Marooned

It has been said by my wife that when I was sailing full time that I knew the location of every pay phone within a half mile of any given water front on the eastern seaboard. Speaking with all modesty, I would say that she is, in all probability, right. Finding a phone wasn't a problem; sometimes the problem started after one got inside the booth. Like the one on Mulgrave wharf.

We had left Dalhousie, NB, headed for St.John, with the dredge "Crane Master"plus three mud scows, and after towing down the northeast coast of New Brunswick and through Northumberland Strait, we arrived at the north entrance of Canso Locks, with a howling gale from the nor'west behind us.

I was second engineer on the "Irving Birch"with my good buddy Dan Cumby as chief. Cecil Kilfoy from Marystown, NL, was skipper. As second I was standing the twelve to six watch, and Dan the six to twelve. We arrived at the lock at supper time and Cecil told me that he intended to  pend the night in Mulgrave, and that I could take a run home if I wanted. Dan, as usual, relieved me at five thirty, so I could eat without the cook growling that he had to work overtime.

I finished supper and went to my cabin and laid down on the bunk. We were still on the north wall outside the lock. It wasn't my intention, but I drifted off to sleep, and was awakened by the Birch bumping the dock at Mulgrave.

With my phone booth homing instinct up and running, I jumped out of the bunk, and grabbing some change off my desk ( it turned out to be not enough) out the door, out on deck, taking no stock of what was going down, and made for the phone booth, it's austere utility drawing me toward it as a junky is drawn toward his next fix.

Fishing around in my meagre change I found a quarter and dialled home. Carol answered on the second ring. "Come get me, I said, "I'm in Mulgrave" "There's no gas in the car," she replied, "And Warren is closed" 

After a five minute lecture on the virtues of keeping the tank full in the 455 CI Rocket, I happened to glance over my shoulder, only to see the Birch's stern light disappearing around the point.

It was the 3rd of December, the snow from the sporadic flurries was swirling around on the wharf in the glare of the mercury vapour floodlights. Down the face of the wharf were two herring seiners; tied up, the crews gone home to Grand Manan or Campobello, or wherever, and one of the mud scows from our tow.

When one sails in a salvage tug, one fact stands clear. Salvage is paramount above any other tow job. When I saw the stern disappear around the point, my first thought was, "Oh, oh, salvage call"! Here I was in a phone booth, in early December, dressed only in work shirt and trousers in the pockets of which was the grand total of forty one cents. "Listen," I said to my wife, "Call Canso Traffic and find out from the operator where the Birch is headed and have them hold her at the lock until I can get there provided I can find a taxi, and tell him/her
to tell the Birch that the second engineer is on Mulgrave wharf!" "Then call me back at this number." The pay phone # was missing one digit, which looked as if it had been deleted by some type of diabolical prankster. She finally called back, getting the pay phone. by trial and error.

By now I was in the early stages of hypothermia. She said the Birch is coming back to Mulgrave; so don't worry. She had good news too; Twila ( my niece ) was headed down to pick me up. Looked out the door of the booth and sure 'nuff, here come the tug with another piece of the tow. Cecil split it up to make for better handling at the lock.

When I left home early next morning it was blowing so hard that, as the old timers round home used to say, "A gull couldn't fly to win'dard!" The nor'west wind had veered to the west and it had every indication of a prolonged blow.

Cecil asked what it was doing outside,( meaning off the shore home) "I figgered that" he said. "I guess we'll stay put" It was virtually calm in the strait.

Someone said in the mess room that we only had a day to go before crew change.... the next day our month would be punched in. Cecil was a bit reticent about calling St. John about this matter, so the old Lunenburger mate, Gibby Mossman, said "I'll call dem, you!"He did and they agreed to crew change early next morning. I got to go home again that night. The late fall gale had intensified, and looking out between the islands, one could see low lying black clouds racing along the horizon; the bay was a white smother and to coin a Seal Harbour meteorological phrase, it looked like it was "Going to bail the sound
dry!!"

At breakfast we discussed the weather and Gibby said to no one in particular, "I bet you he takes her out as soon as he gets his gang aboard" This was a reference to the on-coming skipper, who lived in West Arichat, as did most of his crew. Actually he had visited the day previous, and wanted to know "Why are you not steamin' for St.John?" We had handed over to the oncoming crew and were on our way about 1030 am., I arrived home around noon to find the westerly still raging but gradually decreased 'going down with the sun' as it were. About 800pm I was talking to my sister, Ardie, on Green Island and
she mentioned that there was a lot of lights down outside Hew Harbour Ledge, and I thought, "Here comes Elias with the tow; he must of had a great day of it!"

In another forty minutes I could see the tow out between the islands and it was clear that 'lias was planning to make a lee in the bay, but to my surprise he kept on going up to the wharf, so of course, I flashed up the 455 and Carol and I went up to see what had transpired.

It was bad. Elias had as Gibby has opined, got underway immediately and when he reached Charlie Alpha, the Racon buoy that marks the south limits of Canso Strait he wished fervently that the tow was still at Mulgrave wharf. He kept on slugging to the west'ard and sou'west of Andrew Island he parted the tow. The hind most scow broke away, and Elias decided he would try and pick it up, even tho' he was burdened by the dredge and the two remaining scows. Bad move! By the time he had made three failed attempts, the errant scow was in Dover Bay with very little sea room left, he figured it was now or never, so he came
alongside it inside of Horne Shoal, and in the chaos breaking seas from the prolonged westerly the scow, or one corner of it, came through the tugs hull on the starboard side, opening a gash about four by six feet in the crews mess room.  

The moral here is "Sail in haste; weld in leisure."


Don.

Lost in the Chic Chocs

 We put the tug alongside the wall in Gaspe town and proceeded to clean her up, for it was crew change day. George Vallis, skipper, Rudy Crowell, mate, me as chief engineer and stuttering Mike McManus as my second, plus three deckhands, my oiler, and last, but not least. Phil Bonin, our cook, who hailed  from  Arichat;  what you might call a Motley Cru. We scrubbed and polished, ate dinner; scrubbed and polished some more and had finished supper by the time the relief crew arrived in  a huge Dodge van from St. John. ( Capitaine Bruno Verrault et ses Chevaliers de Mer.) All from La belle provence. *

* *

*Well, after the handover we got our gear on the dock and into the van. George announced that he would have to drive, because; “ Dis van is only insured for me, b’y “ So that being settled with no argument, we took off through Gaspe town at a rate of knots that made the local speed demons turn green with envy.*

* *

*It was a beautiful fall evening as we motored happily along the north shore of the Baie de Chaluer; everybody happy, filled with anticipatory thoughts of being home tomorrow. Until Skipper Vallis made a wrong turn, and we found ourselves in tall timber. Flogging the van along at an excellent speed we rounded a sharp turn and there straddling the yellow line was a bull moose that would make the Bone and Crockett record book.*

* *

*George didn’t appear to be overly devout, but when in a serious crisis, afloat he would always ask for devine guidance. He did now, somewhere south of Muidochville. Looking at the visor he shouted, “ What’ll I do, God. ?” The answer must have been instaneous, because he gave the wheel a slat and the fourteen passenger Dodge heeled over to port clearing the moose by a hair’s breadth. Rudy, who was siting in the jump seat looked back at me and said in his Cape Island accent, “ I wonder how long it will take him to grow da hair back on his hocks.*

* *

*We drove endlessly on through the night. About eleven of the clock George’s son-in0law, Barry Yow, had the temerity to ask George if he knew where he was. ‘ Yes, ‘by, I always knows where I is.”*

* *

*We finally camr to a sign that said we were sixteen miles from Ste. Ann de Mont. We had driven through to the St. Lawrence side of the peninsula.*

* *

*To shorten this tale of woe; four o’clock in the morning found us in New Richmond with the hand on number two fuel tank on the empty mark. We came to a taxi stand. George blew the horn and the dispatcher came out. George said to Phil; “ Ask him lf there’s a gas station open in town. “ So Phil parle voused the guy and the word was that down the street two blocks and turn left.*

* *

*We followed the direction and came to a Shell station. “ Dis is no good, ‘ by, I can’t use Mr. H’irving credit card here, he wouldn/t like dat, sure ! “ We had been on the road ten hours at this point and was still only within hailing distance of the tug; I with the rest of the crowd was thoroughly pissed off with Georgie, so I said, “ George, if you feel that Arthur Irving will be hurt if you use an Irving card here at this Shell station, you’re nuts. ! “ Pull into the damn pumps and
I’ll fill it with my card.!! “ George bent, and used the company card  and when both tanks were full we continued on westward along the north shore toward Paspebiac, through New Carlisle, finally crossing the Restigouche River to breakfast in Campbellton.*

* *

*On the road again and George fell asleep, and near lost the van and it’s occupants over a steep bank. There was an on the spot mutiny, and George conceded to our terms and let Allan Johnson drive. By now, I had missed my morning flight to Halifax, and I wasn’t a happy camper *

*About eleven o’clock we pulled up in front of the dispatch office on Broad Street wharf and threw our luggage out. Bob MacDonald, the crewing coordinator was there and he said to me, “ Don, drive the van up to
Hertz, will you, ? I’ll follow you and run you out to the airport. I said, “ George told us the van was insured for his use only, so he should be driving it up to Hertz.” Bob gave a snort and replied that the van could be driven by any Atlantic Towing employee, regardless of gender, just so long as they had a valid license, Go figure. !!*

* *

*June 29, 2008,*

* *

*Sydney, NS*

Lobster Fishing and Make and Break Engines

Does anyone ever stop and think of the work that was involve in lobster fishing in those small boats with the make and break engines. ?

Almost to a man they hauled the gear aft of the engine, which; having no clutch, had to be stopped at every trap. When the trap was clear of lobster and old bait, then re-bait, the engine had to be started again. This entailed bending from the waist, reaching down in the bilge over the engine box, grasping the flywheel pin and heaving the engine up on compression, causing it to fire.

If the standing room floor was slippery, as most times ws the case, it was easy to lose footing and balance on the engine box cover like a medicine ball.

Osborne being so tall as he was had a neat trick to avoid the above.....he would hook the heel of one boot under the gunnel to give himself reverse leverage against the compression of the five Atlantic.

The popularity of these two stroke engines lay in their simplicity; fear of the complexity of the four stroke, was gradually overcome and old car engines became the order of the day.

My dad and I bought a new loster boat in '55 and powered her with a 50HP Super Four Universal Marine engine made in Oshkosh, Wis., Barney that spring purchased one of the same make, but only half as big horsepower wise; an Atomic Four, which was, because of it's small size, a popular yacht engine. ( There are still many in service )

A fellow in New Harbour, who will remain nameless, bought a 15/25 Acadia four cycle, but, because he was so thirfty, couldn' t stand to hear her idling while he worked his traps, so he shut the engine off at every trap; and she was started with a crank, so his back saw no relief whatever.

When the old two strokes first come into use in the very early years of the twentieth century, they were held in great awe. They had no clutch or reverse gear ; to get reverse one merely pulled the engine up in the opposite direction; trouble was, it was widely believed that running in reverse would cause the engine to become undone; disintegrate.

Harold Burke was progressive.........he hauled forward of the engine, and in that position could kick the flywheel pin to start the 6 1/2 Acadia Jump Spark ( as opposed to Make and Break ) that he bought in the early 1900' s It was his first and only engine. He told me he had replaced the cylinder three times throughout the years. ( because these engines were cooled with 
seawater the cylinders were prone to rusting out)


Don.

Lighting Time

I guess every little kid has some thrilling event in their childhood that stands out above all else through their life, and so it has been with me. I have done some things in my life that set the adrenalin pumping, but nothing has ever compared with lighting time.

My dad took over as light keeper on Green Island in the fall of 1928, six years before I was born. My older siblings spent their early years there, drifting away when the Siren call of the outside world, was heard, first my brother Willis to the “North Country” to work in the gold mines in Timmins. Irene, my eldest sister, would marry, Doug Fanning , and they would become the parents of our poet laureate , Jimmy Doug.

Sister Ardie would wend her way to Halifax and work in various jobs there during the harsh years of WWII, eventually marrying Vernon Zwicker and returning to a life on the Island.

Brother Jimmy; who lived but eighteen months and succumbed to spinal meningitis, left a large hole in the family’s life. My parents talked and reminisced fondly of him to the day of their deaths.

I’m not sure how old I was when I first went up with my dad to ‘light’ the light. Probably about five years of age. The apparatus was a thing of awe; I would drift off to sleep at night, with the throaty roar of the light, in my ears, for it filled the whole dwelling with it’s noise when it was lit.

We would climb the stairs from the living room and turn right off the hall into the light room, a room about 10 x 12 feet that housed the supplies for the light and I can still see in my minds eyes the large bottle of methyl hydrate that sat on the work bench, this was used to preheat the generator tube. 

The apparatus was of French design and manufacture, and consisted of two metal tanks, one of about thirty liters, for kerosene, the about one hundred fifty liters for compressed air. These tanks were situated just below the lantern, in a small space appropriately called the tank room.

The tanks were inter connected by copper tubing, fitted with valves to control the flow of air and oil. The air was supplied by a brass hand pump.

Dad would say to me, “I guess it’s time to go up and light the light”. so we would mount the stairs, and the first thing was to fill the oil tank from a carrying can, then he would pump the air to forty eight PSI.

Then we would go to the lantern. Dad would polish the reflectors, using flannel and jewellers rouge. The reflectors were parabolic in shape and made of silvered copper. After this was done he would fjll the spirit pan (this is the wording in the instruction book for that apparatus) with methyl hydrate. This pan surrounded the base of the generator and was used to pre-heat it so the kerosene would vaporize upon contact with the hot metal.

While the alcohol burned, dad would spin me a wonderful yarn of hunting or fishing , or of an imaginary brother and sister whose names were Johnny and Mary. Or he would lift me up so I could see out the lantern windows and point out land marks to me such as Fenton’s Ridge, The
Haycock, Green Island Hill, now known as Tower Hill, (It lies back of Donahues Lake) and is the site of a fire tower,) and other points of interest on the mainland or at sea.

The alcohol would be burned by the time the story ended-and now was the time!  Dad would give me a Buffalo match (anyone remember them?) and I would clutch it tightly in my hand, he would go down to the tank room and turn the valve on the air tank that admitted the compressed air to
the oil tank, this forced the kerosene upward toward the generator and burner and as all the lines had been drained down, it took about ten seconds for the oil to reach the generator.

As soon as he opened the valve dad would quickly run up the few steps to the lantern and pick me up so that I could touch the match to the hot burner to ignite it, then hold the flame to the white oil vapour forming above the diffuser cone at the top of the burner. Mission control; we
have Ignition!! The white vapour would turn to blue flame with a roar, and dad would pass me the pliers to pick up the mantle carrier, which had a diameter of 55mm, and the mantle was this diameter by 110mm high. I would set the mantle carefully on the burner top and the lantern would be lit as if with the light from a hundred suns. I was taught not to look directly at the light when the mantle was in place, and it was advised that dark glasses should be worn.

Dad would adjust the burner draft so as to get maximum brilliance, wind the clockwork mechanism that caused the light to revolve and when he was satisfied we would go down to supper.

I will never forget the rush of applying the match that lit the Light!

Shanachie

Lighthouse Supply

From January 25, 2004


Dennis' picture of the range light got me to thinking back to the days when the lights were manned and the eccentricities of some of the keepers. Let us take for example the Arnolds of Sheet Rock. Sheet Rock, is, as the name implies, a rock. It lies in the mouth of Sheet Harbour between the sou'west end of Sober Island and Taylor's Head. There was no freshwater supply there excepting the cistern in the basement of the dwelling.

When I sailed in the light house supply ships the standing joke was "Winnie’s out of water."
No matter what supply ship was passing by the "Rock" if she could see it Winnie would be on the air demanding that their cistern be filled because "We haven't got enough water left to make a cup of tea, or give the dog a drink".

The Capt. would swing in by the Rock, the landing barge would be swung out lowered and pumped full of potable water, portable fire pump and hoses would be put on board and we'd head in putting the ramp of the barge against the skids of the slipway, run out the hose and start the pump for the big transfer.

Perhaps it had been raining for a week and the cistern was full to capacity, we gave her a barge load and left, the water from the over flow streaming down over the cliffs. This happened on an ongoing basis, and there was no way that reason could prevail; they didn't plan on ever getting low on water.

Albert, Winnie’s husband, was in fact the keeper, but Winnie handled the radio and made all the panic calls for water, and for all intents and purposes ran the station.


Carter's Island in Lockeport Harbour. On my first supply trip on the first "Sir William Alexander" we took supplies to the western lights; i.e., Baccaro Head to Liscombe Island.
It was known by the crews on all the ships that the keeper on Carter's had a K-9 version of Murder Inc.. This keeper had been ripped off on several occasions while he and his family were off the station, hence the dog.

When we got off the island the bo'sun had the mate call the keeper on the R/T to tell him to chain up the dog, a German Shepherd who had been on steroids since he was a puppy. "Not a problem" said the keeper come on in, I got him on a piece of 3/8 galvanized chain!"

We had two loads of supplies, the last of which was coal. There was a bit of a wash on, so we had secured the barge to the slip with to painters, one on each side of the ramp and belayed to two capstans mounted purposely for this reason.

We finished carrying up the last hand barrow load of coal, the bo'sun had the keeper sign the manifest, and told him not to let that dog go 'til we were at least a hundred feet off the slip, then he detailed Roy Baker and Kenny Publicover to go and let go our lines.

The keeper went to the dwelling which was only about thirty yards from the slip, and the first thing he did upon reaching the porch was open the snap hook on the chain. Gerald Faulkner was bo'sun and as such was at the tiller of the barge. Gerald saw what had happened and bellowed at Kenny and Roy, "Cut 'em boys, the dog is loose!!" The belt knives did their thing before you could blink and the boys were coming up the ramp when the Shepherd was at the top skids.

I was sitting on the port bulwark of the barge, and when Kenny passed me I let out a savage snarl and grabbed him by the back of the thigh; he did a broad jump that put him well off from the side of the barge in about three fathoms of water, Gerald had the barges engine wide open in reverse, so Kenny was soon between the barge and the slip. We threw him a line and dragged him on board and continued back to the ship.

Every one thought this incident was hilarious except Kenny. Wonder why??

Don

It Happened on Front Beach.

I was fond of my Uncle Lew. He would spend a lot of time out on the station when my Dad was the keeper there. Uncle Lew, was,  like my Dad and my other paternal Uncles, a raconteur. I very much enjoy hearing him and my Dad telling stories of when they were young and growing up in Seal Harbour. One story that fascinated me was the one I am now about to relate.

It was a fine day in late October, the wind a gentle breeze from the sou’west. Uncle Lew decided he would go on Goose Island and try for black ducks at the Bend Pond. So he collected his shotgun and shell bag, walked down to the landing, shoved down the flat, placed the gun and shells in the bow, but before doing so he loaded the gun, for he though he might get a shot on the way over to the island at a passing coot.

The bow of the flat struck the gravel of Front Beach and Uncle Lew jumped out, and pulled the little craft clear of the backwash, pulling her out past the high tide mark. He though the had better tie her, and started to pull the painter out from where he had thrown it when he left the Cove (Crooks) Somehow the rope snarled one of the hammers, coming free just before the hammer reached the fully cocked position; the firing pin hit the primer with enough force to detonate the load, and the discharged shot passed by my hapless Uncle’s nose and blew a fist sized hole in the brim of his old felt hat The shell was loaded with black powder with is slow burning, and Uncle Lew had severe powder burns to his face and the blast rendered him blind in both eyes.The shock of the discharge caused him to fall backward on the beach, where he lay, blinded and deafened in both ears, but giving fervent thanks that he was still alive.

He picked himself up, pushed the flat down until it was afloat, climbed on board, seated himself on the thwart, and gropingly put out the oars and started back towards Crooks’s Cove. Knowing the direction of the wind, he thought he could make the Cove with no trouble, so with the everlasting sou’west wind on his right cheek, he laid back on the oars and began the trip across the Sound.

My Great Aunt Lydia (Lyd) spotted the flat when Uncle Lew was about two thirds of the way across, and knew immediately by the course he was keeping and his unexpected early return, that something was drastically wrong with the rower. She raised the alarm and Dad and Uncle Bayfield who were eating an early dinner before heading over the Shingle Hill barrens to pick some late fox berries and maybe set a few rabbit snares, left the table and hied over to Andrew Chris and Dave Fanning’s landing where they grabbed the first rowboat that came to hand and rowed out to intercept Uncle Lew. One of them got in the flat and rowed in the Grandfather’s landing, and guided their blind brother up to the house.

His eye brows were singed, inside his nostrils were somewhat cooked by the blast. He was having a lot of pain from his eyes, which were by now swollen shut. But as with most emergencies, in that household Aunt Lyd arose to the occasion and started to ‘ doctor ‘ his eyes, with the aid of boric acid and tea leaf poultices to reduce the swelling and stem any infection. He got his vision back after about a week, but if the muzzle of that shot gun had had one more degree of angle, I would never have known my Uncle Lew.



Sydney, NS
June 26, 2008

Island Life

With the furore that exists in some quarters about the sale of our
coastal islands, I sometimes think what it must have been like when many
of the coastal islands were populated; My wife and I were light keepers
on Liscombe (Crooks) Island from July '63 to July '67 and like many
other island along the eastern shore Liscombe Island once was populated
to an extent that warranted a school that sat beside a listed road the
length of which was one and one half miles, meandering from the slipway
to the light station. The ruins of the school house foundation was near
the road about halfway through the island; the road forked a short
distance from the slip, the left fork(which was becoming overgrown) led
down toward the pond which is where the Crooks lived.

Farther along the right hand side of the road were quite a few
foundations, and some cleared land remaining in the fields, which were
rapidly falling victims to the encroaching spruce and alder growth. We
used to drive the station tractor out through these fields to go to the
spring near the western shore of the island.
I always found that a feeling of peace and serenity pervaded this spot. The land here sloped gradually to the north becoming thickly wooded. If one walked parallel to the road in this direction they would reach the cemetery, one of
three purported to be on the island, but I never found the other two.
The grave site were sadly overgrown with pulp sized spruce which had
in some cases up rooted the grave markers, most of which were slate, cut
from the islands cliff's, there were three, I think, which were marble
stones, one of which was that of Samuel Whiston and his wife. Samuel was
master at the island's school. If my memory serves me right, the date of
his death was 1888. I would visit this melancholy, yet somehow peaceful
spot, and sit and meditate on how it must have been back in the early
days for those who lived on and fished from the coastal islands.

Harbour Island across the Sound from my place on Darby Point was the
early home for the Burkes (and I suspect others as well) When I was a
boy all the front of the island was cleared land, and the old cellar
foundations still had remnants of the sills and summers, fastened with
mortise and tenon joints. The "Hollering Rock" which once was in my
field, (it's now on the beach, due to erosion) was used to call for
transportation to the island. Can you imagine what kind of lung power
one would need to hail the island against thirty mile per hour south
west wind!?!

What a pity that more people hadn't kept a day to day journal of the
lives and times back then. What fascinating reading it would make today.
A few mysteries would be solved as well, i.e.; the Bark house, which was
still standing when the earliest settlers arrived in Seal Harbour/Drum
Head. Why was it so named? Was it because, as my dad told me, it was
covered with birch bark?? Or was it built and occupied by a Barkhouse???

The answer lies in the ruins of it's root cellar and will never be
known. Adrienne Bayer(sic) did a dig around the foundation, but found
nothing significant; a few shards of pottery and broken glass, I
believe.Can anyone shed any light on the 'bark house'?

Regards,
Don.

Inhabitants

(Bloggers note: This snippet of local history was obviously in answer to a query from our own Gary Manthorne.)

Hello Gary,

Thelma, was, as you already know, was Winfield's daughter, Jimmy
Doug's aunt.

Jimmie Arthur (Burke) Lived in the house that is now owned by Twila
(Jimmie Doug's sister) Green. Jimmie Arthurs field was west nor'west of
Harold Burke's place. It was quite a field then, but somewhat overgrown
now. It bordered the Gammon property to the south, Harold's to the east
sou'east, the main road to the nor'east and Tom's (Eldon's
Grandfather)Bull Pasture to the nor'west.

A lot of Drum Headers had fields apart from their home locale: Cliff
Burke's was more or less where Jason Langley's house is now. Aus
Henderson's was nor'west of that, back about 150 meters from the road. A
hauling road passed through field and went just east of where the gas
plant now sits. It went back as far a Stave Hill (and all points
between)
Uncle Frank's was just below that old garage of Rol Burke's, and
Carse Luddington's was Nor'west of where Rol's daughter Judy's house now
sits. Just as one rounded Betty's Cove turn.

Regards,

Don

Honeycomb

Back in the good ole days when there was still a dozen or so more people in the Drum than the present population, and hunting was a way of life, the fishermen (and others as well) would make a lot of trips to the Western Shore ( of Country Harbour) for deer, in October, and later in December for rabbits.

I remember well the day in ' 57, when a crowd of us piled aboard " Helen and Linda " and headed up the bay, well before daylight. I believe there was fourteen of us, all told.

Ian had picked up a halibut dory the previous summer.........he found her adrift somewhere outside the buoy, full of water and well grown with seaweed and barnacles. He was proud of his find and after a long period of drying out he scraped and painted her in tradional dory buff, with dark green trim. She looked like new, but alas, her bottom and garboard planks were riddled with Teredoes, (shipworm) to a point were she was more a liability than an asset.

On this particular day Ian decided that he would make the trip, not to hunt rabbits, but to cut hardwood on the Mount, so armed with a bucksaw and axe he boarded, tied the dory astern; Victor clutched in the 366 GM and we were away, up the Bay.

The run up the Bay to Lower Mount Cove took about thirty five minutes, and the fo'castle of the " Helen and Linda" was crowded to the point where it couldn't hold another body, and everyone smoking, except Walter Farrell and he was chewing Club.

We reached the Cove just as dawn was breaking, anchored the boat and run a buoy line ashore to both sides of the Cove, as was the practice, for the holding bottom wasn' t the best, should the wind haul in from the southeast. When the dory got back from these tasks, we commenced throwing our packsacks down into her and with rifles in hand followed the packs, containing lunches and brew kettles. All were anxious to hit the woods.

I think it was ' 56 when Jimmy F. Rodgers came out with his big hit " Honey Comb"and it was the words of this song that Ian quoted to us that morning; " Boys" said Ian, " Don't jump too hard, this dory ain't nothin' but a walkin, talkin' honey comb!"

I remember the laughter as if it was yesterday.

Good times, good friends.

I wish we could relive some of those happy days.

Herm, Russ and Howard.

March 27, 1918 was a sad day for the villages of Drum Head and Seal Harbour, for on that day there was a triple drowning.

On that date, my second cousins, Herman and Russell Burke and their sister Lois' s fiance, Howard Jarvis, set out in a skiff to hunt Brant ( a species of goose ) in lower Coddles Harbour.
The weather when the skiff, under sail, passed out the cove and rounded the head of the 'old' breakwater and headed down the sound, was benign. A fine early spring afternoon, with the wind just a gentle breeze from the nor 'west. My grandfather had helped his nephews launch the skiff, assisted by their father, grandfather's brother Charles William Burke, ' Charlie Hack' Neither could know that in a few short hours, these three strong young men would fall victims to the capricious sea.

The wind, as it so often does in the afternoons on our shore, come in a breeze from the sou' west, and just about dusk, a sea ' hove on'.  Uncle Henry Burke was keeper of Green Island light at the time of this sad event. His daughter Gladys had been out of doors and when she came in she told the family that she had heard three gun shots that seemed to be spaced evenly apart. The shots had ranged right across the island from the light. It was too dark by then for hunting. Uncle Henry was mystified by this, until someone came on the island with they tragic news. It was concluded that the boys were 'broke on' at Thrump Cap Reef. Thrump Cap is a small islet in the mouth of Lower Coddles Harbour, and the shots Gladys heard were fired in distress, while they still clung to the swamped skiff.
Herman was 24. His body was never recovered. His brother, Russell was a year his junior; 23,.His body, as well as that of Howard Jarvis 36 was recovered. They came ashore on the ' back shore ' down toward New Harbour Point.

My dad always told me that their mother, aunt Martha, ( always called aunt Marth) never got over this horrific loss.

Here’s Your Change

When the offshore went down for about the fourth time in it's history, and I was in the job market, it chanced that a job came open on the CH ferry. Clyde Smith had gone on long term disability.

I applied for the position and was sucessful, much to my chagrin (later) I already was in posession of engineers certification, and after I was there for a while, I saw that it would be highly advantageous to have a masters certificate, so I wrote and passed that exam, much to the deep chagrin of certain residents of St. Mary's Municipality.....But this story is not about the politics of working on the worse job I ever had, it's all about getting even. 

One morning after I had been there about two months, this guy drives on at the west side, heading east at 0600 hrs. Stranger. I went out to collect his fare, and rolling down the window he smiled, proffered a hundred dollar bill, and said benignly, " Sorry, that's the smallest I have." 

We had a float of forty dollars or so, and at that early hour there was no way I could change it. And he knew it! So he rode the waves for free. 

Came the next morning; same guy, same C note, same story. 

He should have quit while he was ahead, because when I got off shift at noon that day, I went home had dinner, jumped in my truck and headed for the bank. The teller was amazed when I asked for one hundred dollars worth of nickels. 
That night when I went on shift at mid night I had $99.50 in nickels in a nice white pillow case. Buddy drove on at ten to six as I was hoping he would and I went out to the driver's side window. Grinning sardonically, he held out the hundred. I gave him his ticket took the bill, and said, "Please wait, I have to go inside for your change." When I returned, I had the pillow case. " What's this.?" he said as I hoisted the the bag up to the window. " Your change, sir", I replied. " 99.50 in nickels. Hope you have a nice day!" 

He had his fifty cents ready the next morning, I'm here to tell you that!! 

Henry the Ghost

     
There once was an ocean going tug boat (still working,incidently) that, many years ago was the scene of a most unfortunate incident. The chief engineer was electrocuted when using a 220v drill while working in the salvage locker.

This tragedy happened when the tug was well offshore, and after due consultation with the authorities by radio, it was decided that the body be brought home for an inquest; so a space was cleared on one of the shelves in the meat room of the freezer and the body laid out thereon, shrouded in bed sheets.

In due time the vessel reached her home port, and after the official inquiry, inquest, etc. the body was received by the next of kin and was duly interred.

Life went on.The tug went about her appointed tasks, but with one major difference……………she had acquired the reputation of been haunted.

It was said that the sounds of drilling could be heard back in the salvage locker when the hatch was closed, and it was told  that the shade of the late chief had been seen in the passageway that accessed the freezer rooms, particularly in the early morning hours, when the ship slept ,except for those of the crew who were on watch.

The tales of the haunting were told to newly joined younger crewmembers with great relish by the older seasoned hands and with each telling the stories grew in number and the embellishments were limited only by the tellers imaginations.It was not a good ship for one who was superstitious

I sailed in that tug as second engineer in the 1970’s and my counterpart in the crew change was a gentleman name of Henry. Now Henry was  a very concencious         engineer; exacting in his care of all the mechanical equipment that fell under his jurisdiction. One morning, while the tug was making her way over a serene ocean, rolling gently in the moderate swell, her tow following along in her wake, Henry decided to check the freezer unit. He, being the  methodical person he was, did this at the same time each  0000-0600 hrs. watch, unless some urgency required his attention at the time; so at 0400 Henry checked the freezer, and on the morning in question, at four sharp, Henry made a round of the engine room, and after assuring himself that all was in proper order he made his way out of the engine room, forward along the passage way to the freezers, stopping by the galley to plug in the kettle for a cup of tea after his inspection of the freezer.

Further forward Henry came to the room that housed the twin fridge units; checking the head pressure,  vacuum and cooling water flow and finding everything okay, come out, shut the door and headed for the freezer room itself. 

The two freezer rooms were accessed from an ante room which opened off the passage way.  It had no door. As one entered the ante room one freezer door would be directly in front of them and the other door at their right hand.This was the “meat room”and was kept at 10 below zero F. The thermometers were under the deck head and located for convenient viewing in the ante room. There really wasn't much need to go in the rooms as they had auto defrost evaporators and the system worked well.

The deck of the ante room was covered with a wooden grating on which the cook kept the salt pork riblets, salt beef and any other maritimers soul food that came in five gallon pails. These were lashed to eyebolts screwed into the bulkheads.

That morning for reasons he would never make known to anyone, Henry decided to enter the meat room, so untying a bucket of salt meat, he unlatched the door, swung it open, propped it in that position with the meat bucket and went inside.

Henry would say whenever he told the story that he was just fairly inside when the tug rolled to starboard, the meat bucket slid on the grating allowing the door to slam shut making Henry a prisoner in a silent frigid cell.

          In the first moment Henry wasn't too alarmed, thinking he could open the door with the safety push rod.The gravity of his situation began to sink in when he tried the device and found it to be seized solidly in the latching mechanism, probably from years of non- usage. Henry up boot and “fetched ‘er a good kick,by!” Still no go. It was then that he realized that he was locked up at 10 below zero with the earliest hope of discovery being 0600 hours when the cook would be called by the seaman on watch.

Being dressed quite lightly; wearing only work trousers and shirt Henry knew that death by freezing could well be his lot, so taking out his pocket knife he began cutting up card board boxes and wrapping them around his limbs and torso with butchers twine.When he had used up all the available card board he began to stomp about the narrow confines of the room in an endeavor to keep the blood circulating as best he could.

With the main engine throbbing below the tug made her way through the night, her crew, except the mate and the seaman on bridge watch, plus Henry, sleeping; blissfully unaware that the second engineer was trapped in meat freezer.

The cold began to bite into Henry’s vitals,driving in toward his core; knowing well the gravity of his situation, he began to stamp around and beat his arms across his chest.His ears were extremely cold and Henry knew they would be badly frost bitten by 0600, so he searched about the shelves and found a strip of mutton cloth, which had once been the protective cover for a quarter of beef,.this he bound around his head turban-wise, thus solving the cold ear problem.

The law of thermo- dynamics decrees that heat goes to cold, so did Henry's body heat go to the frigid air of his prison, and the warmth of his breath from his exertions had caused the freezer air to become cloudy with vapor.

In the outside world the eastern sky was paling with the promise of the coming day, and the old mate,who had seen many thousands of sun rises at sea averred to his AB that “It looks like a fine one, you” then he added “I tinks its time for you to call da boys” By this he meant the skipper, the chief engineer, the cook and 0600-1200 AB.”And  Jimmy," said the mate,”when youse calls dat cook, you, do it easy like; because you young fellas has got his nerves a shambles,what wit all dese stories youse bin telling him about dem dere hant’s” Jimmy assured the mate that he would waken the cook gently and departed on his wake up calls.It was 0530hrs.

The cook was a hyper individual; always running late, he was a chronic worrier,to boot, and his first thought that morning was “Ohmigod! I wonder if I took out the beef roast that I plan to have for supper!” Bounding from his bunk, he out the door and streaked up the passage way wearing nothing but his BVD’s, he careened into the ante room,  flung open the door of the meat room and came face to face with his worst night mare.
Henry materialized out of the cloud of vapor, his eye brows and walrus mustache all a-sparkle with hoar, the muttoncloth turban white with frost as well, and stepped toward the cook---------who promptly fainted.

Colder than he could ever remember of being, Henry ignored the prostrate cook, stepped over his limp body and headed for his beloved engine room,”Because, son, as Henry would tell me later that month when we changed crew, “ me biggest fear when I was locked in, was that me lubricators would go dry on me” (He meant the mechanical lubricators that pressure feed oil to the cylinder walls of the engine at multiple points.These lubricators have reservoirs that must be filled periodically).

When the cook awakened from his swoon the awful apparition had vanished. He scrambled to his feet and made a race for the wheel house arriving only seconds after the captain had made his appearance to take over the watch from the mate.

Now, anyone who has gone to sea will tell you that sea cooks can be capable of some pretty bizarre behavior, and the skipper of that tug thought that he had seen it all, but when cookie arrived on his bridge that morning, he realized that this was not the case.
“Captain, captain!! I seen him! He was in the fridge and when I opened the door he jumped and grabbed me but I got away from him.  Take me in captain; I want to go home, sign me off right now, because I’m all done, I’ll never go near that freezer again.!!!

“Whoa, cook, what ails you, man?” said the skipper. He realized that the cook had ,without a doubt, seen something and his first thought was that one of the young seamen had hid in the freezer as a joke,but when he questioned the cook further and heard that this apparition was all frosted up and that seemed a bit extreme for a prank, even by the most dedicated prankster, so he did’nt know what to say to the cook to lessen his terror.
“I’ll check it out, cook, now go down there and start breakfast,because I’ll tell you now, that whatever you seen it was not the ghost of no engineer.Them ghost stories is a bunch baloney cooked up to scare fellers like you, who should know better but don’t.

“ Willy,”the skipper said to theAB on the 0600-1200 watch,”go down with this here cook and hold his hand while he makes our breakfast and get anything he might want from the freezer.”

Breakfast was duly served and Henry sheepishly told of how he had neglected to tie the freezer door back and got locked in.The first thing he did on his next watch was free up the safety device on the freezer door.

The story of Henry’s lock-in took precedence over the ghost stories, and is still recounted with a smile by some of the older hands who have sailed on that tug.

Shanachie

Haul-up Time!

Good morning Breezers;

Every fall in our villages of DH and SH a ritual was performed
called "haul the boats up". Most of the boats in DH were in the thirty
foot range with the exception of a few, and thus were quite easily
handled. The bigger boats were a different story.

The first stage of the rite was go cut green skids. Where, was a
matter of choice. The western shore was good, because good stands of fir
stood near the beach and the skids could be hauled to the shore in a
very short time, loaded on board or towed home.

Three main haulage areas were found around the cove in DH. One was
in the lower part my field, the second in uncle Ned's(Fanning) field and
at the slip that lay between Charlie O'Hara's boat shed and the old ice
house. This was used to haul out the larger boats such as Lu Langleys
and Ray Luddingtons. Charlie O'Hara launched his new builds off this
slip as well, before building a new boat shop between his house and
Gammons store.

On the chosen day, all hands would assemble at high tide, ( full
tides were a must ) tackles were rove and run out, and hooked to the
"dead men." The first boat would be run ashore on the skids that had
been laid on the preceding low tide, their ends held down by large
rocks. This was mostly the case at uncle Neds, because fixed slipways
existed at the site at my field and where Ray and Lu hauled out.

The boats keels were bored near the forward end close to the stem
scarf to facilitate the placing of an iron bolt, the purpose of which
was to hold a wire rope strap for the hook of the bottom tackle block.
After the hook up was made, all hands would grab on and the boat would
slowly make her way up the skids, which as she passed across them would
be carried forward as she made her advance.

Sid Burke introduced a new word to the English language during a
haul up at one point in time.......swiddle ( her ) the meaning of which
is turn the boat at a pivotal point while still moving forward, so as to
align the boat on the skids.

After the boats were hauled out, the engines would be taken out, the
floor and gang boards taken out and stored; then on a mutually agreed
upon day, the smaller lobster boats would be turned over. At the
present, one would be hard pressed to get enough help to turn over a
skiff in DH, but in those days man power wasn't a problem.

When the turn over was completed, posts would be placed at intervals
between the sheer and the ground to prevent "hogging" (going out of
shape) There they would stay until the last of March when they would be
uprighted, painted and otherwise prepared for the coming season.

It was great to be around the shore in the spring of the year, back
in those by-gone days. There would be a high level of activity in the
trap sheds with the mending of traps and the smell of turpentine andlead based paint, going on the wooden buoys combined with the smell of
tarred rope ( no synthetics back then, ) all of which was mixed with the
pungent aroma of spruce bow ends crackling as they burned in the stoves,
( probably a Quebec Heater that had served its time in the home,
although some of the shed stoves were more unique, Will Fannings was
made from a smoke marker canister picked up at sea during WWII.

Painting the boats was put off 'til April provided the weather
co-operated. The main topic of conversation wherever one or two would
gather, was THE ICE, that is to say the Gulf ice which was a frequent
visitor to our shores before the Canso Causeway was built. ( and
sometimes even after it's construction) this could cause heavy trap
losses, especially if it came at night or with gale force easterly
winds. My dad lost the majority of his "gang" in 1962, when the ice went
as far south and west as Sambro Island.

Only three boats fish out of DH today and I wonder what the old
timers would say about today's type of operation; diesel powered boats
of undreamed of proportions, equipped with coloured depth sounders,
radar and the latest innovation.....moving chart software that allows
one to follow the edge of the bottom no matter how 'black thick' the fog
comes in, and to replicate the boats track to within three meters the
following day. I wonder too, what they would say about catches of five
hundred pounds @ $6.00 per!

Best regards,
Don

Harold and Nellie

Let us go back for one more trip down memory lane. Let us head up the road to a house in Drum Head where happiness was a fact of life; a part of the day to day mosaic of the hard scrabble ‘‘do with what you’ve got’’ life that most people lived in our coastal villages back fifty or sixty years ago. Let us go and spend an evening at Harold and Nellie’s.

Harold and Nellie had a larger family by Drum Head standards, three boys and three girls, Dean, Maynard and Wendell; Phyllis, Madeleine and Berniece. Times were tough back then, and it wasn’’t always easy to put grub on the table for a crew like that, but Harold was, as my mother would say; “A good forager”providing  for his family from what he could harvest from land and sea.

Harold fished hard; upwards of four hundred traps for lobster fishing and a lot of them in ‘‘deep’’ water, Rudder Shoal; around the Tom Cod, down back of Middle Ground, out in the big tide, where, when the tide was running, the wooden buoys would be boring deep, and the boats would have to lay by waiting for the tide to slack. Harold fished these waters and hauled by hand, standing forward of his faithful 6.5HP Acadia jump spark engine that he bought when a very young man, an engine that seen him through to his death, albeit, it had three new cylinders in it’s life span.

When fall came Harold was ready for the woods. He had a small log hunting camp on the northern side of Square Hill, only a short distance from where the Stave Hill starts to make it’’s elevation, and it was there that he made his headquarters when hunting moose, deer, or rabbits. His kids, both boys and girls would accompany him to this camp on occasion, and became quite adept at the art of setting rabbit snares and in the making of a great stew, for Harold was a very good cook.

When the larder was filled to capacity, with salted cod or pollock , Salted herring and mackerel, deer and moose meat in cans and Mason jars, on shelves, flanked by every kind of wild berries, preserved as jam or whole fruit, the vegetable bins filled to the top with potatoes, carrots, parsnips, turnips and cabbage from Capt. George White’s trading schooner, and the next years wood was piled in the yard, then it was time to kick back and relax.

The kitchen at Harold and Nellie’s was for all intents and purposes, the family room, as was the kitchens of many other houses in our villages in that era. It was were we lived; and their kitchen would fill on the winter evening with young people enjoying the genuine hospitality, offered by this congenial couple.

Crokinole; how many Cansobreezers have played Crokinole? I suspect that a goodly number of you have played and know for a certainty who played in DH and SH, in the 50’s who played or didn’t is lost in time now; but that game was played evening after evening at Harold’s kitchen table, Harold loved to play this game, and was a very good player. We played with cues, so it became a cross between bumper pool and the original game. I liked to play, and played a lot at Barney’s with some good partners, and some who were mediocre. ( There’ll be lot’s of flack about this, I allow) I got to be a fair player using the cue; snicking? Forget it. I could never get a game with Nora-Jim, and in more recent times, at the home of Eric and Delores McDonald I got skunked game after game, and was surely wishing for my cue to appear from out of the past, but I’ve got to hand it to the purists, they can snick real good!

Most evenings Harold would have a huge boiler of rabbit and rice soup, served up with lot’s of home made white bread. Some shockin’good!! No one ever left Harold and Nellie’s hungry, regardless of the hour. My kids talk about Nellie’s fox berry tarts to this day; they’d scour the barrens of Hudson’s Hill, after school, trying to get enough for one more batch of tarts.

I had the loan of Clarence Baker’s lobster boat (Liscomb) in 1969. I had a lot of lieu day’s built up, and decided I would do a little hand-lining. Harold had been pronounced terminal at that point, with cancer, but he called me up to his place and asked me if he could go with me. I certainly agreed, so he had the pleasure of doing what he loved one more time, before the sun finally set for him. On one particularly bad day I asked if he wanted to go in (home) “No,” he replied, “I would rather die out here than in the hospital.” I had fished and hunted with Harold and was then and am yet happy that I was able to accommodate him that last summer of his life.

The house don’t look much now like it did then, what with new windows, large deck, etc., but when I look across the cove, I can still see it as it was then……………….a good place to go.

Don

Grandfather George and the Titanic

Dear Grace;

It is always a pleasure to contribute in some small measure to the heritage aspect of this wonderful website.

Many of my relatives, both paternal and maternal, who migrated to the States, stayed, and made their homes there. My dad was over there off and on about five years, trying his hand at a number of jobs, including working on the construction of the Cape Cod Canal. In the course of my seafaring, I have transitted the Canal many times, and would always recall the stories my dad would relate about those years.

On the night of the Titanic disaster he was on Grand Bank in the Gloucester fishing schooner John R. Bradley, which was skippered by a Baptist deacon named Dan Ryder, less than 100 miles from the Titanic's position.

The crew of the Bradley knew nothing of the accident until they went in to Bay Bulls, NL., for fresh bait, late in May.

Best regards

Don.

Grandfather George and the Sunken Schooner

Hi Grace and Dave; 

Just a note to tell you how much I enjoyed your posts of yesterdays date.......Merrill' s letter and the Christmas cards. 

At about that point in time that those cards were dated, there was a large out-migration of young people from DH and SH to the "Boston States." My dad was among these migrants, and was in fact, working in Haverhill in a shoe factory when Gertie was there. Austin Manthorne, dad's good buddy was there as well, and the picture (# 18 ) in the photo section of the two of them sitting on a crescent moon was taken in Haverhill. 

Dad never tired of telling the story of the time he took the trolley down to Gloucester to visit around the fishing fleet, where, having been to the Banks a few trips, had many friends. 

A brand new schooner was fitting out. Dad knew the skipper and several of the crew. He had apparently made quite a name for himself as a handliner, and was in demand, and the skipper of the new build asked him if he would like a berth on this fine new vessel. Dad thought it over and said yes, so he went back to Haverhill with the intention of quitting "the shoe shop" and going down to the Grand Banks on the 'summer trip' 

Arriving at his boarding house, imagine his surprise and delight, to find that his brother Os and Leonard and Fred Fanning had arrived from Detroit for a little change of scene and a visit. Of course this changed his plans for fishing, so he wired the skipper that it was off; to get someone else. The new schooner sailed in two days and was lost on that, her maiden voyage, with all hands. 

Had Os, Fred and Leonard not made the trip from Detroit to Boston I wouldn't be typing this down by the Tar Ponds. It's a strange world we live in, Master Jack. 

Don

Going to School in the Lumber Woods

James Fanning wrote:

Don,
Many thanks for the "lumber woods" story. Mum used to tell Twila and me a few stories from her days going to school in the lumber woods. You could tell from the narration that it was a timevery dear to her. In 1964 I drove her back of the Kippoch mountain to try to identify landmarks without any success, but the outing wasa good opportunity to hear more of your collective childhood in
the camps.
Thanks again
Slainté

Jim

Good evening to you Jim;
Your letter took me back to the "Ohios"and my own school days at the Cross Roads(Ohio) in 1946/47.Mom and dad took a job with Jack Grant who had a "cut"in south of the Cross Roads, about two km from Hillcrest, which is where they had worked on the Kippoch many years before, where your mom went to school with Elwin Layes' children as well as the MacLeans and Murphy's.
In the camp at the Cross Roads, dad worked in the mill, and Ardie came down from Halifax to cookee with mom. Much smaller gang there than with Logan.

I walked to school most days, and believe me that was a trek in a nor'west gale blowing down the intervale from James River. It was two miles from the camp to the school and about half that was on the"tote road" There lived, where the tote road left the main road, a grand old scots couple named MacInnes, with them lived their widowed son, John Allen, and his son Roddie, who was three years my junior. Another family member was Charlie John, who had never married. I carried their mail and could never get away from the
MacInnes house without partaking of Mrs.Macs tea and scones. would take a huge lunch to the one room school that, like all country schools of that era, housed grades primary to twelve. There was thirty eight pupils in all. A big old Glenwood box stove for heat, and, as the only kids who lived near enough to travel home for lunch were Clemmie and Gussie MacIsaac and Randal MacLean and his sister Katie, the flat top of the Glenwood also served as a cooker for heating up water for whatever beverage; tea, cocoa or hot chocolate.
Occasionally some of the larger families with numerous siblings would bring what you might call in DQ-ese, the full meal deal. A pot of soup or stew.

The school was catholic; the priest visited with astonishing regularity. I never found out just what took place while he was there, because I was always banished to the wood shed. Never could understand that one, because I sat in on the catechism and prayers that were part of the opening in the morning.
It was a great place for a kid who liked to hunt, and I had a snare run that I used to check on the way to school; too dark to check it on the way back to the camp.

There was a guy worked at the camp from Belle Cote who loaned me his Steven’s .410 and I did well with partridge. For a kid with a sweet tooth it was a problem, even though my sister Ardie was a world class fudge maker, I longed for Moirs or Nielsens, and on Saturdays would walk the six miles down John A. MacDonald's store at Ohio to stock up. Or, when Lochaber Lake was frozen, I would go through the woods and cross the lake to Alex. Taylors store. I liked this candy run, because one could hunt both coming and going.

As a closing thought: I still visit one of the many teachers I had in the school term of 46/47.........my good friend, Reta Giffin, as I started and finished that term in DH.

A good night to all,Don

George Crooks and the Coal Barge

As you probably know, and as I have stated on occasion on this site, my dad left Seal Harbour when a young man to pursue his fortune in the US. While in MA., in went from job to job, not staying long at any specific endeavour. One of his sorties into the job market was a job as seaman on a coal barge that ran from Philadelphia to Boston. This barge was the hulk of a once noble clipper ship, that had been run under as it were by the new technology of steam. This barge of course was towed from port to port. The barge left Philly one fine morning in February fully loaded with coal bound for the Boston market. A typical winter nor'easter was making up off Hatteras, ( remember the one we took there Jim; you in HMCS Algonquin, and I a few miles away in the bulker "Gypsum Duchess?" 1961?)

(Blogger’s Note: I remember it well...it bent back our forward 4 inch 50 gun mounting, and snapped the davits on a starboard lifeboat!)

The storm caught the tow off Martha's Vineyard; the tow line parted and the old clipper was adrift on the Atlantic.......to coin a popular phrase of common usage around home when I was young, " At the mercy of Tiberius " The blizzard as nor’easter are wont to do, swept down upon the Nova Scotian coast with a howling ferocity; Aunt Lyd appear at breakfast that morning with this solemn proclamation; " George is gone!" " He came to me last night in a dream and he is lost at sea. " The storm past and several days of gale force nor'west winds followed in it' s wake. One day a rider from Isaac's Harbour arrive with a telegram from the barges owners, stating that the barge had been lost.

They on the hulk drifted fo nine days before being taken off the waterlogged wreck by, I believe a german ship in bound to New York..The family was sure dad was 'a goner' and was about to have a memorial service when the word came from the barge owners that he was, indeed safe.
My dad told me he was very close to his aunt Lydia and his thoughts were with her on the night when the tow parted, and the crew were in dire peril, this telepathic phenomenom has been documented many, many times, in studies of the paranormal.


Don

Freed for Sea

"I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree"..............

The smell of diesel fuel, calls to me once more,
Now I must take off for a far distant shore,
When it's in your blood and in your heart,
All thats left is to make the start,
The rush of air to the piston's face,
And the flywheel's turn sets your heart a-race
When ten thousand horsepower rumbles to life,
You can say farewell to a world of strife,
As she points her bow to the open sea,
With Chebucto Head upon your lee
It spells catharsis for the soul,
As she passes the buoy on Ive's Knoll,
A lone gull swoops with haunting wail,
As she passes out by the Neverfail,
Out to where the sea rolls free,
And offers solace to you and me,
Where the bond of danger is stronger than blood,
To those that sail on the tides wild flood,
Three score and eleven and still the call,
Rings loudly in my heart withall.

Ever the call to go once more,
Far from kin and native shore,
After the trip is past and spent,
I'll ruminate and be glad I went,
Maybe when I'm eighty- three,
Mistress Sea may set me free !

Forerunners and stuff

The big Royal Blue Chrysler Windsor rolled westward on the surface of the old # 4 Highway, that twisting, turning, ribbon of asphalt that existed before it was rebuilt as the Trans Canada Highway and received the designation 104. The sky was the brilliant blue of mid October, and small white clouds chased each other across the face of the sun, causing dark shadows to dull, momentarily, the blazing colours of the fall foliage.

The car with it' s three occupants had just passed through the village of Linwood and was headed toward Antigonish, where it's driver and his two passengers made their homes. The three had been business associates for years, and the two younger men were first cousins. Highway contractors, they were on their way home after looking over a sizable contract that was due to be tendered in Cape Breton the following spring.

Drinkers all, the three were well into a bottle of rum purchased in Port Hawkesbury; they little cared about the legality of their action, for apprehension would probably amount to a fine of $10.00 + costs of $3.50, levied for the possession of open liqour in a motor vehicle. Sobriety tests were very rudimentary at the point when these happenings took place.

They were discussing the upcoming road job, when a piglet jumped up from the ditch and proceeded to trot across the road, the driver, his reflexes somewhat slowed from the effects of the alcohol he had consumed, couldn't brake in time and struck the little pig a glancing blow with the corner of the right bumper. Sure that he had killed the animal, he stopped the car and the three got out and began to walk back along the shoulder of the road scanning the ditch for the body of the pig, which they were sure had been killed.

Suddenly the object of their search scrambled to it's feet in the ditch and scampered up the embankment and disappeared in a hill of small hardwoods that bordered the highway. Feeling no pain, they decided to chase the pig who they figured was about to die from his injuries.
Laughing and calling back and forth, they separated to widen their search pattern. At last tiring of the fruitless search the driver said. " Let's give it up boys, he must have hidden from us, lets go home." Looking toward him at the sound of his voice, for they were about twenty yards from him in the open hardwood, they were shocked to see standing by his side a little girl about four years of age. Shaken, they quickly agreed to give it up and get out of there. As soon as the driver moved, the apparition vanished. The men entered the car and continued the drive to Antigonish.

One year to the day later, the driver, inebriated, hit, and killed, a four year old girl playing on the roadside in front of her parents house in Linwood, with his Chrysler Windsor.
I worked for their company fifty five years ago come this summer.

Seanachie.

Forced Landing.

Carvel planked boats of the so called Cape Island type, have a weakness in that their fastening are prone to failure after about ten years,  depending on the quality of the original . Some fishermen opted for copper and bronze fastenings, with a greater life span but at a much higher initial cost for the hull.

When fastening failed at sea disaster is most always the result, with the boat going down, sometimes with loss of life. In nautical parlance such an event is referred to as  ““ springing a butt. “ What happens is a failure of the fasteners, generally nails, for economy’s sake,  where the ends, or “butts,” of the planks are joined. Failure of this kind most often occurs toward the forward part of the boat. The nails let go, on one or more timbers (ribs) the plank end, or butt springs outward, instantly causing a breech to the sea as per the width of the plank.

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It was one of those days in May that were called, around home; “ A smokey sou’wester “ visibility is restricted, but the sky is clear and sunny. 

Harry Hodgson and his stern man, Spurgeon Gammon were hauling lobster traps  at about ten AM up to wind’ dard of Coffin Rock Shoal, fishing was good, and Harry was in his usual excellent spirits, thinking of the duck stew that awaited him on his arrival home that day.

The wind had been “ airing up “ all through the morning, and was now blowing at about twenty knots from the sou’west,  so now, between traps  Miss Drum Head was hitting quite hard in the breaking SW lop, ( Our navy is wont to call this ‘slapping’) Spurgeon happened to look down in the starboard side kid, and saw that water was above the floor boards, and said, “ Harry she’s got some water in her. “ 

Now when hauling gear in a small boat, water will naturally accumulate in the bilge, and is pumped out periodically through the day, so Harry wasn’t alarmed at Spurgeon’s statement, and his answer was, “ Pump her out !”” 

So Spurgeon grabbed the handle of the box type pump and proceeded to comply with the order.

After a couple of minutes, he saw he was making no headway; the water was, in fact, rising.               “ Harry,  I think she’s leakin. ! “said Spurgeon.  Harry finished hauling the trap that was on its way from bottom, sat it on the stern and went for’ ard to open the engine box cover.

What he saw chilled the marrow in his bones. The water in the bilge was up to a point that the front end pulley on the Dodge was running in it.

Back in those day’ s life jackets and rings were not yet mandatory on small fishing boats; everyone, my dad and I included, went fishing with absolutely survival gear on board whatsoever, except for sword fishing, when a dory was carried for the purpose of drowning fish (swordfish) I guess that it wasn’t realized then that flotation devices can save lives.

With no other boats in sight,  Harry knew that they were in very serious trouble and that their only hope of survival was to beach the boat on Goose Island and the only favourable place on the island would be Noshey’s Cove.

With Spurgeon steering and Harry with his great strength and endurance on the pump, they headed down around Flying Point for the salvation that was the sand and gravel of Noshey’ s Cove Beach, 


Even pumping as hard as he could Harry was losing ground with the ingress of water. On the straight six Dodge the distributor is mounted on an angle on the side of the block, the water was almost to where the shaft emerged from the block, the starter was by now submerged, the coil, mounted on the cylinder head, was still safe and they were now abeam Camp Cove.

Harry took the wheel as they passed close in to Noshey’s Cove cliffs, where the water is deepest, by now Miss Drum Head was very logy in the water in her sinking condition, as luck would have it, the tide was “tip top high “ Harry pulled the Dodge wide open and the boat made the ground just north of the windlass. The same windlass that hauled the skiffs of so many of our ancestors, landing on the Island for a duck hunting trip.

A couple of boats hauling back of the Horse ( the White Horse )  saw what was transpiring and quickly steamed up to the scene. One of them volunteered to go in to the mainland for a skiff, so Hary and Spurgeon could be taken off the island. 

Once ashore, Harry rounded up George Burke, who in turn, rounded up his tools ( or what hand tools he would need ) and after the boats were done hauling a goodly crowd sailed in Victor Luddington boat, for Goose Island to repair and launch Miss Drum Head, now recumbent on her starboard side in the gravel and kelp.

By the time we got out to Noshey’s Cove there was a bit of a sea running, and the Cove ws breaking across. We had taken Greencorns big halibut dory for landing and after some consultation it was decided that I take the oars,  as it was said that I had more experience landing in surf than any of the others present. That was the consensus, but not necessarily so.

We loaded George’ s tool box and seven men counting me, the rower,  I had them sit low aft, so the dory was well trimmed by the stern, but as we got in the breakers  just off the end of the cliffs, one guy panicked, and jumped to his feet and grabbed the oars, hoping to assist me,  thus speed up the landing progress, but his unsolicited efforts caused me to lose control and the dory went sideways and went with the sea, almost to the southern end of Soldiers Sand Beach.

Three more trips and we were all ashore,  and Little George cut a big chew of Pictou  Twist  and went  at the sprung butt, while some more of us went to cut skids.  Good skids are scarce around that part of Goose Island, but we got twenty or so and carried them out to the shore.

In due time George had the butt back to it’s place and refastened and had recaulked ( recorked,  in the idiom of the shore)the relevant seams.  It was now late afternoon and Miss Drum Head was ready to launch ( lanch ) 
We managed to get a few skids under her keel, due for the most part on the prodigious  efforts of her owner. Then we, to use a Syd Burke phrase, ( Syd was there )  swiddled her; pushing her sidewise until her bow pointed toward the water.  We laid our skids and started down the beach with her, Harry and his stern man on board with engine running. 

We kept her going until she was almost afloat, when Harry give it to her and the blade took hold and they went flying out through the surf with the spray sheeting away from her bows,  heading for home. The launchers poured the water from their boots, wrung out their home knit socks,  went back on board Victor’s  Winsockie,  and soon were following in Harry’s wake,  with Greencorn’s  big old dory standing back on her tow line, Little George quidding, not Bonded Jacky, but Pictou Twist, out a-lee.  Home;  to re-hash the day’s happenings in Gammon’s store that evening.  

Would that I could live it all again.

Seanachie 

P. S.  Quiz time readers;  From what poem did I plagiarize the words; “ Bonded Jacky. “ 


(Answer from TheAncientHippie: A Ballad of Cape St. Vincent, by John Masefield)