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.