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

To the outports, in search of fish!

Fortune, Newfoundland. After exploring the capital for a few days, and after gathering up as much of the current fishing news as possible, I’ve now made my way to the southern coast. I’m looking to check out the fisheries in the town of Fortune, population roughly 2,000, located just south of the town of Grand Bank and on the tip of the Burin Peninsula. A beautiful little town here. Local fisheries are well developed for cod, snow crab, lobster, capelin, whelk, and squid. Other fish, including haddock and pollock are frequently delivered as bycatch. Boats in the harbor range form 16 to 70 feet, although it seems that most of the boats around at this time of year are between 34 and 45 feet.

In a town this size a newcomer can’t simply slip in unnoticed. Small town affairs avoid the eyes of few. The first couple of nights I’ve slept under the stars, definitely pushing the limits of my sleeping bag’s thermal capabilities. This, due to stubborn and foolish tendencies, is nothing new for me. Weather around these parts is variable this time of year, but wind is frequent, and sub-freezing temps are not uncommon. Luckily, no rain so far, and days have been packed with checking out boats and “fish talk”, which to my delight, every resident seems as keen to do. Lots of valuable insight offered up for those who want to listen, filter, and salt. And everybody I speak with seems to know where I’ve slept the past few nights, and any other information I’ve passed up to others in town. I’d better keep my stories consistent…

Some of the boats have wrapped fishing up for the season, but the boats remaining are primarily rigged to fish cod with bottom gillnets. This is a method I’ve never seen before, and I’ll describe in more detail later. It seems that many of the boats fish any and all palatable weather and shift through a variety of fisheries: snow crab with pots in April, lobstering with traps in June or so, whelk fishing with pots all summer, then fishing cod with longline or gillnet gear in the fall. This is different in some ways from Maine and Alaskan fisheries, which seem to be outfitted and dedicated for one or a couple of fisheries, but seldom four.

The Newfoundland accent, especially once out of St. John’s, is truly noteworthy. I was born and raised in a state known for it’s distinctive, thick coastal accent, but this is an entirely new ballgame. When talking with folks, there are often entire sentences where I can’t make out a word. Hard to believe that we’re speaking a common language, with the exception of a few catch phrases I’ve picked up on. This is mainly that almost every sentence ends with a mutation of the words “boy” or “buddy”…although it’s more like “yis b’y” and “g’d bidy” to my ears. The accent is great, but I’m having a heck of a time not nodding in affirmation to a completely unknown question. Who knows what I’m committing to…

Greetings from Newfoundland!

A hearty hello from St. John’s, Newfoundland. The rugged island of Newfoundland rises proudly out into the stormy north Atlantic and has a legendary fishing history, tracing back to John Cabot in the late1400’s, and likely before. Newfoundland is certainly one of the most historic commercial fishing areas in North America. Bountiful cod attracted early visitors to “cling to the rock”, as the locals say, and it still plays an important role, immediately apparent to any newcomer. Up here, the role of fisheries minister is a very high-level and controversial political position, and is taken very seriously- probably equally as that of minister of the economy- and it seems every Newfoundlander is versed in current fisheries issues, and happy to yarn on about them.

I first arrived in the capital of St. John’s, a city which is home to roughly half of Newfoundland’s half million residents. The rest of the population is scattered in the “outports” (everywhere else on island). Similarities with both Maine and Alaska abound, but the terrain surrounding St. John’s is uniquely rugged, and the downtown feels much older, and rightly so. The harbo(u)r is a thing of awe- one of the best imaginable deep water natural harbor. Beyond the mouth of the harbor 20 footers were rolling in with force, sending spray a thousand yards inland from the high tide mark.

Fishing directly out of St. John’s this time of year is slow. Perhaps these days it often is, as it seems that while St. John’s relies on the urban portfolio to keep it afloat, the heat and soul of provincial fisheries lie in the scattered outports. This is why I’m keen to get out of the city and into one of these fishing-dependent communities. I’ve arrived past the peak, and well past the season for predictable fair weather for the north coast and east coasts of the island. A walk through the boats showed little activity, with the exception of a swordfish boat (I believe the sister ship to the Andrea Gail of Perfect Storm fame) taking on bait and food for a long trip in the Grand Banks. From talk it seems that the shrimp industry is now perhaps the preeminent fishery on the island as of late, at least on the north shore.

A few things have become quickly apparent. The legendary hospitality of Newfoundlanders is in no way exaggerated. It’s fairly uncanny just how happy the average islander is to chat it up or to offer a hand. In just a day or two upon arriving, I’ve been offered rides, drinks, and tours aplenty. One kindly gent offered up, “everything but the kitchen sink, and that if you really needs it.” Uncanny generosity. I’ve learned that when pronouncing Newfoundland, the accent is on the LAND- it rhymes with understand. Saying it any other way is a sure way to raise a few eyebrows. Using the abbreviation “Newfie” isn’t advised either- some take strong offense to it, although Newfoundlanders have a keen sense of humor and are especially willing to poke fun at themselves.