Three parts to the puzzle

In trying to piece together the internal tickings of at least one fishery here in Newfoundland, it seems like three factors come into play, and have a huge influence on all island fishermen and a noticeable effect on entire rural communities. Although unrelated, I throw all three together here. Keep in mind that I’m attempting to showcase the perspective of island fishermen I’ve spoken with and so in turn my information may be biased, slightly incorrect, and is certainly under-researched. It is, however, the reality for the fishermen I’ve met.

The Moratorium
In 1992, after conceding that the Grand Banks groundfish stock was showing unmistakable signs of a complete collapse, the Canadian government (FAO) closed Newfoundland waters to all fishing which targeted groundfish. Foreign vessels still fished waters, while even subsistence fishing was prohibited. Communities which had been created around cod fishing were abruptly altered. Unemployment and alcoholism rates rose, and people began leaving the small towns for St. John’s or headed off-island. I’m told that the moratorium effectively killed the nearshore fishing fleet. The midsized fleet quickly diversified to target other fish, and the existing non-cod fishermen (say, lobstermen) were suddenly competing against a crowd.

Today, 16 years after the moratorium, the event is still a bitter subject on the docks, causing widespread head shaking and cynicism, and many fishing grounds are still closed. Although some have pointed out that the value of upstart fisheries (mainly crab and shrimp) since the initial moratorium exceeds the highest value ever attained in the peak of the Grand Bank cod fishery, fishermen are quick to point towards a common sight in many of the outport towns- the rotting skeletons of small fishing boats. Clearly, the internal structuring of the island’s fisheries was significantly altered, and fewer nearshore boats survived.

Employment Insurance
Known locally as pogey, EI is the Canadian parallel to collecting unemployment in the US. This social program, for better or worse, plays a significant role in the dynamics of Newfoundland fishing communities. The design is interesting in that a person can collect from EI only if he/she has a work history from that year, and increased wages earned while working qualify a person for higher EI benefits. This is intended to help seasonal workers, such as fishermen, make it through the offseason.

Fishermen are entitled to two claims per year, for as long as six months per claim. I’m told that some fishermen are strategic about their work: they fish for an intense period in the spring, collect EI for the summer, fish for another spell in the fall, and return to their pogey for the winter. As far as I could tell, there is no stigma attached to collecting EI. A few younger fisherman had their own nickname for the program- unenjoyment insurance- and spoke of how dull winter life was in the outports, with no work to make the time pass by. Nothing to do but spend money, drink, and get into trouble, they told me. Work was more fun than this.

Out of curiosity, I wandered into an employment assistance office one day, and began asking a friendly lady who worked there about the specifics of their EI program. She told me unabashedly, but in a quiet voice, “Everybody around here collects in the winter, and then goes and works on top of it. I mean everybody. I even used to collect and then work part-time here in the office. It’s just part of life, how we get by. But don’t tell my boss, I’m not sure if she does that.” In Newfoundland, it seems that pogey is in bed with fishing, and that seems to be fine.

Tar Sands of Alberta
Newfoundland has a population of 450,000 people or so, and is losing a trickle of people every year. In recent years, a major draw out of Newfoundland has been the lure of quick money working in the oil fields/tar sands of Alberta. Who cares, eh? Well, young males from the island outports are the main group heading out west, and this is the demographic that in years past would make up the bulk of up-and-coming fishermen.

By enticing a particular slice of rural Newfoundland off-island, petro-based work in Alberta has a indirect, but significant, effect on Newfoundland fishing communities. Young fathers are away from home for much of the year, or young families decide to emigrate west. Reliable deckhands are hard to come by, and so turnover on the boats is high, accidents are more likely, and skippers’ jobs are more stressful. In some families the fishing baton isn’t relayed to the next generation. Perhaps this in an inevitable transition, but the effect is apparent and has come up a bunch in conversations around town.

Just one perspective on three issues facing Newfoundland outports. Perhaps this spoils the simple, romantic image that some have about commercial fishing. Perhaps it should.

Fresh frozen

This time of year, Americans celebrate a holiday to give thanks for food and family (no news to any readers I’m sure, but hang with me…) The way this is expressed, strangely enough, is by eating huge volumes of food. Of course the origins of an autumn feast are logical enough, but at some point the celebration of abundant local food became a holiday with standardized fare, for many families involving food shipped from distant farms and factories. Sharp minds like Michael Pollen (The Omnivore’s Dilemma) and Thomas Friedman (The World is Flat) explain the range and effects of globalized food markets much better than I could here, but I find food stocks and diets in outport Newfoundland interesting and possibly indicative just how far out of hand these markets have gotten.

Newfoundlanders traditionally leaned on salt cod for export and income, but also as a staple of their diet. On any sunny summer day, split and salted cod would line the rocky coast; in later months the dried cod would be stacked like cordwood out of the weather and whittled away through the long winter. One American friend, who had visited the island decades ago, told me that I’d be impressed by the “rounders”- small codfish brined and dried whole- atop nearly every roof in the outports.

In Fortune, I haven’t seen a single rounder on the roof. I’m told that salt cod is now sold as a delicacy, and few islanders eat it much. Although Mansfield, my friend and host, is in the process of drying out some salt fish (mostly pollock and haddock, and a few very small cod which probably deserved to be rounders), his are the only fish I’ve seen drying in all of Fortune. Did the scarcity of cod in recent decades force rural Newfoundlanders to shift toward processed, imported food, or is this apparent shift away from local seafood mainly due to a preference for beef, pork, chicken, and Little Debbie snacks when given the choice?

My first walk through the meat section at Fortune’s small supermarket really surprised me. The big three- beef, pork, and chicken- commanded nearly all of the cold space on two walls. A discerning palate could choose from dozens of different cuts from each land animal. But where was the fish? I finally found the dusty nook that made up the whole of the store’s seafood menu. The choices: farmed Atlantic salmon, cod tongues, salt cod, and, advertised as a “new product: fresh-frozen cod fillets”. A product of China, read the label. Cod, probably caught in the north Atlantic (although perhaps Pacific cod caught in Alaskan waters), frozen and shipped to China, and there thawed, processed, re-frozen, packaged, and distributed around the globe (and marketed as fresh). I doubt I’m the only person who finds the extensive post-mortem travels of this cod, now resting in a town famed for its truly fresh cod, outrageous and somewhat tragic. Does this surprise anyone else?

If locals aren’t getting their fish at the store, they must be getting it themselves, direct from fishermen, or from the processing plant in town, I thought when leaving the store. But after being in town for a while, I see no easy options for getting fish. Everybody tells me that Mary Brown’s, a local fast-food chain, has the best (chicken) legs in town, but nobody can tell me where to find fresh fish. Mansfield tells me that fishing for cod or haddock in a skiff near the harbor is not worthwhile. His freezer and pantry is a nice contrast to that of the town’s store: salt cod and pollock (his own work), cloudberries, partridgeberries, bags of whole frozen brook trout (known as mud trout in these parts), frozen Dolly Varden, frozen cod fillets (a product of Newfoundland), moose, blueberries, cranberries, whole skinned rabbit, salmon, canned rabbit, canned trout, canned moose. One small and lonely box of chicken nuggets sits alone, intimidated by all the local wild food surrounding it.

Yet Mansfield tells me that his freezer and diet is the rare exception in outport Newfoundland these days, and my freezer sleuthing in other homes backs that up. Although pizza seems less common than in the US, fried chicken and red meat is the norm, seafood is rarely put on a plate, and an onlooker like myself has a tough time telling the difference between American and Newfoundland cuisine. I’m not out to paint globalized food marketing in any particular light, but I do think that mainstream diets in North America are often detached from fresh and local foods, and that there’s more to a meal than just its taste. I once saw a picture of Michael Pollan wearing a shirt once that read, “Vote with your fork.” Something to chew on.

A welcome roof

Just after getting back from the Miss Maria, I was invited to live with a local couple, Mansfield and Loretta Matterface. I’ve been with them since. The timing was great, as the weather up here is getting fairly nasty for open-air camping. Loretta can spin together a mean soup and has resurrected many good stories about her working days as a line manager at the fish plant. Mansfield, who goes by “Mans”, is a lifelong fisherman- a skiff lobsterman who earned his pennies setting along the steep shores of Brunette Island, located 10 or so miles from Fortune. He also managed shorter careers as a side dragger and fish plant worker. Now retired from fishing, Mans is revered as the town’s master rabbit snarer.

Four-wheelers are very common in these parts, and seem to be the transportation of choice to get to the Post Office and anywhere beyond. Mans has the one thing that trumps a four-wheeler: an Argo. An argo is the Cadillac of off-road vehicles, and capable of amphibious travel. Having an Argo makes Mans something like royalty in the outdoorsman’s court. His prowess at trout fishing, moose hunting, terr hunting (a routine unique to Newfoundland, involving hunting the fishy-tasting common murre on the open ocean in skiffs) solidifies his status as royalty.

Lately, the wind has been keep Fortune’s boats at bay, and so I’ve been going into the woods with Mans. For an owner of an ATV deluxe, he’s surprisingly happy to go by foot. He’s taught me how to set wire rabbit snares: a loop of light-gauge wire about the size of an average man’s fist, not, “big enough to catch an elephant,” and stressing that I take my time, “no need to set in a rush, working like a cat handling a musket”. Rabbits have little runways in the moor-like country, which are visible to the keen or experienced eye. Much of interior Newfoundland is this moor-like country, something like a alpine swamp, beautiful at a distance, perfect for moose and rabbits and a damn pain for most anything else. Setting a snare along these runways, sizing it properly, and disguising it well sometimes leads to rabbit stew the next evening. Some people put rabbit near the bottom of their edibles list, but Mans feels otherwise, telling me that he finds it delicious, “a notch above squirrel”. I’d have to agree, especially with the latter. So far, Mans’ snares have outperformed mine 6-0. Until the wind settles, I’m an eager rabbit-snaring apprentice.

Rolling with the Miss Maria

Just back from a cod fishing trip out to the St. Pierre Banks, aboard a 42’ fiberglass boat we’ll call the Miss Maria (name changed to protect any possible issues). Strangely enough, many people in town, baffled as to why a stranger would show up in such a small town in late fall and then proceed to ask around for fishing work, have come up with the theory that I’m an undercover cop. This is quite amusing to me, but despite my insistence that I’m no Mounty, a I think that several of the fishermen still don’t believe me. For this reason, I kept my camera and audio recorder tucked away for the whole of the trip. A shame, because my words won’t do any justice to portray the fishing scene I jumped into.

The skipper of the boat, Paul, had heard about me from the town rumor mill. He agreed to take me out for the next trip, as he was one guy short. At this point in the year, he was gillnetting for cod. The boat had remaining 17,000 pounds to catch. (Cod are managed on a quota system, with each licensed boat being granted the right to catch and sell a set number of pounds.) The marine weather had been notably foul as of late, and fishing had been at a standstill, but we’d cut loose from the docks the next decent weather window. Paul struck me instantly as a fair and kind-hearted guy, not all that much older in years than myself, but with a full family to support and a full lifetime of fishing experience.

The anticipated break in the weather came the very next night. Paul made the calls to his crew, all scattered in local outports on the southern Burin peninsula. They had an hour notice to pack and leave for a four day trip. One of the regular crew wasn’t around but his dad jumped at the chance for the fishing work. Paul had gotten good reports from relatives on the fishing grounds and was anxious to lay gear on the “numbers” (coordinates) they’d given him. Approaching the wharf in the dark, I could see a bustle around the boat. Several plant workers were manning the ice machine, loading the boat with 5 or so tons of ice shavings. The crew was rolling out of the shadows- sweatpants, and boots, cigarettes and a duffel. In no time we were off and out of the tiny harbor.

The confidence I’d gained at understanding the Newfoundland dialect quickly vanished as I tried in vain to talk with the crew. Tom, Kenny, Kenny, and John, and I made up the crew, and these boys communicated in animated growls. Their rough voices erupted from the darkness of the wheelhouse, loud but always friendly. I couldn’t make out more than an occasional word. The spirit was more of a reunion than of work, and during the 12-hour steam out to the fishing grounds, the boys proceeded to have a blast, simultaneously laughing, talking, and smoking. I only wished I could have taken more of a part in the conversation. Mostly I laughed along with them.

Once we’d arrived at Paul’s numbers, out went the gear. Bottom gillnetting is something I’d never seen before, but the process is very similar to other methods of fishing for salmon and halibut- it’s kind of a salmon (surface) driftnet/halibut longline hybrid. I should apologize in advance, as this description will bore any folks that fish and will likely still be confusingly vague for those who haven’t...

Gear is set off the stern. Out go the buoys and line. Then a rubber sack filled with rocks- an anchor substitute- go out, followed closely by the net. Each grid of the net measured six and a half inches, stretched diagonally. Fish, unable to see the thin translucent net, swim into it, and are tangled. Each net is roughly 100 yards long, and fishes the bottom 2 fathoms of the water column. Small floating corks are fixed to the top edge of the net. On average, ten nets are linked to make a fleet, although this can vary. The Miss Maria fished four fleets, and we set in around 30 fathoms of water. The other end of the fleet wraps up with another bag of stones, riser line and a buoy. Time to set the next fleet.

After making four sets, we grabbed a quick bite in the galley and proceeded to head back to the first fleet. Gear was run through a hauler mounted near the starboard rail, and was then pulled toward the stern and carefully restacked for the next set, after all fish were picked from the net. Paul ran the hauler, while two of the crew picked fish and two of the crew stacked the net. I also picked fish, but primarily stationed myself at the gutting table. All fish needed to be gutted and packed below deck in ice.

Thus began what turned out to be a 35-hour marathon of fairly continuous working of the gear. Night’s curtains had lifted about when the first gear was set, and picking and resetting saw day slide back into night, and the night ebbed back into day. Paul had put us on the fish from the first set, and up came the cod. This was very surprising to me, as over the course of my life I’ve been told countless stories about the complete collapse of the northern codfish. Here were big cod-in abundance- showing up in the net. Surprise!

Up came pulses of cod, many nearly four feet long and pushing 40 pounds. Although most of the catch was cod, a good many haddock and pollock also came aboard, along with the occasional hake, monkfish, wolfish, sculpin, whelk, and rock. The rocks were released unharmed. One wolfish, named for their large jaws and fang-like front teeth, latched on to the bottom of my rain bibs and absolutely refused to let go for several minutes. The crew found it hilarious that the strange kid from away was hopping around with a stubborn fangy fish hanging on to his leg.

The rest of the crew continued to give every appearance of having one hell of a good time. Hours wore on and it seemed like they had just two modes: work or smoke. At every moment they weren’t on deck working the gear, they were hand rolling smokes and inhaling them at impressive speed. Tom, one of the Kennys, and John would make normal chain smokers look like timid first-timers. Food and rest were luxuries better left for shore, but smokes were critical to the success of the trip.

Somewhere there in the middle, Paul explained that they usually take short breaks between hauling fleets for (silly) things like grub or a nap, the combination of good fishing and a predictions for a nasty blow made him want to try to get done and out before the weather became too lousy to fish. Daybreak of the second day saw a building sea and lots of fresh wind. “She rolls,” is what Paul had told me about the boat before we left the wharf, “but she’s never not come back.”

On came the fish, up came the weather. Radio chatter said it was blowing up to a crisp 45 knots. Even starting with a calm sea, wind like this can make a mess of things fast. Roll she did. There aren’t too many jobs where you get paid to work with a honed filet knife while riding a bucking bronco. We had our quota’s worth of cod, plus a couple thousand pounds of haddock, just about the time when Paul confessed it was getting a little to sloppy to be hauling gear. I agreed. It was hard enough to stay fixed to the deck.

There we have it. A few hours of cleanup and icing down the fish and the boys were back at their preferred mode. Smiles, laughs, and unintelligible rough exclamations all around. We’d managed to catch the quota and had avoided the bulk of a nasty blow, condensing a four day trip into two. I rolled into a bunk for a couple of hours of rest, surprised but thankful to discover that a seatbelt had been installed into the bunk. This device might seem out of place, but at this moment it was the difference between a little sleep and a one-way trip to the galley floor.

We steamed back towards Fortune- diverging at one point to trade an ailing scallop dragger a few gallons of hydraulic oil for scallops- and made it safely back to the harbor. The crew drifted away into the dark, as suddenly as they’d appeared only a couple of days before, to resume their land lives. They’d likely remain on call for other fishing work, would cut firewood for winter, and would help with their kids’ youth hockey teams. Lives on land and water were probably entirely different for these guys. I could now see why fishing, although work, was also a reunion of old friends, an extreme (and financially practical) version of a night out with the boys (this is the gender-neutral use of "boys", as a woman could also be one of the boys in this sense). Go out, roll around, catch some fish with the boys, roll on home with money to support the family. Although I’m only basing it on this one trip, I think this may speak to life in many outports of Newfoundland.

Arts and crafts, Newfoundland style

Here are a few links which showcase the scenic beauty, wit, and musicianship of Newfoundland. "Great Big Sea", a band you may already know, certainly isn't the only artistic talent from the island. Especially for its small population, Newfoundland is rich with art. I'm told that St. John's boasts the highest density of artists in Canada...

A clip showcasing harbours around the island. As you can see, many outpost towns are very small.


Here's an (audio) clip of a locally famous trio of comedians: "Buddy Wasisname and the Other Fellers". A good taste of the accent as well, although not nearly as thick or authentic as many of the folks I've met in Fortune....


Here's a great song, by renown Newfoundland band "The Navigators", accompanied with more photos from around the island:

Fish are where you find them

In the infancy of my planning this first phase of my project, I’d wanted to come to eastern maritime Canada to try to hop on with a very particular class of boats – those involved in the giant bluefin tuna hand-harpoon fishery. I’ve gone out a few times with my friend Kirk in Maine, scanning the open ocean for any sign (a V-wake, fin, or a grand ol’ baitfish frenzy) of a 500-1,000 pound fish, which must then be stalked and, with luck, hit with a hand-thrown harpoon. If you ever have the chance to take part in this fishery, beware: all other worldly excitements pale in comparison, so the rest of your days may be spend secretly wishing you were chasing a massive bluefin. It will permeate your dreams. I could pine on about tuna fishing for hours, and I’ve had only a small taste of the fishery.

With tuna fishing set as an initial goal, another major goal was to see Newfoundland, which we’ve agreed is steeped in fishing history. It seems that Newfoundland’s history was shaped by fishing as much or more than any other region of North America. Why not tackle both goals- chase giant tuna and visit Newfoundland- with one stone? Well, perhaps I should have done a little more homework…

Offshore of Newfoundland, the cold Labrador Current and the warm Gulf Stream collide and create one of the largest thermogradients in the world. This steep temperature difference is ultimately what creates the highly productive Grand Banks fishing grounds. I’m getting off track, but my point is that tuna are generally warm-water fish, but will venture into northern waters to take advantage of this natural blender. Newfoundland is bathed on all sides by the cold, productive, oxygen-rich Labrador Current. The few remaining folks that chase giant bluefin (this is a dying fishery, as Atlantic bluefin tuna stocks have dwindled significantly in the past two decades) are based out of Prince Edward Island, Nova Scotia, or Glouchester. This I discovered since arriving here.

Newfoundlanders have no difficulty in finding fish species with sufficient local abundance to target and bring to market. I feel like a fool for letting my imagination force-fit a particular fishery to a particular place. A wise skipper in Alaska once told me, “fish are where you find them”. Lesson relearned. Here and now in Fortune, Newfoundland, it looks like cod is the ticket. Cod it is.

Tough Buddy

Alaskans enjoy basking in the perceived toughness bestowed upon them by folks in the Lower 48, and many Alaskans are indeed deserving of the reverence. However, after having spent a few days here in what is likely a typical small fishing town of Newfoundland, I am ready to conclude that Alaskan tough guys/gals have nothing on these hardy folks. Not that it’s a contest.

Walking out of the one and only diner in Fortune the other evening, I was hailed from the deck of one of the few bars in town. An older man, a shrimper on rare leave from his boat, and his wife insisted that I come join them for a beer. After a few failed excuses, I agreed, and was quickly welcomed as a guest of honor. This, at a bar in Newfoundland, is a bit dangerous.

After only a minute or so inside, both my hands were holding drinks, and a new fellow, now trying to also offer me a warm welcome, tried to hand-feed me a cigarette. I declined, but offered to join him on the porch for a chat. The conversation was entirely one-sided, as I couldn’t understand even a single word that came out of his mouth. Trying to reciprocate friendliness in some way, I pointed out an unfinished cigarette that lay in the grass below the deck.

Before I’d finished my one sentence, my new friend vaulted over the rail towards the nicotine, headfirst. His spirit had trumped has current hand-eye coordination. My buddy’s shoulder, elbow, and nose shared the impact of the crash, and as he staggered to his feet with the cigarette, his flattened nose gushed blood. This phased him little, and the change of viewpoints made him aware of my foreign rubber boots. He quickly grabbed my right calf, peeled the top of my boot down a bit, and thrust his face towards it. A sentence came towards me, somewhere in the middle of which I thought I heard “insl’t’n”. I judged he was checking out the warmth of my boots. Blood now streamed down my boots, inside and out. I backed off and got my buddy a few napkins. He opted for a large paper tablecloth and proceeded to drink and smoke freely. I’m fairly sure he was about filled to the brim with both drink and smoke, but he didn’t seem concerned, and was still hard at it when I left.

Early the next morning, on my way down to the harbor, I saw “Buddy” once again, walking his kid to the bus stop. He gave me a quick nod. I’m not sure if it was a nod of recognition or one to acknowledge a stranger. Up here they greet a newcomer as warmly as a drinking buddy. Up here, there are some tough buddies.

Qualitative Stats

One way of comparing maritime regions and regional fishing culture, past, present, and upcoming. I’ll update and improve this, hopefully with sound clips, but I wanted to post a start. I think that boat names can be especially revealing, showing sentiments and attitudes of a region and the local fishermen. I’d love to expand this list, so please chime in with news from your favorite wharf...

HOMER, ALASKA


Targeted fish: salmon (mainly pink, sockeye, and coho), halibut, crab, Pacific cod, herring
Methods of fishing: purse seine, drift gillnet, setnet, longline, pots
Footwear: Xtra tuffs (ubiquitous brand of rubber boots)
Favorite local saying: "I can see Russia from my house!" (still working on this one)
Local food: Finn’s pizza, fresh Anchor River king salmon
Drink of choice: Homer Stout
Local entertainment: The Mule (3-Legged Mule, local band), Salty Dawg Bar, Downeaster Bar, Hobo Jim, razor clamming, sea kayaking
Select Local Boats: Galway Girl, Renaissance, Neptune, Boulder Bay, Nuka Point, Dark Star, Thalassa, Hanta Yo, Time Bandit, Centurion, Vind Saga, Malamute Kid, Heritage, Provider, Foreigner


FORTUNE, NEWFOUNDLAND


Targeted fish: cod, snow crab, lobster, whelk, capelin, squid, haddock, scallop
Methods of fishing: bottom gillnet, pot, jig, longline, trawl
Footwear: rubber boots (Dunlop, Baffin and other makes)
Favorite local saying: any sentence, ending with, “Ol’ buddy!”; “He’s a charmer, that ‘un”; “Eye til you, b’y!”
Local food: traditionally, fish and brews (salt cod and hard bread, soaked to desalinate and then boiled to soften); cod tongues, pea pudding; more currently fried chicken, chicken balls (battered fried chicken), wedgies (similar to homefries)
Drink of choice: Screech, Black Horse beer
Local entertainment: Going out on the machine (4 wheeling), Chrissy’s Bar, moose hunting, rabbit snaring, bingo
Local music: unique derivative of Irish music, for example "Shanneyganook" and "Buddy Whasisname and the Other Fellers"
Select Local Boats: Sarah Marie, Golden Girl, Partners III, No Name I, Lloyd’s Pride, Skeena Irene, Bradley Venture, Newfoundland Voyager, Courtney and Austin, Cape Bonavista, Moreton’s Harbour Mist, Maggie Chantal, Link Brothers, Miranda and Marshall, Silver Seas, Caitlin and Boys