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.