjoys that because, after he has his say, he likes to stay around and listen to all the other guests.

  “That’s how you learn things. I could fly in and do my thing and leave again, but if I’m the only person I hear speak, I don’t learn anything new and there’s always plenty more to learn no matter how long you’ve been around,” he says.

  Hubert comes from a long lineage of fishermen. He fished with his father when he was just a boy and, as the oldest of nine children, Hubert more or less had to quit school at age fifteen to fish full-time with his dad in order to make ends meet for their large family.

  “Times were harder back then. We would fish in season and work up in Greenwood or somewhere later because there was no EI or other social programs like there are now.”

  Like most fishermen in those days, Hubert remembers working on a credit system with the merchants.

  “Some weeks you’d have a bit of money left after the bills were paid, but sometimes you’d wind up owing them and we would have to go without any money for a week or two. It was tough,” he says.

  It was also tough to make a living working in fish plants back then, too. When he wasn’t fishing, Hubert sometimes worked in a plant when he was young.

  “I was making one dollar an hour, and when I got married they gave me a raise—I got $1.25 an hour then.”

  Although times were hard, Hubert liked the life on the water and was determined to make it pay. He bought his first boat in 1973, and then, two years later, when his father sold his licence to the government in a buyback program, Hubert purchased his dad’s boat.

  “My father got $6,000 for his license,” Hubert says with a chuckle, realizing how much more that licence could fetch today. “That was the rate back then—$6,000 for an active licence and $2,000 for an inactive one.”

  He remembers borrowing $6,600 to start up his own fishing enterprise. Young people would scoff at such a low sum today, but as he points out, servicing a $6,000 debt left very little money for him and his crew in the 1970s.

  Over his more than forty years in the business, Hubert fished several species but, like most southwest Nova Scotia fishermen, he is primarily a lobsterman these days and lives a much more comfortable lifestyle than he could have thirty or forty years ago.

  There’s more to Hubert Saulnier than fishing and serving on associations. He also has a passion for old cars. He owns three antiques that he loves to tell you about. He has a motorcycle that he won in a ticket draw, and he has two sports cars. His 1966 Pontiac Parisienne is in mint condition.

  “You can still see the serial number on the engine.” Powered by a 327 V8, it’s a large vehicle that glides like an airplane, Hubert says.

  He also owns a 1970 Pontiac GTO Judge. With a 455-horsepower engine, that car is very fond of gas.

  “It can only get twelve miles to the gallon,” he says, smiling. He adds that he rarely takes it out of the garage except for an occasional short ride in summer. The GTO might be hard on gas, but it’s Hubert’s most valuable car in terms of his investment. “I think that one is worth about $46,000,” he says.

  And his third antique is a 1972 Oldsmobile Cutlass Supreme convertible.

  Also gracing his thirty- by fifty-foot garage are a 2003 sports Mitsubishi and a 2005 remodelled Mustang.

  Hubert says he tinkers with his cars in winter when he tweaks that which needs tweaking and repairs anything that needs fixing. He keeps the garage heated year-round because, “You have to be careful to keep mildew from the upholstery.”

  Hubert considers himself fortunate to have his two daughters and a son living practically next door. Two of them are in Saulnierville and the other lives in nearby Meteghan. That was especially important to him in 2012 when his wife, Judy, passed away after a battle with cancer.

  “It was good having them so close at that time,” he says.

  Hubert Saulnier is at the age when most men start to consider retirement, but for now, at least, retirement is not on his front burner.

  Chapter 25

  A Big Gamble Pays Off

  Gilbert Simms is not the type of man you would associate with gambling. A quiet, gentle man with a genuine disarming smile, Gilbert puts you at ease within seconds of meeting him.

  Ten years ago, Gilbert decided to put just about everything on the line and got into the mussel farming business in his hometown of Little Bay, located near Springdale on Newfoundland’s northeast coast. You could ask what was so risky about that, but anyone who knows the aquaculture industry, especially mussel farming, will tell you that the industry was going through its darkest hour in 2004, and even established growers were going out of business.

  Gilbert Simms

  Gilbert and his wife lived and worked in western Newfoundland at the time, and through visits back home they were aware of what was happening in the mussel industry, because there was a farm in Little Bay that was struggling to survive. Gilbert
kept a close eye on things, and when the Little Bay farm was forced to close its doors, he made his move and submitted a purchase offer. Not only that, he also made offers on other farms that were going belly up. That way, he would have enough gear to start a sizable operation. LBA Enterprises was the result.

  Because mussel farms are in the ocean, a buyer is merely purchasing equipment. Water rights are not his or hers to buy or sell—you have to deal with the government for lease arrangements. So, after putting just about everything he had on the line, Gilbert Simms found himself the owner of a lot of mussel-farming gear but nothing else. Even the mussels that were on the gear in the water at the time of purchase had to be discarded because he didn’t have a harvesting licence at that time. In fact, some of the gear, especially rope, was useless, too, and had to be destroyed.

  Gilbert says that many of his friends were afraid he was making the biggest mistake of his life. Those local companies were going out of business because markets for Newfoundland and Labrador mussels had dried up and farmers could hardly give away product. Prince Edward Island growers were intent on market domination in Atlantic Canada, and because they were more established and had other market advantages, they were selling mussels at bargain basement prices.