The Doryman (10 page)

Chapter Twenty-three

T
he people of Placentia Bay, especially the Burin Peninsula, reckoned that the August Gale of 1927 was the region's worst natural disaster. Although they could recall many gales and many tragedies of men lost at sea in squalls and hurricanes, the oldest of the old people could remember none worse than this one. That fall, they put all the stories together and spread them through the bay. In kitchens and in fishing rooms all over, they talked of little else. They remembered the men of the
Hilda Gertrude
, who had left the Burin Peninsula community of Rushoon in deep mourning. They spoke of how the wives of the
Ella May's
crew had seen tokens, visions of their loved ones that portended their deaths, earlier that summer. Fate was cruel, they said, and merciless. The
Annie Healey
almost made it into Fox Harbour, everyone said regretfully over and over. But she hadn't; she'd been bashed to pieces by waves gone mad, and all her crew lost. It was as if the people hoped they could change things if they repeated it often enough.

Richard realized how lucky he, Val, John, and the crew of the
Tancook
had been that terrible night. If he and Val, in Dory Number 1, had been any later returning to the schooner, they might have perished. Any delay might have made a fateful difference. Or, if the
Tancook
hadn't been such a well-built vessel, made of the finest wood, or if John had made a mistake or two in steering her back to the island, their voyage might have ended in disaster.

When he thought of this, Richard felt deep down the vulnerability that stalked him all his life as a doryman. He thought of Robert Cheeseman of Burin Bay Arm who'd fished more than forty years, some of them with Old Steve, and of young Arch Keating from Salt Pond, who was just starting out in the Banks fishery and in life. Both of them were lost on the
Joyce M. Smith
out of Lunenberg, Nova Scotia.
They weren't even in their own country when they died
, Richard thought. Somehow the idea of their deaths in a foreign sea left a bitterness on his tongue. Their bodies weren't found, either, and never would be. Nor were those of any of their fellow dorymen, most of them Newfoundlanders.

Richard felt damned lucky, even blessed. He had spent his whole life in his own country, which he loved, despite its wildness and moodiness. He had often felt the presence of God in his life. It wasn't a strict religiousness, exactly. It happened sometimes when he danced, when he played the harmonica, when he looked at one of his children, when he loved his wife late at night. He wasn't sure what to call it. He wished he had more book learning, so he could give things their proper name. That was his one regret.

He didn't really get such a thing – this blessed feeling, this closeness to God – from his parents. His father wasn't religious. Old Steve's mother, Susan Spencer from Marystown, had been Church of England and not deeply religious; she hadn't drilled religion into her children. Steve said his prayers – Richard remembered how the Catholic men gathered to say the Angelus on the
Laura Claire
on his first spring trip – but it was a rote thing with Steve, a duty, like everything else. Richard reckoned that he knew even less of Elizabeth's relationship to God, except that she was devoted to St. Anne, the Micmacs' patron saint, who seemed even more important to her than God himself. He felt, though, that his mother had known God in a way his father had not.

Richard wanted to thank God for sparing him during the Gale of 1927, but he wasn't quite sure how to do it. He wanted to be a better man. But he told Angela of his intention and the reason for it, and she told him he already was a good man. “You'd best carry on being yourself,” she smiled at him, and patted him on the back.

Then he took to walking into Marystown every Sunday morning for Holy Mass. There was no church in Little Bay itself. There never had been. There was a church in Beau Bois, a mile or two away. It was beautiful, set in the dense fir woods that surrounded the circular harbour that opened into Placentia Bay. Sometimes Angela took the children there for Mass. On the way they passed the small valley in Little Bay, where long ago Richard had seen the fairies and come running home frightened. Lucy and Monica, the oldest girls, told the story while the younger children listened wide-eyed and their mother chuckled. “That's why you need to have bread crumbs in your pockets,” she said. “So the fairies won't bother you.” The little ones looked up at her and nodded solemnly. Every time they passed the valley, their bodies stiffened.

Richard made solitary trips to the Marystown church whenever he was onshore. The walk was a long one. He traced the same route he had taken with Steve twenty years before when they'd set out for the
Laura Claire
, except now it was fall and he crossed the fjord in a dory, which they called the ferry. Then he went up the hill, glanced out to Shoal Point where his sister Mary Jane was now married to one of the Dobers – she had married a local boy and remained in Little Bay – and down the other side. It was some miles to Marystown, all alone, all silent. He loved this time. He spent it with his God, feeling thankful for all that he had been given and for being spared that awful night. He said a lot of prayers, too, for the men who had been lost and for the women and children they had left behind. He prayed fervently that Angela would not be left in such a situation.

Chapter Twenty-Four

F
or the people of the Burin Peninsula, the year 1929 brought an event that towered above the August Gale of two years previous. It was, in fact, one of Newfoundland's greatest tragedies.

This was the tidal wave, although the term is not an accurate one, for the phenomenon had nothing whatsoever to do with tides. Instead, what happened on November 18, 1929 was a subterranean earthquake, a
tsunami
, the Japanese word for harbour wave. Deep inside the earth, a giant quake occurred, causing a kind of landslide on the continental shelf. Enormous waves, mountains high, rushed out from the epicentre of the quake and headed to the South Coast of Newfoundland. Then they rushed back, taking every ounce of sea water with them, draining harbours, and then rushing back again.

It was almost suppertime in Little Bay, and five-year-old Vince, Richard and Angela's son, was strolling up the hill towards his home. His belly started to grumble with hunger as he passed his aunt Rachel's kitchen garden, all picked over now for the winter. Soon his father would be back for the winter, and home until well after Christmas. He couldn't wait.

He saw his cousin Stevie, Rachel's son, come running down the hill. Stevie had just been in Vince's house.

“Did you feel the earth move?” Stevie asked.

“Are you cracked?” Vince asked, thinking that Stevie was pulling his leg.

Stevie shook his head. “Just now,” he continued. “And the waves are getting real choppy.” He pointed out to Mortier Bay.

Vince looked out and noticed that, yes indeed, the waves had gotten terribly active all of a sudden. But it was late fall and these things happened. Then he felt the earth tremble. He looked at Stevie, who stared back at him.

“See?”

Vince nodded.

“Let's go down to the harbour,” Vince suggested, forgetting his hunger. “Let's see what's going on.”

In the harbour, men walked out of their fishing rooms and gathered to talk of the tremor. In their hands they held nets and needles: they were repairing their gear for the next year, something that would take all winter. They were mystified as to what was going on. The boys ran around them, sometimes playing tag, sometimes listening to the men's conjecture.

Finally, Stevie's father Jerry spoke to the boys. He was in the shore fishery that year, and Rachel was glad to have him home, especially now that she had another new baby. This one was named after his father. “You two should get on up the hill for your supper,” he said. “Your mothers will be waiting. Stevie, tell your mother I'll be up later on.”

As the boys made their way to their homes, the sky seemed to lower itself to the earth and turned a blackish blue-grey. It looked fierce and threatening, even more than most November skies.

“Think there'll be a storm?” Stevie asked.

“Yes, I sure do,” Vince asked, trying to sound brave. He hoped his father was on Oderin and not at sea.

“There you are,” Angela said when her son came in the door. “You just about missed your supper.”

She set a bowl of fish soup on the table for him. On the side was a thick slice of homemade bread with butter, also homemade. The girls had already eaten, as had young Jack, and she had fed Pat, the baby. Angela sat down at the long table across from her son.

“There's something strange going on,” she said. “Did you feel the earth shake?”

Vince nodded. “Once, anyway,” he said.

“Well, it shook more than once,” she said.

“At least three times,” Lucy called out as she dried dishes.

“Might be the end of the world,” said her sister Bride.

“Maybe God is angry,” Lizzie said.

“Maybe you're all being foolish,” their mother answered. “But I think some weather is coming on. I'm some glad your father took that top storey down.”

“You were always afraid of that,” Monnie said.

“More like frightened to death of it,” Lucy added.

Angela laughed.

Vince finished his supper. “I'm going back down to Uncle Jerry's fishing room,” he said, moving towards the door.

“He's always got to be where there's something going on,” Bride teased him.

Angela walked to the window and looked out. The waves were wild now.

“Vince,” she said. But he was gone.

*

Vince was helping his Uncle Jerry mend nets when Stevie rushed in, out of breath.

“Aunt Angela told Mom to tell you to get your dory in,” he said, his chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath.

Jerry put his net down and went to his door. He looked outside at the water.

“Good God!” he said.

He rushed outside and down the beach to his little boat. He plunged into the water up to his knees without even bothering about getting wet and hauled the boat onto the beach. Then he quickly threw a tarpaulin over it and tied it down as fast as he could.

Stevie and Vince watched from the fishing-room door. They were amazed. What they saw was a humongous wave in Mortier Bay. Then it headed into Little Bay. As it came closer, they scurried into the fishing stage and peered out the window. It was massive. They had never seen a bigger wave.

The wave pulled back and emptied the harbour. The bottom of the entire fjord was exposed and stayed that way for several minutes. Never before had either of them seen anything like it. “Good God!” he kept saying. Over and over it happened. All the while, Vince and Stevie said nothing. They were too awestruck to feel scared. They didn't know what was going on.

All of a sudden, Vince remembered that his father wasn't home yet. Oh, no! he wasn't at sea, was he?

Then the snow started. It was accompanied by a northeast wind that brought a biting cold. The snow grew thicker and thicker. With the wind, it was getting harder to see. Before long, the peninsula was plunged into a full-blown blizzard. Jerry took the boys up the hill to their homes, wondering silently, too, where Richard was.

Chapter Twenty-Five

T
he quake was felt in the Maritime provinces of Canada and as far west as eastern Ontario. The people of Delaware in the United States, well to the south, reported feeling it as well. The great Newfoundland trade unionist Sir William Coaker was at the Newfoundland Hotel in St. John's, and he noted that men on the waterfront were loading fish when they saw a tidal wave of six or seven feet. The schooners at the pier were grounded in the empty harbour, he said, and the water did not return for ten minutes. A schooner coming down the harbour was forced around in a complete circle, he wrote. Meanwhile, the breakwater at Catalina, Bonavista Bay was swept away, and a couple of dozen cracks appeared in the concrete and stone powerhouse there.

It travelled at almost eighty miles per hour. Like the August Gale two years before, communications were cut off. As luck would have it, for some reason the only telegraph line linking the Burin Peninsula to the rest of Newfoundland had gone out of service before the quake.

The first accounts of the horrendous damage wrought by the quake came from the coastal boat SS
Portia
. The
Portia
was the first radio-equipped ship to visit the peninsula, five days after the quake on November 23. She was followed by the SS
Meigle
, a relief ship carrying doctors and nurses, two coastal boats, the SS
Glencoe
and the SS
Argyle
, and the revenue cutter, the SS
Daisy
. The stories they gathered were both frightening and sad.

All the stages and stores along the waterfront in Lamaline were swept away. The road between Lamaline and Lord's Cove was washed out. James Lockyer, an old man who lived on nearby Allan's Island, was “crushed by the sea” and later died of injuries. In Point au Gaul, eight people died. Elizabeth Hillier and her four grandchildren drowned in their home when it was pulled out to sea. Elizabeth Walsh, a widow, and Mary Anne Walsh, were swept away in their houses. Thomas Hillier and Thomas Walsh also died. All the community's fishing property was destroyed, including all the stages and stores, cod traps, and provisions. Three houses were flattened, and seventy other buildings were wrecked. The livyers were in a state of shock as they looked at the sight around them the next day. This stretch of coast was flat, and the people had built their houses close to the sea. They had considered it safe to do so.

In Taylor's Bay, the waves had been between 80 and 100 feet high. The Bonnell family was stricken with the loss of Bridget Bonnell and her child, as well as the two children of Bertram Bonnell. A child of George Piercey later died of injuries. The
tsunami
had left fifteen families homeless, and all the fishing property in the village was gone. The coal was swept away, too, as it had been in Point au Gaul. In Taylor's Bay, only five houses were habitable, out of the seventeen that had been standing before the quake. Homeless women and children had to go to neighbouring communities in Fortune Bay for shelter for the oncoming winter.

The people of Lord's Cove were left without their provisions that November. So were their neighbours in Lawn, St. Lawrence, and Corbin. More than thirty buildings in St. Lawrence were lost. The quake and its wicked waves took a house in Lance au Leau and all the fishing gear in the village, and it had swept Great Burin clean. It ripped down all the waterfront premises in Step-a-side, known so well by Richard, as well as a house there.

In Kelly's Cove, one of the more exposed parts of Burin, it tore down three houses and carried away Frances Kelly and her fourteen-year-old daughter. Besides that, all the fishing premises were destroyed. Similarly, the fishing premises in Collins Cove, Ship Cove, Burin North, and Burin East were all wrecked.

Port au Bras was particularly hard hit by the
tsunami
. No less than eleven houses were levelled to the ground. Six of the houses had been built on a breakwater and were carried out to sea en masse, leaving dozens of people with nowhere to live. Fourteen western boats were smashed to bits, all the dories and skiffs destroyed. So were the fishing premises, gear, and winter provisions. Even worse was the loss of life. Among the dead were Jessie Fudge and her three daughters, Gertrude, Hannah, and Harriet, and Henry Dibbon and his sister, a schooner widow who had been visiting him, Louisa Brushett Allen.

At Cape La Hune, on the western entrance to Hermitage Bay, Stephen Spencer lost almost everything, his home, shop, stages, flakes, and stores. So did William Parsons. The whole village was “in ruins.”

Rock Harbour, too, near Burin, another place quite exposed to the sea, was swept clean. James Hodder's house was swept away, taking with it $500 in cash. The destitution was general. Adding to the grief was the fact that many of the bodies were not recovered.

The next day the blizzard turned into rain, falling in torrents. The winds came from the southeast and weren't as cold. Men donned their oilskins and rowed out in dories and skiff to retrieve what they could. They picked up nets, tables, chairs, a few bodies.

The SS
Daisy
and the SS
Meigle
reported that the people of the Burin Peninsula were in deep shock. Some of them were desperate, others lethargic, some prone with grief. Ahead of them was a long winter with no food, no homes, no clothing, and most of the fish they'd caught and salted swept out to sea. They couldn't bear to think of the next fishing season. They had no gear: no nets, boats, tubs, hooks, and no way to get any. Their relatives were dead, and in most cases they had no bodies to bury. They didn't know what to do.

In the middle of these black days there was a speck of hope to which even the most distraught people clung. It came from Lord's Cove, and the name of the community was not lost on those who heard and told the tale. One of the giant waves had dragged a tiny house hundreds of yards into the harbour. Sarah Rennie and her three children were in the house when seawater flooded in and ripped the house off land. They ran upstairs, trying to stay dry, as none of them could swim. They panicked and screamed as they were swept out the bay. The glass of the windows shattered as the water covered their ankles, then their legs. Then the waves threw them about mercilessly, and all four drowned.

After the storm, some men from Lord's Cove rowed out to the little house, half-submerged in water, with its bright white curtains flapping in the breeze. They hoped to find the bodies of the Rennie family. Instead, they found a baby in its crib upstairs, entirely unharmed. The story made its way up and down the peninsula and indeed through Newfoundland, giving survivors and all those who felt some sympathy for them a reason to keep going.