Sea Folk
Page 4
March 21, 2011, marked the fiftieth anniversary of what is probably the largest single tragedy in the history of Atlantic Canada’s inshore fisheries. Seventeen men were lost and sixty-nine Lockeport area children were left without fathers. To mark the occasion, Bonnie Williams wrote a poem:
Fifty distant years today
Seventeen men set sail in a thrice array
Jimmy and Sisters, my father’s own
One of the three vessels that night, never to return home
In the years since that stormy nightfall, Dad,
how you have missed so much
You have many beautiful grandchildren,
who I know can feel your touch
How I would have loved for you to have been here,
to walk me down the aisle,
To be by my bedside,
as I bared my first child
Someday I will leave the seas
to be with my two fathers
I hope you are at the gates to meet me,
the youngest of your daughters
We will finally take each other’s hands,
as you proudly lead me inside
To be with each other eternally,
and guide me to the other side.
Down Perish, April 11
by Clem Dwyer
As the kettle whistles quietly on the stove, my mind wanders back a week or so to when I dropped by Aidan Penton’s work shed in Joe Batt’s Arm on Fogo Island, Newfoundland. Aidan is a great storyteller. His story, a tragedy, had me spellbound. It was a familiar story, but it also had an element of good fortune for two men of Tilting.
Newfoundland and Labrador has had many tragedies at sea over the centuries. Men, in pursuit of improving their family’s lot in life, have succumbed to the power of the sea. Fogo Island appears to have had more than its fair share of misfortune in this regard. Late in 2009, we saw two more of our men lost to the sea. Many of the tragedies occurred in springtime as men went to the ice floes in search of seals. Fresh seal meat was a necessity to feed families as food supplies were running low at that time of year. Aidan’s story dealt with a sealing catastrophe near the shores of Joe Batt’s Arm.
On an April morning in 1917, a solid jam of ice was being pushed by a brisk northeasterly wind along the shoreline from the community of Tilting all the way along the coast to Fogo. With such favourable conditions, dozens of men from Tilting, Joe Batt’s Arm, Barr’d Islands, and Fogo grabbed their knives, hauling rope, gaff, and a meagre lunch before setting off to walk over the ice floes in search of seals. Seal meat would be a welcome break for their families onshore after suffering through the “long hungry month of March.”
Many women and their children went to the nearest hills overlooking the ocean to see the men become tiny specks as they made their way over the uneven ice floes from the shores of Fogo Island. The young children thought the men looked like ants crawling along the ice, however the women wrung their hands in their aprons with anxiety as they prayed for the safe return of their husbands, fathers, and brothers. Before long their worst fears came to fruition. The wind quickly changed direction, causing the ice to break up and soon begin moving off shore. And then, to make matters worse, a thick fog moved in, closing down visibility to all, including the sealers left on the ice. Men scrambled madly in a feverish attempt to get back to land. Most did, but, as the day wore on, the realization came that not all the men made it back safely.
In 1917, of course, communication was far different than today, and transportation modes were very primitive. But still, in Joe Batt’s Arm that day, word spread rapidly that three Jacobs brothers, Joseph, Stephen, Walter, and their friend Francis Pomeroy were out there somewhere on the drifting ice. The parents, sisters, brothers, and friends were going crazy with worry. Men raced to Brooke’s Point, firing guns at fifteen-minute intervals hopefully to give some assurance to the lost men. The 3/4 or 7/8 muzzleloaders (guns) were loaded with powder and fired into the air relentlessly, with the expectation and hope that the men would be able to follow the sound of the guns to shore and safety.
The many men who gathered that evening on Brooke’s Point were expressing their innermost thoughts aloud to each other. None was confident of a positive outcome for the lost men. An older gentleman from the community reached the group of men to tell them firmly that the gun-firing noise would prevent the lost men’s voices from reaching land and being heard. This man quietly left the group to make his way to the shoreline. Upon reaching his destination he stood erect, cupped his hands around his mouth, and yelled out “hello” several times, then listened with expectation and hope for a response from the foggy ice floes. Lo and behold, a weak “help” reached his ears; at first he thought he imagined this voice, but again and again he heard it. Despite his age, he rapidly retraced his steps to the group to get them to come to where he heard the cry for help. Men frantically scaled the icy rocks on the shoreline and saw two men huddled together on a “small pan” of ice. With a concerted effort the men were able to rescue the two sealers. Unfortunately for the Jacobs and Pomeroy families, it was not their missing men. Instead, it was (Big) Tom Dwyer and his nephew, thirty-one-year-old Harry Dwyer, from Tilting. Big Tom was an aging man who told his nephew earlier that afternoon, “I’m finished, b’y, I can’t go on.” He encouraged Harry to leave him and attempt to get back to land himself before it was too late. Harry could not bring himself to do that and stayed at Big Tom’s side, knowing the two of them would be rescued or they would die together on the pan of ice. Like dozens of others, the two men had left Tilting early in the morning. With the change in the wind direction, they drifted up around Round Head and, fortunately for them, ultimately they drifted close enough to shore to be rescued.
For others, the outcome would not be so fortunate.
The Jacobs men and their friends drifted aimlessly and helplessly out to sea.
They were never seen again.
Some months later a man from Twillingate picked up a gaff on the shoreline. On the handle of the gaff was a brief, terse message cut into the wood: “Down Perish, April 11”; one can only feel the outline of the letter “P.” On the opposite side of the gaff handle are the initials “J.J.,” the initials of Joseph Jacobs. The words were a heart-rending message from Joseph, who was sending word to anyone who found the gaff that, on April 11, he and perhaps his brothers and friend Francis Pomeroy were giving up their fight to stay alive—they were lying down to perish on the ice. Eventually the gaff was returned to the parents of the three brothers, Thomas and Mary Jacobs. Today that gaff can be found in the Anglican Church at Barr’d Islands.
The tragedy unfolding that day for the families on Joe Batt’s Southside was one that will be recorded in the history of our place because of the carvings of a dying man. The Tilting men we mentioned earlier would undoubtedly have died as well that April day, 1917, if the good people onshore had not kept vigil and been there to rescue them. Harry Dwyer lived to be an old man. Besides being an interesting and poignant story, it has a personal connection for me. Big Tom Dwyer lived on the land that I presently reside on in Tilting, and Harry lived two houses up the road.
Joseph Jacob’s gaff with the chilling words “Down Perish, April 11” as displayed in the Anglican Church in Joe Batt’s Arm. The letter “P” is difficult to see in this photo but is clear to the naked eye up close. (Jim Wellman photo)
An Unfolding Story
Each and every writer, I’m sure, appreciates feedback on his or her work. When the comments are positive, it reassures the author that one is providing a few moments of entertainment and/or reflection for the reader. This sentiment holds true for this writer, and feedback in this situation allows a wonderful story to unfold as others add their memories, personal stories, family history, and a new dimension to the story. In my last column I did not write from my personal experien
ces, but relied on some research, in addition to the story well told about the Jacobs’ sealing tragedy. The last column in the local paper generated lots of feedback for me.
I began with a story that, for me, unfolded over a period of a few weeks. I did a little research, spoke to a few people locally, made half a dozen telephone calls to expatriates of Tilting, read some stories about it on the Internet, and listened to Pete Decker’s presentation.
My education of this fateful day ninety-three years ago was enriched recently when I spoke to Claude Coffin of Joe Batt’s Arm at his place of work. The story of that sad day on Fogo Island now presents itself as a series of tragedies for a people who depended on a ruthless ocean to provide its bounties for survival, while at times like these the cost was high.
Pete Decker of Fogo Island shows Jacobs’s gaff to Newfoundland and Labrador Lieutenant-Governor John Crosbie at the Anglican Church in Joe Batt’s Arm, Fogo Island (Jim Wellman photo)
Claude’s grandfather, Mr. William Freake, along with his cousin and close companion, Hubert J. Freake, had also taken to the floes off Joe Batt’s Arm that April morning, 1917. Their goal, similar to all the other men, was to get a seal or two to add to the dwindling food supplies for their families after a long, lean winter. Fresh seal meat at this time of year was much anticipated at the dinner table. Parboiled and fried with onions in pork fat, the fresh seal meat went down well with homemade bread and a good cup of tea, or in a hearty stew with fluffy pastry on top of the bubbling meat and vegetables. The expected repast was not to be. With the change in wind direction, expectations changed from being positive and hopeful to thoughts of despair and desperation.
Claude’s sister, Dean Jacobs, kindly provided me with a handwritten account of this family’s story which was written by her father, Mr. John Coffin, many years ago about this horrendous day. His story tells of what most likely occurred as those two men battled desperately for their lives, with odds stacked hopelessly again them. In addition to the sudden wind change to an easterly direction, and pea-soup-thick fog, “rain began and increased heavily.” This continued unabated for days. Mr. Coffin elaborates: “With weather conditions as it was for a week or more, rescue work was impossible at that time.” His heart-rending account continues, saying “residents were shocked.” Times were harsher then with very few luxuries, simple and scarce food, non-existent health services, total isolation, and limited communication. William Freake left behind his wife, three sons, and five daughters while Hubert J. Freake left behind his wife, three sons, one daughter, two brothers, and two sisters. Coffin concludes his narrative with this frightfully unnerving and spine-tingling thought: “These two men and four others (three Jacobs brothers and Pomeroy) died from exposure and starvation.”
Many stories of tragedy at sea have blanketed the history of our province for hundreds of years. Our small island, Fogo Island, has contributed greatly to the cost of human life over that time span. On April 7, 1917, some Fogo Island sealers and their families were spared their moment of agony, however the small town of Joe Batt’s Arm was given a cruel blow when six of its own men succumbed to the unpredictable savageness of the ocean. Countless numbers of children, parents, cousins, friends, neighbours, indeed an entire village, and Island, were dealt a devastating jolt that day, a catastrophe that must have crippled the physical and psychological well-being of its people for quite a long time.
Let us remember those men, and all the other people, of our province who have given up their lives to the sea while making their final voyages.
Note: We would like to say “thank you” to Clem Dwyer from Tilting, Fogo Island, for allowing us to publish his story. Also thanks to Carol Penton of the Fogo Island Flame for her permission to reprint Clem’s story previously published in her newspaper. Meanwhile, Father Ed Brophy, a Roman Catholic priest in Newfoundland, also heard the story of the four sealers from Joe Batt’s Arm and, as he often does when he hears stories of great tragedy, Father Ed sat down and wrote a poem. He called it “Brothers Forever.”
Brothers Forever
It’s a lovely day in Joe Batt’s Arm
The sun is on the snow
The men are going after seals
No better place to go.
And happy voices fill the air
With many a shout and laugh
The men go off in twos and threes
With rope and knife and gaff.
And four men leave behind the rest,
A while behind the others
The Jacob boys from Joe Batt’s Arm
Four stalwart men, four brothers.
With happy, silly, foolish words
With singing and with noise
The four great men are young again
The men have changed to boys.
Young boys again, such silly boys
With rampsing and with laughter
Two boys racing on ahead
And two boys running after.
A joke or two and how time flew
With many a happy mile —
But boys turned into sealers
When Walter shouted “Swile.”
One brother said, “I dream of seals
a seal on every pan —
We’ll have our seals this blessed day
A seal for every man.”
Soon each man had a seal or two
And hopes of getting more
By now the hunt had taken them
About five miles from shore.
The wind was still, sir, nar a draft
The sun shone overhead
When far away a grinding noise
Filled all four men with dread.
The wind was calm and pleasant
But a sudden shift in tide
Revealed the water clear and cold
An ocean deep and wide.
“Oh, living God,” the youngest said
“Please bring us back to land
To see my mother once again
Just once to hold her hand.”
“Don’t bother with your meat and pelts
Just take your gaff and knife
With luck and with the help of God
You just save your life.”
Four men are racing o’er the ice
They’re flying like a bird
With grim and anxious faces
And never a spoken word.
It’s a lovely night in Joe Batt’s Arm
The stars are clear and still
A lamp glows in each window
A fire on every hill.
While four men jump and dance and run
Four brothers strong and bold
But Joseph may have said too much —
He softly said “It’s cold.”
“You just hang on ’til morning
and then we’ll make our plan —
We’ll get our bearings right away
And then we’ll head for land.”
It’s a poor old day in Joe Batt’s Arm
The sky’s as grey as stone
The rain comes steady streaming down
’Twould chill you to the bone.
No children playing on the road
No shouts or happy song
The men spoke low or not at all
The hours drag along.
And far away the ice moves on
Despite the brothers’ prayers
A world of ice moves slowly south
It’s done the same for years.
Young Walter’s eyes looked empty
His voice was low and weak:
“I saw my father twice last night
I’m sure I heard him speak.”
And throug
h that day of freezing rain
And fingers shot with pain
Young Walter spoke one last refrain
“Dad spoke to me again.”
It’s a lovely day in Joe Batt’s Arm
The wind is soft and nice
The breeze blows gently off the land
There’s not a trace of ice.
Two brothers watch the sun come up
They’re quiet — without talk.
The oldest stirs and softly says,
“I think I’ll take a walk.”
“No, stay with me. Don’t leave me.
I think it’s for the best.”
“I’ll stay another while,” he says
“But I’ll lie down and rest.”
It’s a perfect day on the ice today
The gulls fly overhead
Some men are lying on the ice
You’d swear to God, they’re dead.
The ice is gone, the summer’s here
The robins sweetly sing
But next year men will hunt for seals
They do it every spring.
The men and boys are called away
To hunt the ice for seals
But some at home still weep and mourn —
A wound that never heals.
The sea and ice may look so nice
It’s beauty and its charm
But on the ice some pay the price
Like the boys from Joe Batt’s Arm.
Four lovely boys — such noble boys
The bravest and the best
Give them, Dear Lord, a harbour safe
And your eternal rest.
Sweet Jesus, my good Shepherd
You sought the wandering sheep
Please see the sealers, loved and lost
And gently let them sleep.
Father Ed Brophy