A Suit of Oil Clothes

                                           

Many years ago, before the days of Helly Hansen, Eriksen and others
makers of high tech rain gear, fishermen everywhere relied on oil
clothes.  That is to say that most did; there were however, a few
holdouts that preferred Black Diamond rubber gear. They sure stood out
on the fish wharves.  Most referred to these individuals as status
seekers; “ Look at him in his fancy rubber suit;  got it from John
Leckie, he did, cost him a small fortune. “

These oil skins were made of cotton; the pants single or double bib,
the jackets had a fly front and a stand up collar. They were yellow in
colour  which was derived from dozens of coats of raw linseed oil, the
oil made them a bit sticky to the touch, and they were redolent with the
cloying scent of linseed.

So well I remember my first suit of oil clothes. I was seven years old
at the time. Dad said to Mom “ He’s big enough to go in the boat this
summer, so I guess we’ll have to get him a suit of oil clothes. “  They
next trip ashore Dad went up to Aunt Drucill’s and asked her to call
S.R.’s and have them send down a suit of oil clothes in the smallest
size they had; and a sou’wester too. “ 

Well, I ‘m here to tell you I was some proud when they arrived. Too
long in the sleeves and the legs, but nothing my Mom couldn’t fix in a
hurry. Yes, it was true; I was about to become a bonafide fisherman.

After Dad landed his lobster traps, ands put them up to dry,  my job
was to pick all the decayed hermit crabs, conks and sea eggs from the
traps. I saved the conk shells for Mrs. Oxford who paid a small stipend
for any sea shells. She used the shells in her craft work. Two of her
featured works were shell tables and picture frames. These were for the
most part periwinkle shells, with the odd oyster drill here and there
for ornamentation. 

Now it was time to tan the bait nets. The tan pot was between the boat
house and Yellow Roint Point. Dad and I would gather a pile of drift
wood and slug enough water up over the beach fill the pot about three
quarters full. The drift wood would be kindled and soon the pot would be
steaming. Whereas Dad worked alone, he had rigged  a derrick over the
tan pot to lift the nets and dunk them into the pot, amidst the boiling
cutch. The smell of the driftwood fire, and the boiling resin, was
incense to the nose of this seven year old.

After the nets got their “ barking “ Dad would spread them on the beach
to dry. After they were in a dry state, he would coil them neatly and
tie the bundled net with the head rope. Now it was time to pick up the “
sinker rocks “ The herring and mackerel nets used around home had loops
of twine spaced along the foot line,  oblong stones would be hitched to
these with a simple loop and tightened up. These stones held the twine
vertical, or nearly so in the water, these rocks would be attached as
the net was being paid out or “set.”

Then come the afternoon, Dad would load the nets and the sinker rocks
we had gather off the beach into the Charlie O’ Hara skiff, and transfer
them to the motor boat anchored in the so called cove. The herring
gathered to spawn in specific areas. Sou’west of the bell “Goose Island
Bell”: off Country Harbour Head, Rose Shoal and other favored spots.
After the nets were set, we’d steam back to the Island and I wouldn’t
need any lullabies sung that night. All I could see in my dreams was
steak cod and twenty pound Pollock.

With the prevailing thick weather of July; all navigation was done by
course and time. The course steered over a given period of time. Any
fisherman who missed their gear was laughed at for being poor
navigators. This sort of navigation was an art form, and although it is
true that some did “ miss “ their gear the majority of the time they
were right on the money. Not only was it the fishermen who relied on
their compass and Pocket Ben’s; the masters of the coasting vessels were
also artisans at dead reckoning. Now if both radars aren’t working
perfectly, and both GPS units as well,  not to mention the colored fish
finder the boat stays tied to the dock,  until an electronics technician
works his magic and makes things better.

We left the light house at 0330 hrs the following morning. Mom got up
to get breakfast and to see her youngest take to the water. As we walked
the  board walk across the Island, the powerful flash of the light would
sweep over us, lighting the way briefly; Carey Chickens chortled all
around us, reveling in the beams of the light. I carried my prized suit
of oil clothes tied in a rolled bundle under my arm as well as my lunch
pail. ( A Domestic Shortening pail ) Dad had already rigged me a hand
line and it awaited me in the for’rard cuddy of the Alf Hines built
twenty nine footer.

We steamed up past Flying Point, past the bell, to where we had set the
nets off Country Harbour Head the previous afternoon. By the time we had
reached them, the  eastern sky was getting rosy, and the calm waters
reflected the salmon pink of the  pre-sun rise clouds, as they undulated
with the pull of the tides running out of Country Harbour. Few things I
have seen in my life time, has compared with the beauty that was present
when a net full of herring were pulled over the side of boat just as
dawn was breaking; the shimmer of the shed scales slaloming down through
the water; the herring themselves, their sides iridescent with colour as
they went into their death throes, beautiful beyond description.

When we reached the net(s) Dad would gaff the “ play  buoy” a large
wooden buoy with a square butt. Its  size  and shape were for buoyancy,
to help float a net full of dead herring. It was tied to the end of the
net by a “play line” to which the “tail buoys” were tied.  Laying the
play buoy on the bow, he would haul the boat ahead until all the buoys
were on board and then start hauling in the net, when nothing was left
in the water except the “ head Buoys “ and the mooring, he would take a
nice fat herring trim the nape fins off, starting at the underside of
the body, just ahead of the tail, he would slice off the whole belly
complete with the guts, leaving the gills attached. This bait was called
a “ pudding “ Steak cod found them irresistible.

Dad would bait my hook and I would stand back aft in the spot where he
would fish the day, and unreel enough line to reach bottom ( about eight
fathoms “  It wouldn’t be long before I would feel a mighty tug and
would heave upwards with all my might to set the hook. Bait nets always
attracted big cod, and they would sometimes become entangled in the
twine, while trying to pick the herring from the meshes. Sometimes the
first hundred or so pounds for the day would be caught in the bait nets.
So the fish I would catch as Dad picked the nets,  were usually so large
that I couldn’t boat them without help. Sometimes I would have to belay
the line if the fish was in the forty to fifty pound range, and let them
drown themselves.

We would leave the nets and head for outside grounds, and the rest of
the fleet from Drum Head, Goldboro, Isaac’s Harbour and Fisherman’s
Harbour would be heading out as well; all hands washing down scrubbing
off herring scales with a stiff bristle scrub brush or a burlap bag. It
was said in some circles that it was impossible to find a herring scale
dried on the paint of a Seal Harbour boat. 

Hand liners hands took a beating from the cotton lines used back then.
Most fished in their bare hands; no gloves, nippers or protection of any
kind. The lines would cause the inner fingers to crack down the bone,
and the remedy for this was grey wool yarn soaked in mutton fat .

Mom knitted me a pair of woolen gloves with fingers that extended only
as far as the second joint. This left the fingertips clear, for better
control when baiting the hooks. When these gloves milled up from being
soaked in seawater, they became as felt, and afforded great protection. 


Dad favored the Channel Grounds as did  many  of the other fishermen
from the area. There was a demarcation line for the Seal Harbour
fellers...they seldom ventured west of the Overfall. A certain degree
of etiquette prevailed on the fishing shoals, and as the boats arrived,
one by one, every effort would be made by most to keep out of the tide
of any other boat; simply put, this would be directly astern. This would
give the boat astern an unfair advantage.

As the morning past you could see the boats settling lower in the water
as the big cod and pollock were layed   aboard. If it was sunny and hot,
the fish in the” kids” would be covered with burlap bags which would be
wetted down periodically with seawater to prevent the fish from sun
burning. I generally lasted until ten o’clock or so, then I would crawl
into the cuddy for a nap. Upon awakening,  I would open up the ole lunch
pail and partake of boloney sandwiches or peanut butter and jam, or
whatever it might be that day, and after that refreshing interlude,
start fishing again. Some days I would catch one hundred pounds or more;
about three or four dollars worth.

We would start for in whenever the fish slacked off biting, most days
around one o’clock or so,  running on for Drum Head, I would lie on the
gang boards and have another nap. The gang boards were loose wide boards
that covered the forward fish pen; or “ kid. “ These boards served as a
table to hold the herring (or mackerel ) laden nets when they were
hauled on board.

When we reached Greencorn’s wharf, there could be a bit of a wait
involved to get the catch unloaded, because during the war years of the
forties, many boats landed in Drum Head. Goldboro and Isaac’s Harbour,
 plus Coddles and New Harbour and the occasional boat from Fisherman’s
Harbour, and of course about fourteen boats from Drum Head alone, so
wharf frontage was at a premium. Back then it was unheard of to dress
fish on board, they could have all or at least the most them could have
been gutted on the run in from the grounds.

After the fish were sold, if there was any grocery items needed Dad
would cross the cove and tie up one of the wharves. I would go to Emma’
s for the mail while he went to Gammon’s to pick up whatever was
necessary .  We would then sail for home, tying up at the mooring as
late as six pm.  We’d land in the Charlie built skiff and pull her up
through the bank of very rotten kelp that always graced the beach of the
cove.  Then across the board walk to the light and the supper that
awaited us there.

Fish was the main stay of our diet; it was readily available and cheap.
With no refrigeration it was difficult to keep meat in the warm months,
and we had the occasional bout of salmonella every summer.  I have often
wondered why my Dad didn’t get a kerosene fired refrigerator.

Every summer Dad would salt a half barrel of herring, and in the fall,
a half  barrel of mackerel,  one quintal (110 lbs. ) dried Pollock plus
some cod. Like many folks around home my Mom and Dad preferred pollack
to cod when it came to ” winter fish “   It was always hoped that the
weather would turn cold (and it generally did )  before the boats were
done haddocking; about the last of December.  Dad would buy about two
hundred pounds of fresh cod and haddock and freeze them in water, kept
in the shed this plan worked very well and the fish would last through
the cold months. A crate of eels was in order and these would be sunk in
the mud of the north ( Long ) pond.  When  a mess of the slimy ones were
desired, Dad would go over and chop a hole in the ice, pull the crate
out on the ice and capture the slithering victims from among their
peers. Another winter delicacy; sometimes in the huge winter storms,
with their accompanying heavy ground swell would bring ashore many lump
fish, They come in two colours;  white and red. We never ate the white
ones, the red lump fish were totally delicious when stewed in Mom’s huge
bean crock, with onions and sliced spuds.

We kept a pig most years. Butchering never occurred until the cold
weather, for preservation reasons, but the hams were always smoked and
the fat back salted to make scruncheons for the salt fish. A quarter of
beef was another must . I know that this sounds like a lot of food for a
light house family, but you must bear in mind that we had a lot of
company……….both winter and summer.  My parents, and my Grand parents
(Burke )  would refer to the quest for winter provender as “ foraging”
one who provided well for his family was regarded as a good forager.  I
often think of them while pushing the cart through the aisles at Sobey’s
or Super Store. It’s  different way of life now for sure, and not all
for the better. 

So now you’ve heard my story of my first suit of  foul weather gear.  I
may have digressed,  but I hope you were able to follow the thread. Many
are the times  I  thought of them when “ oiling up “ to go out on deck
on a variety of sea going craft. My young years were good; the only
fellow around home that I know of that would have lived a similar life
style would be Arch Manthorne who fished with his Pa Hughie from about
the age of seven or so. The only difference; Arch remained a fisherman
al his life, and may I say, a successful one, while I turned to the
diverse life of a sea vagabond. The places I seen, and the places I’ve
been, to quote the “ Northern Lights of Labrador “  (Corey and Trina ) 
don’t have a price tag. Those years at sea provide a treasure trove of
memories that I can enter at any time, and live it all again. *

*Seanachie.*

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*Sydney NS.,*

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*July 8, 2008*