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.