Remembering Jack

From:   "Don Crooks" <sailordon@n...> 
Date:  Tue Mar 9, 2004  1:41 pm
Subject:  Remembering Jack (and Anne)


Hi Don,
Thanks for the walk back through time. Jack was quite the character. We didn't always see eye to eye, but for the most part got along good. 

Remember the cruiser he bought whose name was "Joy"? I arrived home from a short hitch at construction in the big T.O., in the summer of ' 54, which, come to think of it is a half century ago, and was sitting at the counter in the canteen, probably eating a western, on the evening of my return, when Jack broached the subject of rigging "Joy" for sword-fishing, down Cape Breton way. What beautiful words!! YES! YES!! YES!!!
I had the mast and rigging but it was too heavy for little "Joy", so Jack, Mike and I went over to the Mount (Misery) and cut a smaller stick and with bits of bark still hanging from it we put the stays on it and stepped it in the "Joy", and made a stand, or pulpit, and put that on the bow. We were ready for the high seas; only trouble was the weather was thick as mud, and Jack didn't like the idea of running in the fog. So we waited, and waited, and waited. My need to get to CB could be likened to a sun baked desert traveller striving to reach an oasis. Finally one morning the fog glenned up enough that one could see out past Goose Island, so I called Jack, and said, " It's cleared, Jack, lets go" all the while knowing it was black thick below New Harbour Point. We got as far as White Head that day, and the next day Jack insisted that we go through the Lakes, because, he said "It might blow hard outside". We did and took a howling norther going across the big Lake, while the weather off the coast was white ca'am and the boats from Gabarus to Glace Bay
took many fish, while we were punching across the Lake to Baddeck. The next morning we got away early with the wind out of the north at about fifteen knot and ran down the channel When we got out to Black Point I said to Jack, “Perhaps you had better go aloft and get the feel of the rig". "Okay, kid" was his reply, and up the mast he went. This Mount Misery crow stick started to twist and protest under Jacks weight and I heard him aver that "I don't like this!" When we got out in the chop of the north wind meeting the receding tide from the Lakes, and the boat started pitching Jack came down, but when we got outside Haddock Bank, I said, "Jack, you better go aloft again, we could see a fish anytime now (never dreaming we would) and we didn't get to Point Aconi buoy before I spotted a fish and pointed him out to Jack who was on the remote steering station on the mast. I yelled at Jack: "You give me a decent shot at him and I'll buy when we get to the ' Bay"! Sure enough, he put the boat up on the fish in a highly credible manner for a novice, and after I ironed (harpooned) the fish, Jack went ballistic. "How many do you think we'll have when we get to Glace Bay," he shouted. We stayed down there three weeks and came home. We missed out on a big tame fish on Smokey Bank, due to a fuel pump failure, but in all we had a great trip. 

Again, thanks for the memories, Don.
Don Crooks

Remember (1)

Remember the days when life was free,
From government restrictions,
And those who lived here by the sea,
Were in their own jurisdiction.

Remember the kindness, it was never too late,
To do a neighbor a favor,
To help cut his wood , or share lobster bait
Kind acts that gave life it’s flavor.

Remember John Angus in his little white skiff,
Rowing his way to the Sand Beach
To check if a salmon was trapped in the bowl,
Or a small one meshed in the leader.

Remember the mail when Ed Rhude would bring,
Parcels from Simpsons and Eatons,
New clothes for the season; be it winter or spring,
For the old ones had taken a beatin.’

Remember the plant and the old garbage scow,
That lay at the back of the wharf,
With the good “ Maura G “ to tow her to sea,
It sure wasn’t ‘ Ashes of Roses ‘

Remember it then, but look at it now,
As the world hurtles onward through space,
About forty souls in total are left,
Facing the bleakness of winter.

Remember the place of the days of our youth,
That hummed with the business of living,
There were fish to be caught and ducks to be shot,
And rabbits to catch in the winters.

Remember the nights on Betty’s Cove Pond,
When we’d skate by a big roaring fire,
The Pond now is gone, but the memories live on,
Entrenched in our hearts now and forever.

Seanachie
On a summer-like November 29th, at Drum Head.

Pond Inlet

         Pond Inlet

                        "Men of the High North you who have known it, 
                        You in whose hearts it's splendors have abobe,
                        Can you renounce it, can you disown it?
                        Can you forget it, it's glory and it's goad?
                        Where is the hardship, where is the pain of it?
                        Lost in the limbo of things you've forgot,
                        Only remain the guerdon and pain of it,
                        Zest of the foray and God, how you fought!"

                                                                      R. W. Service.

It is Canada's birthday, 1967; celebrating 100 years of confederation. We had transferred from Liscombe Light and Fog Alarm Station to a position as oiler on the heavy icebreaker John A. MaDonald, my wife and young family moving to Drum Head to take up residence in the Lloyd Flick house which we had purchased from Archie Manthorne.
Immediately upon moving in I drove to Halifax to join the ship and on Dominion Day we sailed, after bunkering at Irving Oil in Woodside. We proceeded to Montreal to load a conglomeration of cargo for the northern communities, about 6000 tons, as I recall.
Montreal; always a good port for shoregoing, was especially so that year with Expo 67 in town. We'd head over there evevy time we were off watch and took in the most of it during the five days it took to load the ship.When sailing time came we were all happy to leave Montreal and it's oppressive July heat. We made an overnight stop in Quebec City( where no one was allowed ashore) Quebec is the clothing depot for the Coastguards Eastern Region and we made the stop to pick up uniforms et cetra.
Pond Inlet was our third stop. The first two were Cape Dyer And Broughton Island, where we landed supplies for the innuit. This was in a time when the northern supply system wasn't as well established as it is today and government ships were hauling a lot of freight. Today the freighting is mainly in private hands, with the aboriginal people owning NTCL, headquartered in Hay River, they own a fleet of tugs and barges and do a lot of supply work in the central and western arctic, they also have some chartered vessels, while Groupe DesGagne of Quebec is one of the main suppliers to the eastern arctic.With the amount of goods and services to be moved in the short navigation season the supply operation entails a lot of high calibre logistics.
We reached Pond Inlet in mid-July and off-loaded the cargo consigned to the village, which was named for John Pond, royal astronomer, by John Ross, in 1888. The R.C.M.P. and the Hudsons Bay Company both set up posts at Pond in 1921. On the hillside that sits between the village and the airstrip, the Mounties have made and keep maintained a larger than life replica of the forces insignia, bison head and all, sided by on the left, Pond, and on the right of the insignia,Inlet. .All done with small white painted rocks. In the crystaline Arctic air it can be seen some distance off shore.
The ship was in over the week end, and both the catholic and protestant clergy sent out invitations to the evening services.We filled the tiny churches full to over flowing, having 96 crew, plus eight passengers on board.
I was one of the crowd who attended th Anglican church, and among our group was one Arthur Durnford (pronounced Dunford) from a small outport on the south coast of NL., name of Francois. (Pronounce that Fransways) Art was a real good singer, and an Anglican, so even though the service was in Inuktitut, Art sang right along in his south shore dialect, which, as we told him as indecipherable to us as was the Inuktitut version.
After church Don MacLeod of Yarmouth, my room mate, and I went up over the hill for a walk toward the airstrip. Anyone who has never experienced an Arctic summer cannot envision the proliferation of wildflowers that bloom in many areas of that harsh and unforgiving landscape. Tiny flowers of many colors, covering the morain so thickly that one can literally leave their tracks in them. Fleeting; in the short duration of their season, they are unimaginably frail. I tried to press some for Carolyn, but they disintegrated to dust, when I opened the book I had pressed them in.
The water front of Pond Inlet was then and probably still is unbelieveably squalid........carcasses of seals, whales, dogs and what-have- you lay, around the waters edge in abundance. I often recalled this scene in later years when I had the opportunity to visit many ports in Greenland, which are kept in pristine condition, and the innu of Greenland always appeared to me to be more upwardly mobile than do their Canadian counterparts across Davis Strait. Perhaps the Danes have been better mentors than the bureaucrats in our Dept. of Northern affairs.
North from Pond Inlet is Bylot Island which is flanked by Eclipse Sound and Navy Board Inlet. This island is a rookery for many species of birds and it's cliff's are home in summer to tens of thousands of mating pairs. Bylot Island played an important part in the hey day of Arctic whaling, the Northern Right whale being found off it s shore's in abundance in the 1800's as were many other species. Many are the song and story of the hardships endured by the whalemen of that era, when whale oil held such an important place in the world' s economy.  Seen in the above are left to right, the author, Boatswain Clayton Foote, Quartermaster Charlie Smith and O/S Milford Roy. This was taken on the landing barge on the beach at Pond Inlet. Note the emblem on the hillside described in the text.
Our Arctic is an awe inspiring place of beauty where I was fortunate to spend three summers, covering an area from Jones Sound to the Bering Strait and from Tanquary Fiord to Hudson Strait and most of the ports on the west coast of Green Land from Thule in the north to Juliannahab in the south. Three summers that will live in my memory forever.

Seanachie

Pigs, and the Supernatural

Pigs have always figured bigtime in fore runners and such manifestations, such as demonic possession etc., Take for example The Amityville Horror. The author used a pig in that story plot. 

Nova Scotia fishermen, from the south shore in particular, among many other superstitions, abhor the use of the word pig, spoken on board their boats.It was the worst word in the English language. I' ll tell you a true story that happened in 1948. 
We had a hurricane in July tha year. I' m sure that Everett would remember it well. The " On Time III " was, I believe, in Main-a-Dieu, Brent Bingly and I were in Louisbourg tied up at Cadegan's wharf, third in a raft of seven boats in the outside string. Many boats were driven ashore, but all the boats at Cadegan's came through unscathed. 
It rained heavily all night, better than four inches fell. By the next afternoon it was fine enough to go to sea, so all the boats left Louisbourg and after they passed the light, fanned out somewhat to give some space or elbow room between them. 
When Brent and I got down off Big Lorraine Head, we saw a flock of gulls clustered around something in the water, just to the right of our course, so in curiosity I altered course to investigate, and when we arrived at the gull's point of interest, here was a little piglet floating, quite oblivious to the gulls or us, because he was " Un cerdo muerto. " as they say in Matanzas. 

Simon Garrison, a noted swordfish killer from Sambro was following pretty well in our wake about a quarter mile back, in the beautiful yacht-like " Miss Sambro III " Simon had three men aloft, while he himself was standing on the wheel house roof, ready to run for the pulpit, stood a fish be sighted. They also did an investigation, and when Simon saw the drifting porker, he gave an order. " Take her home !! "

Some of the fleet watched Simon's boat grow dim on the horizon heading for Guyon Island, all hands below, at maximum knots, which he kept her at, til they reached his wharf in Sambro, where they unrigged the boat, stowed the gear away and when they finished went home and had a sleep and come down the next day, got the swordfish stand, spar, harpoons and all the other gear, put it back on her and headed back for Cape Breton where they finished a profitable season in September. A fresh start, Simon said, was the only way to break the bad luck of seeing the sea going pig. 

Seanachie

Perserverance

                  





The gray cloak of the North Atlantic sea fog shrouded the double dory

and her lone occupant, who was straining on a pair of eight and one half

foot spruce oars, while droplets of moisture poised for a moment on the

brim of his swordfish cap, before falling like tears to be absorbed by

his shirt front.



Progress was very slow; the dory barely creeping over the water. Taking

a brief respite from his labours, the rower pulled his oars across the

dory so that the loom of each oar rested between the thole pins in the

opposite gunnel. Reaching behind him he took a small earthen jug by it's

handle and took a long swig. The water was warm, and did little to slake

his thirst.



Two hours earlier he had gotten aboard the dory after a sword fish had

been harpooned from the Drum Head sword fishing boat "Wilma L" Idling

along at dead slow speed on Scaterie Bank, the crew had come upon the

fish, as it lay upon the surface hoping that the sun would shine to warm

it's back, as it swam lazily along through the long undulating swells.



While the fish was being played, or drowned, the " Wilma L "  become

separated from her dory in the pea soup density of the fog, and now that

the battle was over, there was no sign or sound of the boat; only the

lapping of the water against the dorys side, so the now lifeless fish

was secured with a tail strap to the stern becket of the dory for the

long tow home.



With no radar or other electronic aids to navigation such as we enjoy

today, going astray from ones vessel on the fishing grounds was a very

real and present danger, not so much among the sword fishing fleet but a

common occurrence among the dory fishermen who manned the banking

schooners, there was however super fog alarms at the major light

stations, which where called diaphones. The coastwise lights would be

equipped with large units and the harbour lights with a smaller horn. It

was a rare time when a vessel was running down the coast when

atmospherics would be so poor, that they couldn't hear the sonorous

bellow of one or perhaps two fog alarms. ( It was one of the large

diaphones that was installed on Green Island during the reestablishment

of the station in 1965.)



At four in the afternoon as he methodically bent to his work the rower

could hear the blasts from two horns, one being the East Light, Scaterie

Island, bearing over his left shoulder, whilst over his right shoulder

came resounding at slightly lesser volume, the horn at Louisbourg. The

rower estimated that from the sound of the two horns and his bearing

that he would be about twenty miles off Main-a-Dieu. He muttered an

expletive and kept on rowing.



 At  five in the afternoon, he could hear the sound of engines running

at high speed and the sound was getting louder by the minute. Suddenly

out of the murk astern of the dory there appeared a sleek Cape Island

boat. Painted light gray, with a white wheel house and trunk cabin, her

hull trimmed with black rub rails, she made a pretty sight as she came

roaring up toward the dory. The name appearing on her bow was "Miss

Sambro II "



The man at the wheel saw the dory, and when but a few yards away,

recognized the rower. Slowing the boat down to an idle and calling the

owner and the other crewmen from below, were they eating supper, he

shouted to the dory man, " Where are you heading, Ian? "

"Main-a- Dieu," came the reply.



By now the owner of the "Miss Sambro II " Simon Garrison, was on deck

and he also knew the rower. "Ian," he yelled, I'll tow you in, but

you'll have to give us that fish " (he was joking, of course) The

already dark afternoon turned even blacker as volleys of virulent

invective spewed from the mouth of the rower, as he told Simon what to

do with his tow line. Seeing that the ownership of a  four hundred pound

broad bill swordfish  was not to be tampered with, Simon came up to the

dory, his crew hoisted the fish aboard, took the dory in tow, gave Ian

some supper, and two hours later they groped their way from the Southern

Point of Scaterie to Mad Dick Shoal bell buoy and into Main-a- Dieu

where Ian was reunited with his brother Raymond and the other crewman.

They sold the fish to Peter Mullins and all lived happy ever after.



********************************************************************



The above relates to a day in the life of Ray and Ian Luddington, and

this actually happened and was talked about for years within the sword

fishing fleet.



Ray had three boats named after his daughter Wilma. I believe the

original Wilma L was owned prior to WWII. "Wilma L II" was built in

Bickerton by Jake Kaiser. Ray only fished her for one year and sold her

to Donald MacKinnon of Ingonish Ferry. "Wilma L III" was also built

across the bay by Jake, and became a total loss, when she broke her

mooring in the cove (DH)in a fall easterly, drove across the bay and

smashed up near Quinces Brook.



A salvage operation was mounted the next day, but by the time the sea

had gone down there was nothing left but the two engines. The Engine

School was in DH at the time, Clive Boehner was the instructor,and the

engines were rebuilt at the school. Ray got a boat from the Fisherman's

Loan Board that had been repossessed and finished out the season in her.



He purchased "Helen & Linda,"his last boat, from Edgar Kaiser.the

following summer.  I brokered the sale of this boat to Leonard MacDonald

of Souris PEI, in the late spring of 1961.Leonard took her home to PEI

after Ray was done smacking at Caribou, at the end of the lobster

season.

.

Don

Overboard!

    



My dad had a dream of becoming  the keeper of Green Island (Country) light. This dream was first seeded in his mind while he visited his aunt Jane, the wife of one of the earlier keepers, and finally came to fruition when after a succession of keepers after uncle Henry (Burke) retired, the job finally came to open competition.
 Dad applied and came in second. A gentleman from New Harbour ……. Henderson was first, as he was a veteran of WW I. He decided he didn’t want it after all, so my dad realized his dream when he took over the station from Tremaine Cooke of Isaac’s Harbour.
After Uncle Henry’s retirement, the old light was torn down, and a new combination light and dwelling was built. The contractor was Ai Luddington of Drum Head, and there was several keepers in rapid succession, among whom was Ray Luddington of Drum Head; Peter’s grandfather; the last before dad was Tremaine.
Dad took over in the spring of 1928. The salaries for light keepers and probably all civil servants, were notoriously low back then, ($85. Per month) so dad, like many other keepers along the coast, decided to augment his wages by fishing, and procured an old ‘ Oscar ‘ boat to achieve this aim.
He powered her with a double cylinder marine gas engine, a four stroke, manufactured by Hercules Motors Inc. Which due to it’s design shook with vibration to such a degree, that it would cause passengers and crew to have double vision.
My mom didn’t much like traveling to and from the island. Once on board the big boat she was fine, it was the launching and landing that got to her, especially if there  was a little sea (surf) on the beach. For this task dad used a single dory, AKA, The Shelburne handline dory.
Green Island was noted for being a difficult place to land. The so called cove is a mere indentation in the beach, which changes in fall and winter storms………..it can be the finest of gravel one day and very large stones the next. The small dory was and would still be the vehicle of choice to effect a safe landing and/or launching in such conditions.
One fine summer day, probably in 1930, mom had been ashore visiting and was bound home to the island. Reaching the mooring where the little yellow dory sat curtsying to the white caps coming in around the Yellow Rock from the sou’ west wind,  dad rounded up and reversed the Falcon, and lifting the mooring out of the dory’s bow place it on the pawl ost of the big boat, tied it to the stem and all was in readiness to load his passenger, the mail and groceries.
With dad in the dory, to hold her in against the big boat, mom proceeded to get aboard the dory. They had done this many times, but this time Murphy came around. Mom was about to take her seat on the after thwart of the dory when she lost her balance and fell between the dory and the big boat. Being a non-swimmer, she went down to visit with the bottom dwellers.
When she broke the surface dad grabbed her by the wrist. To do this he had to let go his hold on the big boat. They were now drifting to leeward toward New Harbour Point. Mom wanted to hold on to the stern becket (a rope strap in the bow and stern of a dory to facilitate handling) and let dad tow her to the beach, but as there was a bit of a sea on, he thought she might break an ankle or leg, so he made a snap decision.
Rolling the little dory down toward mom ‘ til the water was flooding in over the gunnel, he gave a mighty heave and took her aboard along with a couple of barrels of water.
A dory, just like any other boat becomes unstable when water is taken in, the water sloshes round changing the center of gravity with great rapidity, this is known as free surface effect, and it was now threatning to capsize the dory as it drifted side to the sou’ west lop.
Dad bailed madly with the dory scoop, made for the purpose, but not for the volume of water that he had to contend with just then. Mom sitting on the dory’s floor boards, bailed too; with dad’s battered old felt hat!
They finally got safely ashore on the north beach, and made their way to the light, but neither of my parents ever forgot that near miss
     
           Seanachie

Oris Webber's Big Fall

I mentioned Oris driving Seldy's big dappled grey gelding in Winter's Harvest, and of that demonic equinine's predation on his hapless driver. Now it is time to talk about Oris's big fall.
Sometime in the early fifties, Oris decided to give it a go on the Great Lakes. He got shipped out on one of Quebec and Ontario Paper Co., boats the Outarde (see picture) The season passed and they had put the pulp carrier into Port Weller Drydock for work over the winter. When laying up, Oris and another deck hand were up on two extension ladders, 180 degrees apart, putting a tarp over the funnel.
It was a very windy day, and while they were engaged at this task, a gust pulled the tarp from the other seaman's grip, blowing it back across the top of the funnel toward Oris. Oris's ladder wasn't tied off, and the tarp carried him backward, ladder and all out over the boatdeck, where Oris released his hold and dropped, striking the boat deck, where he hit the rail, bounced and landed on the cement floor of the dry dock. Nine day's later, he regained concééniousness in St. Catherine's General Hospital. He awakened just as the Drs. were having a consultation at his bedside as to whether or not to pull the plug on the support system.
" You feller's never mind that, I'm alive; now get to work!" Which they did.
After multiple operations, pinning and screwing and plating this human Humpty Dumpty together again, they sent him to The tario Workers Rehabilitation Hospital at Malton, where he was a guest for fourteen months. He arrived back home in a white 1950 Ford two door. I believe he had 87 fractures, which says volumes about the toughness and positive attitude of this native son of DH., one of the perpetrators of the Gull Egg Caper.
The surgeons had fused both his ankles, which impeded his ability to drive heavy trucks to some extent ( or so they lead him to believe) but he kept on a-truckin' ! Witnesses said that the tarp billowing around him as he fell the 73 feet to the floor of the dock undoubtable saved his life.
Don

One Winter's Eve

The waters of the fishing village cove lie calm and black,
Black is the sky o'er head; no star is seen; a storm is drawing nigh,
Down by the wharves, fishing boats and smacks,
Tug gently at their lines in the tidal surge, and seem to sigh,
And long to be again once more upon the sea's broad track,
Where the Storm Petrel tiptoes lightly o'er the waves, that sing his lullaby.

The road around the cove is a ribbon of snow hard packed,
By rubber booted  feet that make their way,
To and from the boats and back each day they make their track, 
Worn by men who eke a meager living; and by their toil they work the years away,
Weathered faces fraught with lines and bodies that by pain are wracked,
Part of the life they have chosen and all they have ever known.

On the slipways through the gloom is seen, the shape of o'er turned skiffs,
Formless they sleep beneath the snow, awaiting the vernal magic that calls the springtime,
And brings the sun that lies below the Line and then the ice will shift,
Become a memory subliminal of winter harsh, of bitter cold and rime,
Blue irises will bloom again within the swamp as white clouds drift,
While summer' s  warmth spreads like a blanket over all.

Upon the hill that runs down to the waters edge; small children coast,
Past the general store that stands midway the rise,
Where old men sit on hob or benches while they boast,
Of many the fish they caught; of halibut that were of trophy size,
And shadows from the oil lamp's flickering flame evoke a scene from Faust,
The snow flakes softly start to fall, telling of the sou' easter soon to come,


A buoy far at sea makes mournful groan, the lighthouse throws it's flare against the overcast,
Harbingers of the southeast gale now poised to strike, bringing with it snow and blinding hail,
The shop keeper closes up his store; the men start home;  another early winter day has past,
And one says to the others, as they go their separate ways; "The way she's lookin' now, the boys won't sail. "
The  soft flakes float down so whisper soft, and one says in reply, "She's makin' awful fast ! "
" We'll be gettin' out our shovels, so that Ed can bring the mail. "

One by one the windows of the houses darken, the wind begins to blow, and swirl the snow,
The cattle in the barns are lowing softly; the hens within their coops; talk in their sleep,
A dog fox barks in sharp reply to one in Jim Burke's pens, his shining pelt as black as any crow,
And then from Hodgsons Hill to Andy Gammon's, and from Emery's pens upon the hill so steep,
One by one they join the mid night chorus, barking and howling as the snow piles deep.
Accompanied by the sound of the waves that break upon the shore.

DGC

One Morning, Off Flying Point

Harry, enjoying a quiet moment at the organ in his living room.
!n 1943/44 my dad bought the Harvey Hodgson property, Harvey’s share of 
Hodgson’s Hill. We moved ashore from Green Island in August of ‘ 45, and took up 
residency there.

This move made us some excellent neighbours…mong whom were Harry and his 
wife Beulah. Others on the “hill” was Aunt Sadie Farrell, Jim and Nora Henderson 
and their family, while down over the hill, near the road, lived Charlie Hodgson 
and his wife Margaret (Mag) Charlie was a brother to Harvey and Ab. The latter, 
was widowed, and resided with Harry and Beulah.

Harry was a fisherman. And a good one. I know. I fished with him in the “ Miss 
Drum Head “ in 1954, and we fished together with Everett Munroe in “ Ross and 
Ken “ in 1956/57. I have seldom seen a man show such exuberance for his vocation, 
or life in general, for that matter.

When I was a little kid and fishing with my dad from Green Island, Abe and Harry 
Had a small green boat that was named “ Bull Bird “ after that ebullient little 
black and white guy we see around our coast line in the fall and winter months. 
About 1943 Harry decided to have a new bottom built. Alf Hines, of Fishermans 
Harbour, got the job of building the “ Miss Drum Head “ She was built on the 
same moulds as my dad’ s boat and was 29 feet long and narrow for her length,
Harry powered his new boat with a Dodge truck engine. His father, Ab, feeling 
the weight of the years, “ swallowed the anchor “ and stepped ashore. Carl, 
Harry’s son, went with his dad in the new boat, but soon found that he wasn’t 
suited for a life in the fishery, so he, along with several other young men from 
the area joined the RCMP (marine division).

Harry would fish late into the fall, and by doing so, took some drubbings, one 
such day is the one when I fished with him in 1954. That day was also in 
October. It was this penchant for fall fishing that eventually caused the demise 
of “Miss Drum Head “ She parted her mooring in a fall gale and suffered 
irreparable damage. As her replacement he purchased “ Miss Tor Bay “ This boat 
may have been owned by Will Schrader, of her namesake village. In any event, she 
was built by that master New Harbour boat builder, Milt Sangster.

Harry and I made a few rabbit hunts together. I always figured that he went 
“over gunned “ and told him so. He carried a twelve gauge, now the property of 
Eugene Farrell, Goldboro. Harry maintained that a rabbit hit with a load of shot 
from his twelve gauge had little or no chance of survival .( Little or no chance 
of any salvageable meat either ).

Harry loved to sing and had an excellent bass voice, and many were the sing 
songs held in the living room of their home, gathered about the organ , where 
Harry is pictured. Walter Farrell, Blanche Burke, Greta O’Hara and many other 
singers from the two villages were frequent participants in these 
get-to-gathers; and let us not forget the voices of his daughters, either, who 
made beautiful music in their own right.

The hill where we all lived is still there. The sou’wester’s still blow across 
it and the sea from the winter storms still crash over Darby Point. The only 
original structure is Harvey’s old house; my workshop since 1990. If you dig 
around in among the ever encroaching laurel bushes down to the northeast side of 
the hill, you can find remnant of Aunt Sade’s little house, were I never failed 
to smash my head on the door frame between her porch and kitchen. All the 
vibrant souls that made it a separate entity from the rest of the village, have 
passed away, or moved to distant climes.

The following poem is an account of Harry saving Ed Warner and his two boys from 
certain death. I can’t put a time frame on it, because I was away, probably 
working in Quebec. I would say it happened in ‘68, or 69. They lost their guns 
and all other personal gear, but lucked out , when one of the strongest men on 
the coast came along.


One Morning off Flying Point

The Frying Pan (1) was imposed upon a sky,
All rosy with the rising of the sun,
T’was in October month, the time when grey coots fly,
And many die just off the Eastern Tail,(2) by hunter’s gun.
Green Island’s tower threw it’s mighty flare,
Still bright against the predawn sky where shines the morning star,
A warning for mariners to use caution and beware,
Of the Sou ’easter’s (3) vicious teeth, beslimed with weed,
And Tom Cod Shoals (4) as well, with rocks that sometimes hide,
Their evil visage ‘neath a tranquil sea.
Just off the Eastern Tail (2) that morning fair at dawn,
Three men were setting tollers (6) from a boat,
A skim shell of a thing; fit only for a lake found far inland,
Not for the wild Atlantic in the months she flouts,
Sudden gales and ground swells that crash upon the strand.
These men were not ‘sea-wise’ and knew not the risk that lay without,
The shelter of the harbour headlands where dark the cat spruce stands.
New Harbour Point was undershot by loom, (7) an omen true,
As the grey coots fell among the tollers dead,
The weather signs went unnoticed by the Warner crew.
Then suddenly three foxhunters(8) appeared, chasing the hounds,
Across the Western Shore, low in the sky; rapidly they rode,
Driven by a fall gale in the Gulf; the three gunned on, 
the dead birds made a mound,
No local men were off the Point to warn; no one to say,
“ It’s time to git your tollers in and drive ‘ er cross the Sound,
For the weather signs say, the game is done, it’s over for today.” 
The first puffs came fitfully at first, chasing the tide filled water round,
And then with muffled roar the norther came, and out the Bay,
Breaking lops driven by the wind; a Banshee’s scream with driven spray,
That strikes terror in the greenhorn’s heart and causes him to pray.
They pulled the tollers in with frantic haste, and got the anchor then,
The outboard on the stern was running smooth, the tank near full,
Irving hauled the rode, scarce room to move, tollers, guns, and three big men,
All crowded in that thirteen foot aluminium boat, that tiny hull,
Her freeboard little more than half a foot, so deeply laden that her plates did 
bend.
Ed at the tiller sat with visage grim, praying that the wind might lull,
His two sons sat upon the middle thwart and filled the little boat from side to 
side,
They rounded Coffin Rock, and set their course, straight for Bear Trap cove,
The Bay was snowy as white caps crested steep against the rising tide,
Laden so deeply the boat could not survive, as deep into the breaking seas she 
drove.
It happened with a rush of water, the boat filled to the brim,
Settling deep into the icy flood of pounding chop,
The motor’s weight  caused her by the stern to trim,
Dead coots and tollers floated free as the tiny boat sank below the lop,
The water seared like a burning flame when first immersion came
Arms threshing wildly, with coughing sobs, they strove to clear their feet, 
From toller lines and the anchor rode(9) that sought to pull them down,
To the realm below were the kelp forests grow and Neptune comes to greet,
In his garden fair, beyond compare, where sea anemones abound,
And there is peace and tranquil rest where the tides of the ocean meet.
Under the boat’s fore cuddy a pocket of air was trapped,
Her plates were tightly riveted; paint and corrosion through the years,
Had sealed it tight and held the air below the painter strap,
Buoyancy to hold her up; that, and nothing more,
And every breaking lop that came smothered the boat and her crew,
They hitched the painter round their wrists and the rope did chafe them sore,
Knowing that death was eminent, they prayed to the God they knew,
As the relentless, inexorable tide bore them toward The Rose,(10)
While five miles off to the south’ard fate began to play her hand, 
When Harry said to Bruce Langley, “ It’s time to head for the land. “
The breaking seas were combing in the thirty-five knot gale,
Hag Downs (11)were soaring over the crests into the troughs below,
As Bruce secured the anchor and rode and shouted aft to Harry,
“ I’ ve got the anchor stowed away, an’ you can let her go. ! “
And the “ Miss Tor Bay “ came into the wind and pointed her bow for the Bell.
With Harry steering and Bruce on the pump, she trampled the sea to a froth,
Thrusting her way up the breaking crests, she would fall in the troughs below,
And sheets of spray in the morning sun, made rainbows as they fell.
Passing abeam Green Island with three more miles to go,
Harry opened up the throttle and ahead he could see the Bell.


With spindrift flying back in sheets, they passed the Rock of the Point,(12)
Thirty-two feet of New Harbour Craft, steered by an unseen Hand,
Harry couldn’t believe it when before his eyes appeared on the starboard bow,
Three human heads clustered ’round, the bobbing bow of the boat,
He slowed the engine and swung away, then brought her up alongside,
Afraid he would sink the fragile craft, he attached a line to her stem,
The Warner’s unable to help themselves, being so numbed by the cold,
To Harry fell the Herculean task of taking the three on board,
He whose strength was held in awe in the village of his birth,
Who could lift the stern of a lobster boat when her keel was in the mud.
With Bruce up for’ard on Ed’s right arm, and Harry aft on his left,
Together they gave a mighty heave, timed with the roll of the boat,
And rolled him into the after stand, and then they dragged him for’ard,
Placed him there with his back braced up against the for’ ard kid,(13)
With Irving and his brother, they followed a similar plan,
Five minutes flat and t’was all o’ er, they all are safe on board,
And once again the “Miss Tor Bay “was heading on the land,
The empty sea spread out astern as they passed Goose Island Bell,
Three men that day from the sea’s harsh claws were saved from certain death,
You may call it luck or Providence; but they lived to tell the tale.

Seanachie.


(1) Frying Pan. A shingle reef , about 300 meters north of Green Islands north 
point. Derives it’s name from it’s shape.
(2) Eastern Tail. A submarine reef extending from the eastern end of Flying 
Point.
(3) Sou’easter. A hazardous ledge about four kilometres SW of Green Iland. Site 
of many shipwrecks including “ Nelson L “
(4) Tom Cod Shoals. Outh of Green Island, these shoals are comprised of Tom Cod 
Rock, Awash at half tide, Little Tom Cod Rock, covered with two meters at low 
tide, and a submerged reef.
(5) The Eastern Tail. The eastern extremity of Flying Point. Submerged.
(6) Tollers. Decoys
(7) Loom. A phenomenon that occurs when mirage causes the headlands to seem to 
float upon the water. Noted to herald the coming of a blow.
(8) Fox hunters. A never failing sign of strong northerly wind. Small dark 
clouds that scurry across the sky driven by the approaching air mass. I was 
intrigued by this phenomenon when I was a child, and my father pointed it out to 
me. I wonder if Peter Coade knows of the fox hunters.
(9)Rode. The name given to the anchor rode. Used when a vessel, ship etc., in 
the context to denote the way the ship or boat is tailing (heading) ‘wind rode’ 
or, “she is tide rode“ (or wind rode)
(10) The Rose. A shoal off Cape Mocodome. ( Home of the black backed gull; Mi’k 
Maq.) The flood tide sweeps past Flying Point and runs toward the Rose, to take 
a semi submerged object in that direction
(11) Hag Downs. Shearwaters.
(12) Rock of the Point. A short distance from the point, it sets submerged on 
the edge of the Channel. Breaks in a moderate swell.
(13) Kid. The fish pens in the boats out of home were called “ kids “ usally one 
on each side of the engine box and the larger for ‘rad kid. These kids were 
covered with “gang boards. “ The other spaces were called “stands “ standing 
rooms; forshortened. Where one stood to fish.

One July In World War II

The density of the sea fog was such that it was almost a physical
entity, rolling in grey waves of moisture that clung to anything of a
solid nature, beading and dripping in monotonous repetition. The twin
beams from the lighthouse tower stabbed outward into this dismal miasma,
impotently endeavouring to send their message to mariners that would
guide them as they sailed up and down the coast. Carey Chickens chuckled
as they hovered and flitted to and fro in the beams of light, rejoicing
to be in their element. The waves on the Southern Point moaned softly.

Around ten PM, as the family was having tea prior to retiring, a muted
thumping sound made itself known, not so much an actual noise, as a
pervasion of the aural senses, a subliminal beat, as drums, heard from afar.

My dad went out on the veranda to see if the sound was more audible from
outside. It was and sounded much nearer, but the exact direction was
difficult to pin point. Dad immediately thought that some coasting
vessel had had for some reason left the fairway buoys and had run in
‘til it was near the island, for he recognized the sound as that of a
heavy diesel engine.

As he stood on the veranda listening to the sound he wondered why the
vessel was not “blowing,”sounding it’s fog signal, but decided he would
sound the station hand horn, so, making his way up to the lantern; he
opened the door and stepped out on the deck, where the fog horn was
kept-----high up for better range. He operated the horn at one minute
intervals for about twenty minutes, but received no reply from the
phantom vessel.

All through the night when he would be up to check the light the rumble
was still audible, until the four o’clock check, when the stranger had
gone……all was quiet as the grey cloak of the omnipresent July sea fog
turned a lighter shade in the east as a harbinger of the dawn .

Dad stayed up, because it was time to leave for the nets (bait nets) and
then to the fish grounds. July was known as the month of the month of
‘dark stoggin’ by our forebears on account of the ever present fog,
which of course made it very difficult to find ones nets or trawls, and
with no electronic depth sounders; the fishing grounds.

Next night the same deep rumbling occurred, but sound was carrying
better and it was easily determined that the engine(s) were close in
east of the island. It was then that dad twigged as to who our visitors
were…..a u-boat charging batteries under the safety of Green Island light!

This was 1942, before the R.C.A.F. got around to installing the radio
telephones, so the only way for a keeper to report any suspicious
activities was by letter, or land line telephone, a media that they were
not encouraged to use, due to security concerns. Dad wrote the D.M.A.
(District Marine Agent) and apprised him of the situation, which was
continuing on a nightly basis. The monotony of the fog continued, giving
the u-boat commander and his crew a respite from the deadly game of
undersea warfare……..Then one day it cleared.

The evening of the first clear day was beautiful; the wind a very light
breeze from the nor’west, and the sun was just touching the western
horizon when we heard the drone of aircraft engines coming from the
direction of Drum Head/ Seal Harbour. As we watched a Mosquito fighter/
bomber appeared over Brier Hill, like some giant raptor from a
nightmare, clearing the stunted spruce trees by only a few feet; the
pilot quickly brought the aircraft to sea level, flying so low that the
wash from the twin props was actually drifting twin plumes of spray
behind him. On a southerly course he crossed the Western Shoal and when
he reached the range of Isaac’s Harbour fairway buoy, he began to climb
very steeply; in less than a minute we could hear the pitch of the
engines change once again as he made the dive on his prey. 

There were three detonations, then quiet returned to Green Island as the light
began it’s repetitive warning; flash; 5 seconds interval. Flash; 15
seconds interval. 

Cousin Fritz, auf weidersehn.

One Day at Cap L’Aigle

                                   



We had punched through heavy ice from Cape Anguille NL to Forestville,
PQ, on the North Shore of the St. Lawrence, discharged some product
there and was now pumping off the remainder of the load at Cap-au-
L’aigle, before proceeding up river to Quebec City to load again. The
classic ennui of life on a product carrier in the Gulf of St. Lawrence
in the winter.



I turned in after breakfast, read for a while, and drifted off to
sleep. At ten hundred hrs. A rap came on my cabin door and the chief
stuck his head in saying “Get up, second, let’s ‘ead into town and see
what’s bloody going on! “



Well Graham wasn’t too bad a guy, so I thought I would accommodate him
and drag my carcass out of the sack and go with him. Besides, I hadn’t
been in Murray Bay since 1969., so it would be interesting to see what
changes if any, had occurred.



We went down the gangway and up to the office and asked the agent if he
could drive us into town. No problem; but like every Quebecois I have
ever driven with, he was anxious to impress with his driving edibility
and mores the performance of his car, ( A Chevy Nova with a 396 ci mill
under the hood.)



It’s about four miles from Cap A L’Aigle into Murray Bay, a very hilly
road with a lot of ess curves, Graham was in the back seat of the coupe,
and he only spoke once, in a small voice to ask how much farther.



The agent dropped us at the mall, and asked what time we wanted to be
picked up. It was agreed that he would return at 1230hrs. We strolled
down the mall and came to the lacquer store. We entered the hallowed
precincts of the same.



Graham took a cart------------ I felt that my purchases would not
warrant such capacity, and I walked over, pulled a forty ouncer of
alcohol off the shelf, told Graham I’ d meet him in the mall taverne,
and after a bit he arrived all laden with brown bags that clinked and
sloshed when he sat them down on one of the other two chairs at the
table. We was in our second beer when the agent showed up and gave us
another simulation of Le Mans, while going back to the ship.



When we got on board, we went to Graham’s cabin, sat back in the
leather arm chairs that made up some of the day room furniture. Graham
deposited he sloshing, clinking brown bags on his desk, looked at me and
said, “ I say old chap, lets have a drink before lunch.! “ I said I
concurred with his idea, and would head for the galley forthwith to
procure a jug of orange juice and some ice. By the time of my return,
Graham had his bar opened and two eight ounce tumblers sitting on the
coffee table. “ You  didn’t buy much, then did you;  What did you get.?? “



Well I told him that I had bought a forty of a local brew, and would he
like to have a drink of it. “ Oh yes, second, always game for a new
brew, wherever I go.!” So I passed him the bottle of alcool, hoping
against hope that he wouldn’t take it out of its  covert hiding place.
He obliged me by pulling the bag down over the neck and unscrewing the
cap. “ Pour yourself a good one Graham,” I said solicitously, and he
did; about three fingers of it.



I took the bottle and poured myself about half an ounce, we said
cheers, and laid ‘er back. Graham allowed it had some bite, but went
down well. “Have another one Graham,” I said, and I was gratified to see
him pour a third of a glass and top it up with OJ.



Well, by the time he got to the bottom of that one, he was pretty well
sloshed; “ I said, What did you get Chief,” indicating the bags on his
desk. “Oh, a little of this and that you know.”  “ Do you like gin, then
second.” ? I said yes, I could handle a drink of gin, if there was no
Capt. Morgan around. Graham rummaged round in the bags and came up with
a bottle of Beef Eater’s, from which I pour myself a good stiff drink.
Graham’s alcool was long gone so he took the gin and poured a good
triple, added the mix; took two sips, got up and bowed and asked if I
would excuse him; “ I’m feeling too well, you know; think I’ ll have a
little lay down.” 



I headed back to the galley to see if I could coerce the cook into
getting me some dinner. Graham went to bed. When I went on watch at
1600hrs, the door of his day room was open, and the bedroom door as
well, and I could see he was lying face down on the bunk with his feet
protruding over the end the bunk; toes toward the deck. When I came off
watch at 2000 hrs., nothing had changed; the toes still were pointed
downwards. I continued to my cabin, my heart filled with misgivings and
the awful thought that I had poisoned my Chief Engineer with good old
Quebec alcool.



The next morning when I went on watch, I saw that he had moved one
foot; an indication that he still lived and breathed. When I came up at
0800 hrs., his day room door was closed. He made an appearance at supper
that evening, as we were punching through heavy ice on our way to Quebec
City. Graham declared to the skipper and the other assembled officers
that I was a dangerous individual, and that no one should ever accept
any drink proffered by me unless it was coffee.



Graham and I got shifted to different ships, and when we would meet by
chance in St. John, he would never fail to mention that winter morning
at Cap-au-L’aigle