The Gale of 1929

by Gary Collins

  Blackwood let go. A woman screamed and the master of the Merry Widow fell.

  * * *

  Emily Blackwood felt weak and joyous and sad and fearful. Their ordeal was over and her husband was safe. Their schooner was sinking and the future looked bleak. She grieved for the organ she would never play.

  Martin Blackwood stood to his feet, shaking. His ankle pained from the fall. Standing at the taffrail of the Beothic, he watched his old schooner settle farther with each sea that swept over her. Deep into the gorge of the waves she sank, her hull down, and only her masts and the fluttering Red Ensign showed. She rose again with one last effort to float free, but her deck could not shed the terrible strain it bore. And then her twin masts were pulled down by the weight below. One of the lines holding the flag snapped and it twisted upright, proud, for just a moment. A bulky roller swept by, adding its might, and the flag collapsed and the bright red cloth vanished into the colourless sea.

  One deck above the sorrowful captain of the Merry Widow, his wife was also staring astern. For some unexplained reason Emily Blackwood was wondering about the keys of her organ. The young clerk had told her they would last forever. She wondered if that were true even if they were at the bottom of the North Atlantic sea.

  5 Catherine B.

  It was dark by 5:00 p.m., November 18, suppertime all along the south coast of Newfoundland. Children were called from their play and tired men trudged home for the evening meal. Yellow light shone from first-storey windows. Doors opened, shedding a warm glow outside. Doors closed on a simple way of living. Soon they would open to devastation. Some of them would never open again.

  More than 200 miles out to sea, south of the unsuspecting shoreline and hundreds of feet below the ocean, the earth suddenly moved. The earthquake shook the base of the Laurentian shelf for 250 miles, shaking mud and gravel loose from its high mantel. The immense landslide pushed untold volumes of water out of its way as it slid down the underwater mountainside. The water went the way of least resistance—up. Pushed by the unfathomable power below, the eruption of water found freedom on the surface of the immense ocean. A wave spread out, feeding on its own constantly tumbling might, steadily increasing in size as it raced toward land. At speeds exceeding one hundred miles per hour, it took the tsunami less than three hours to cover the distance between its caul and the south coast of Newfoundland.

  The Burin Peninsula is the pride of the south coast. It is shaped like a long-legged, laced boot, its great toe plunging into the sea just a few miles short of the French-governed islands of St. Pierre and Miquelon. Houses shook all along the south and east side of this huge piece of coastline. Dishes fell from cupboards and shattered on kitchen floors. Cups of tea spilled from steaming cups and stained white tablecloths. Framed looking glasses hanging from papered walls cracked and shattered, promising their owners untold years of bad luck.

  Men near the shoreline taking one last look at their skiffs and schooners that evening saw the ebb tide run out the coves and harbours in a most unnatural way. Many of the coves drained, exposing the sea bottom far out from shore. Boats tied to wharves listed on their sides as the water retreated.

  A strange silence permeated the coast. No sound of waves meeting the land. No rustle of night wind and no rote from the sea. It didn’t feel right. It was as if the land and the people were waiting. No one knew why. They sat in warm kitchens and discussed the strange evening in whispers, wondering what was happening. When the answer came, for many of them it was already too late.

  Speeding toward them at an incredible speed was a shock wave of water, its crest a drift of white spume. The mysterious low tide was returning and it was bringing company.

  The water hit the land like a mindless racing steed, its white neck stretching toward the pinpricks of light, urging the swollen black body on. As far north as Port au Bras and south around the peninsula to Point May the tsunami made land. Narrow inlets with sidelining cliffs provided channels to speed the water inland, its height rising to more than thirty-five feet in places.

  It struck the low-lying harbours first. It ripped boats from their collars and carried them in over the land. It tore schooners from their hooks and smashed them to kindling on the shore. It filled schooners at anchor with its terrible wet weight, sending them to the bottom, undamaged, their mast tips pointing skyward like beckoning fingers. It reduced wharves to twisted piles of timber. Then the water rose up over the land.

  The wave cast aside or flattened stages fastened to rocky beds on its headlong plunge. Nothing halted its advance. Houses close to shore were swept hundreds of feet in over the land. Most were reduced to splinters. Some were simply picked up by the waters, borne away, and deposited on new ground. The tsunami bore its destructive way inland. It had become a roaring monster whose voice reduced children to cries of terror. Women shrieked and men shivered. Glass shattered, foundering buildings were smashed and pulled away. The wave finally ended its overland rush, and for an instant it was still. Then it began its merciless retreat.

  Boulders from the sea bottom rumbled back. Great avalanches of soil mixed and dirtied the backward rush of water. Some of the houses that had survived the inward surge were carried to sea by the massive undertow. People were killed, drowned in their own homes. Others, still in their beds, were carried to sea.

  The huge wave returned twice more before that night of horror ended. Lives were changed forever and twenty-seven were lost.

  Some of the villagers would never trust the ocean at their door again. It had betrayed them, but most would carry on as their kind had always done. Many would be startled awake in the quiet of night by the normal creaking of their homes for years to come. The night of November 18 had changed them all.

  * * *

  The schooner Catherine B. was making record time out of Hant’s Harbour, on the south side of Trinity Bay. Almost nine hours later, close to 9:00 p.m., the loaded vessel was already nearing the entrance to the port of St. John’s. The wind from the southwest on her starboard quarter had kept her sails full, bearing her along with unusual speed.

  Her captain, Ellis Janes, was quite used to this coast. He had sailed south from his home port and from points farther north many times. Janes peered over the side of his schooner and, although he couldn’t be sure, he felt confident there was a strong underlying current running. The froth that dashed away from the Catherine B.’s hull didn’t seem to vanish astern as quickly as it should. The helm in his hands felt light, with no resistance.

  They entered the bight that would lead them through the Notch, and the lights from the city of St. John’s came into view. They lowered the sails to slow the schooner as they made ready to enter the narrow channel. Still the schooner swept toward the land, so Janes ordered all sails except the jib dropped. He would need some bow control to turn the vessel inside the busy harbour.

  There were other schooners laying for the Narrows. He could tell by their lights that two of them were trying to beat out to sea, but they didn’t seem to be moving. He was overtaking two others who were sailing in. All the schooners heading into the port had downed sails and all seemed to be borne along by an invisible river. There looked to be some anxious moments for the skippers, but luckily they all made it through without colliding.

  Inside the harbour bowl, Janes swung his schooner to the near north side. He spun the wheel to port and yelled to lower the anchor before the Catherine B. had completed the turn. The jib was lowered and the vessel rode ahead on her anchor chain. She lost her way and settled back to take the strain of her hook. Many schooners, as well as four ships, were riding high above the wharves. Janes could see men on the vessels paying out extra line to allow for the unusually high tides. Others anchored midstream were doing the same thing, paying out their hawsers to give extra scoop to the moored schooners.

  It would be three days later before the downed telegraph lines on the Burin Peninsula
were finally repaired so they could carry the terrible news of eastern Canada’s first tsunami. It was all the talk around the old port. More news poured over the lines: death and destruction was reported, and a relief fund was started to aid the victims of the disaster. Poor fishermen around the docks dug into gaping pockets, found a few coins, and gladly gave to the effort. This fall had been a rough one all round.

  * * *

  Reaching the old seaport in good time was one thing. Getting off-loaded and refitted for the trip back home took a considerable amount of time. All the schoonermen wanted to be first and they were all in a hurry. The merchants were not. Every load of fish had to be culled, and the cullers were employed by the men who bought the product.

  One culler stood on the wharf, and as the dried cod was swung ashore he went to work. He grabbed at the fish, his hands flashing like a magician’s. Small, medium, large, even extra large. Smatchy fish, maggoty fish, fish dried too hard, and fish not dried hard enough, all passed through the culler’s hands. Every group of fish fetched a different price. As the dunnage pile grew, prices dropped. The culler’s decision was law and there was nothing to be gained by arguing with him. A quintal, 112 pounds, was in fact one hundred pounds. The extra pounds were held back by merchants to allow for fish shrinkage.

  Other schooners had their holds filled with “Labrador Tan.” If a schooner had a poor voyage on the Labrador and was late in the season wetting their salt, the skipper could decide to ship his fish “green.” Fearing the season might be too far along to dry the fish properly, he would ship the fish directly out of the salt. The months buried below hundreds of pounds of coarse salt gave the cod a yellowish, tan-coloured hue, hence the name.

  Captain Ellis Janes had seven others aboard the Catherine B. His first mate was James Loder, a very capable and lean-muscled man. Two crew members were with him, Wilbert Short and Charlie Green. Also along for the trip and to do a little shopping in the city were Fred Short and Frank Strickland. Two younger men had gained passage with Janes at the last minute. Wesley Short and Freeman Francis had never seen a city before. The busy streets and the shop windows with their displays amazed both boys. They were especially interested in the shapely young women who sauntered along before the shop windows. Some of them actually winked at the two young men, giving them all the more reason to return again and again to the streets above the bustling waterfront.

  Young Wes bought an accordion, his favourite musical instrument. Back home he was a part of the new Salvation Army band. He hoped he would be permitted to play the accordion with the group, though he doubted if it would fit in with their musical arrangements. No matter, he would have the instrument anyway.

  By Friday, November 29, the Catherine B. was loaded with winter stores for many folks back home in Hant’s Harbour. Almost everyone aboard had a list of goods to fill for relatives and friends. They were ready and eager to leave by late evening, though they had to send one of the crewmen for young Freeman and Wes, who couldn’t seem to get their fill of Water Street. All three soon appeared on board and the Catherine B. made her offing into the night-gathering Atlantic. The wind was west-southwest.

  The Catherine B., under all of her blankets, crept northward along the same coast they had so swiftly sailed down a few days before. Darkness had come and pasted the sea and sky with the same black brush, and no cheering stars shone as their slow wake wore on. The wind suddenly pitched around from the southeast. It came up over the unseen horizon so quickly and without warning that Janes feared it would veer just as violently again. They were already under a reefed mainsail. The weather glass hanging in the forecastle was dropping for a westerly wind, maybe even from the northwest. The schooner beat farther north. She didn’t have far to go to make it home to Hant’s Harbour. They had made the north side of Conception Bay.

  Janes was debating whether or not he should go through Baccalieu Tickle or give the island lots of sea room. The lights of Bay de Verde winked through the freshening snow from their high cliff perches as the schooner weathered hard along the coast. A gust of wind howled down from the high land to port. As Janes had feared, the wind was changing again. This time it was blowing strong from the land; he would take a course outside of Baccalieu Island.

  They neared the twenty-five-year-old south light of the island. Its beam cut through the driving snow and the barren island provided a measure of shelter to the Catherine B. before she passed the ninety-year-old light on the north end. Baccalieu, meaning codfish, its name buried in Portuguese and Basques history, was notorious for its winds. Jutting into the sea midway between Trinity and Conception bays, and bearing the brunt of the gales that rounded the south coast of the island—as well as lying in a convenient line for the storms bearing down along the northeast coast of Newfoundland—Baccalieu Island was feared by schoonermen on windy winter nights. To clear the island safely, Janes hauled the Catherine B. north-northeast, intending to bear farther north and round Grates Cove Point as soon as he put the north light astern. He didn’t get the chance.

  * * *

  It happened like nothing Ellis Janes had ever seen. A fearless fisherman and seasoned schoonerman, Skipper Janes was taken by surprise at the ferocity of the gale that attacked his boat. It bore down on the Catherine B. like a thing possessed, shrieking in defiance through the rigging, slamming a scrim of water against her port bow, and veering her away, bowing her before its terrible will. The jib was loosened, but the wind tore it from the hands of two crewmen before it could be lowered. It flew over the side and vanished.

  Janes couldn’t believe his eyes. His crew were powerless against the gale. The mainsail, already reefed to little more than half its height, had to be brought down. It was a dangerous manoeuvre, but the mainsail was holding most of the wind. Janes had only two of his usual crew aboard; he had expected a short and easy return trip to St. John’s. His two passengers, as well as the two teenage boys, would have to pull their weight. Janes knew that he and all aboard were in for the fight of their lives.

  As if reading Janes’s mind, sixteen-year-old Wesley Short appeared at his side. Freeman Francis, seventeen years old, was with him. Young Wesley spoke first.

  “What kin I do, Skipper Janes? I’m not scared, ya know. I’m pretty good wit’ ropes an’ stuff, quick on me feet, too.” Wesley’s voice was high-pitched, partly from adolescent changes, partly from excitement.

  Janes was about to answer when Freeman said, “Me too, Skipper. We knows your short-’anded. We won’t be takin’ up a bert’ wit’out pullin’ our weight.”

  Janes shouted to be heard above the wind. “Don’t be worried about dat, b’ys, you’ll be pullin’ your weight, a’right! Make yer way forward now and git yer oilskins on!” Both boys were soaked to the skin. Water came in a constant icy spray across the deck of the Catherine B. It stung the face like a whip.

  Wes looked at Freeman before he answered the skipper. “We—we was wonderin’ if dere was ar spare one aboard, Skipper. Free and me didn’t bring one, sir. We don’t own ar suit, sir.”

  Janes glanced quickly at the two boys. They looked like young muskrats perched on a pond rock on a rainy day. He braced his feet and leaned against the helm as another huge wave caught up with the Catherine B. Part of it hove her up and another part rushed along both sides of her hull, crashing across her after deck and sending more water over the men.

  “I’m right sorry, b’ys, dere’s nar one aboard that I knows fer. You’ll have to keep out of the worst of it as best ya can.”

  Janes turned to his work. Looking astern he saw an unsteady glimmer of light. The north light on Baccalieu Island, he figured. It was past midnight and Ellis Janes doubted if they would ever see land again. It was also his birthday. He had just turned forty-four.

  * * *

  Peering out from the partly opened forecastle door, Uncle Fred Short knew they were in trouble. The deck was a chaotic mess of white wate
r, downed sails, and tangled ropes. He heard Janes shouting. He saw men dodging as they ran. A dark figure tripped on the swaying deck and stumbled a few feet before righting itself again. It was a dangerous place to be. Slamming the door behind him, seventy-four-year-old Fredrick Short drew a Cape Ann tight over his head and made his way astern.

  Janes saw Uncle Fred making his way toward him. Fred had asked S. Short and Sons, owners of the Catherine B., for passage to St. John’s and the owners left the decision to the captain of the schooner. Ellis had agreed as he had done with the two boys. Seeing Fred approach now, the oilskins he had brought aboard with him already glistening, Janes could see no sign of Uncle Fred’s advanced age. The skipper now had a full working crew.

  “B’ys, the mains’l must be downed before she broaches us!” The men had burst into action to follow his orders before he finished. “’Ave an extra ’an’ on the mainsheet as ya lets ’un go!” Janes wasn’t sure if they heard his last yell or not.

  Crouching under the main boom was not for the timid. The foot of the mainsail rattled in its track. The gooseneck holding the spar to the mainmast screeched in its swivel at each sideways wrench of the sail. The halyards flapped and slapped and the hemp rope stretched taut with the terrible strain. From the bottom clew to the reefed peak the mainsail luffed and roared to be free of its fetters. One man fumbled with the frozen knot on the mainsheet while another held the slack.

  The others waited, ready to grab the boom and the furiously fluttering sail over their heads. The last knot was barely released before the extra slack loosed the sheet. It was the chance the wind had been waiting for. The rope ripped free from the man trying to hold the strain and he yelled a warning. A blast of wind, weighted with salt spray, slammed against the freed sail. The men below ducked to the deck just in time. If they had been in the way of the swaying main boom, they would have been killed.