by David Ward
“I like books and movies about guns,” he says. “Rifles and pistols, Lee–Enfields and Smith & Wessons, bolt-action and lever-action, thirty ought sixes . . .” Clearly pleased to share his passion, Russ believes that his interest in all things C&W began in the seventies when outport people started purchasing the noisy generators required to run televisions. “That’s when I started watching westerns and war movies. I’d watch westerns like The Mountain Men, starring Brian Keith and Charlton Heston. That’s my all-time favourite,” Russ says of the 1980 classic, in which Keith plays an argumentative trapper who, with his good buddy Heston, wages war with native cultures.
Frequently changing the direction of our dialogue as fast as he cleans fish, Russ now wants to talk about his real-life heroes. “You know, Newfoundland’s Bob Bartlett was quite the guy,” the proud islander states as he loans me his only copy of Captain Bob’s log, a diary documenting Bartlett’s forty years of excursions into the arctic, his journey to the North Pole with Robert Peary, and the heroic deeds he accomplished along the way. “Yes sir, that Bob Bartlett was an interesting guy.”
No more intriguing than you, Russell. No more compelling than many McCallum men.
Thirteen
If you’re a fan of adventure, you’ve probably imagined what it might have been like to participate in some of the world’s most celebrated explorations or adventures: Captain Cook’s mapping of uncharted territory, Amelia Earhart’s groundbreaking crossing of the Atlantic, Edmund Hillary’s climbing of Everest, Jeanne Baré’s first female circumnavigation of the world, Jacques Cousteau’s examination of the Earth’s oceans . . .
Of all the adventures that I’m familiar with, the one that resonates the most with me is Meriwether Lewis and William Clark’s transcontinental crossing of America to the Pacific Ocean. No doubt my tendency to gravitate towards this overland expedition has a lot to do with my landlubber backstory, because I find it easier to picture myself being part of Lewis and Clark’s Corps of Discovery than I do any ocean expedition.
My preference for cross-country adventures is comparable to the way that Newfoundlanders find it easier to identify with Brigus’s Bob Bartlett and his ocean explorations than they do, say, someone who walked across Niagara Falls tethered to a tightrope. Taking risks for risk’s sake just isn’t in the Newfoundlander’s DNA. Braving the North Atlantic Ocean, however, in the best interest of your family and friends is. So if there is one ocean-related adventure that I wish I could have been part of, it’s the 1965 winter trip to take down, pick up, and bring back from the abandoned isolated outport called Cape La Hune, what today is McCallum’s St. Peter’s Anglican Church. I’m no churchgoer, but to have been part of the planning, preparation, and eventual implementation of this effort to replace McCallum’s declining church would have been gratifying for me. To assemble a team of seamen willing to take on that task, arrange for the loan of a local schooner (Wilson Riggs’s Stewart Rose), and make that windy trek westward on behalf of their friends’ and families’ wishes to worship their god was, on the part of the participants, brotherly and brave. I would have found that demanding journey with George Wellman, Lloyd Riggs, Hartland Wellman, Clarence Riggs, Hayward Durnford, George Chapman, and George Feaver to be a thrilling experience.
It’s true that the relocation of homes and other buildings was, in that era, in Newfoundland, not uncommon — especially for folks forced to resettle. But I see the doers of these tasks as having no less courage and conviction than those today who take risks for far more self-serving reasons like personal praise, publicity, and economic gain.
To only heap approval, however, on born-and-bred Newfoundlanders for their courageous contributions to this island is an act of discrimination — a still surprisingly common occurrence around here. It’s been a long time since there has been anyone on this rock whose origins are not from elsewhere. Almost two hundred years have passed since Newfoundland’s earliest settlers killed off the island’s native Beothuk. So, one way or another, we’re all visitors to this precious place — a concept that’s lost on many of the locals.
I’m always a little taken aback when Newfoundlanders are afraid to admit that their ancestry might include people originally from Portugal or the Basque Country. Or that they’re part Mi’kmaq for all they know. Yet it’s also disappointing that this resistance regarding their beginnings recently changed somewhat, when the federal government offered money and benefits to Newfoundlanders with native origins. Suddenly those who hated natives most were trying to convince others that they were one.
I of course am thrilled with the idea that there are people from away who have been a positive influence on this province. And it was while searching out these non-Newfoundlanders who have historically contributed to this island’s well-being that I found my favourite — the unheralded ninety-two-year-old American Jean Newell — at her Bath, Ontario, home, where I asked her to describe her experience on the Great Northern Peninsula between 1941 and ’46.
“I was only twenty-one when I accepted employment as a nurse in St. Anthony, at the Grenfell Mission,” the adorable Newell said in such a spirited way that it’s impossible not to feel optimistic about aging. “You know how it is when you’re twenty-one — everything is an adventure. So when I accepted that nursing position, I didn’t know if Newfoundland was on this continent’s east coast or west. I just knew I wanted to make a difference in the lives of others.
“Then, a short time after I arrived, a man approached me and said I had to go with him to his outport home. Now remember I grew up in New York City where you’re taught at an early age not to go away with a stranger. I thought if I went with him that my poor dear mother would never see me again. Then I realized this man had a very sick child in need of care. So off I went.” She swings her arms slightly, in an industrious marching sort of way.
“Newfoundland was the first place I’d seen starvation, mostly because merchants were taking advantage of fishermen, selling them goods in a bartering way that was designed to keep fishermen always in debt, to the point where these workers had to just about give their fish away for free, to a degree where they couldn’t afford to feed their families.
“My late husband, Ike [Newell, a teacher from Cupids, Newfoundland], when he realized that these merchants were giving fishermen only three cents per pound for their codfish, took those men into the woods and taught them how to efficiently build boxes to store their fish in, and he showed them how to best use ice off icebergs to keep those fish from spoiling. Then he helped ship that fish to Halifax and North Sydney, where they got twenty-five cents per pound. A lot of people thought that Ike must have been religious because he was so generous, but he was agnostic — he was just an unselfish person.
“While Ike’s early education came from a one-room schoolhouse on Conception Bay, it didn’t stop him from going on to study at Oxford. Ike’s intelligence became clear when he was invited to work with Joey Smallwood at the National Convention to determine what Newfoundland’s postwar future needed to look like. That’s when we moved to St. John’s — from ’46 to ’48 — where, all of a sudden, Ike’s working with famous men like Joey, Bill Keough, Gordon Bradley . . . they were all important contributors to that convention because they turned what was shaping up to be a discussion on constitution into a social debate about the welfare of starving outport people.
“Yes, Joey Smallwood was an egomaniac, talking on about himself and taking credit for everyone else’s work, but that doesn’t change the fact that he, like Ike and those other men, brought a social conscience to a discussion that had mostly been merchants lobbying for their own economic interests. But now I sound like Joey, talking on and on. Those who read your book are going to get bored when they hear my stories.”
No they won’t, Jean. Lots of people will be pleased to know of your and Ike’s unselfish wartime efforts to assist outport people. Many will see the two of you as adventurers who weren’t motivated by
fame and fortune, and it’s good for Newfoundlanders to know that there have always been a few outsiders who had this island’s best interest at heart.
McCallum residents will soon be able to watch an intriguing international-adventure story unfold right in our own harbour, because McCallum is where you’ll eventually find the Evil-Lyn, a steel thirty-seven-foot sailboat named in honour of an animated actress by its builder Didi Franzmeyer and his partner Marion Jackson. German nationals, Didi and Marion have recently become McCallum’s only other come-from-aways. If you think it was hard for me to move here, imagine how difficult it is for those who come from another country. As different as my everyday life is, I’m still standing on Canadian soil. Didi and Marion, on the other hand, could be ordered to leave this country at any time.
“Yes, plans for the Evil-Lyn were bought in Holland, but Didi built her in our barn in Germany,” the spunky middle-aged Marion tells me, her multi-coloured mohawk haircut blowing in the wind. “And right now he has sailed the Evil-Lyn as far as the Netherlands.” Marion and I are standing in front of the McCallum house that the couple recently purchased as part of their plan to spend the remainder of their lives sailing this province’s gorgeous shores, if not from McCallum, which is at risk of resettling, then another cute community.
“I have come to Newfoundland by airplane with our two dogs, while Didi is in Rotterdam making plans to get our boat to North America, and that has not been easy. We are simply trying to get all of us and our boat here safely, without having to spend all our money doing it, but every day we get a new surprise. Hopefully he will be here soon,” she says again of her sailor husband, understandably unable to stop talking about him. “Because, right now, it is all very stressful.”
With neither member of this gutsy but inexperienced sailing couple feeling comfortable crossing the Atlantic on their own, they’ve hired a freighter to bring their boat to North America — a business deal that has brought with it some difficulties, including last-second news that the shady freighter hired to bring the Evil-Lyn to Rhode Island has suddenly changed their policy about allowing passengers. So Didi will need to temporarily part with the boat that he spent twelve years building and instead fly to Boston, bus to Newport, find ten days’ accommodation, and wait for his pride and joy to arrive.
The couple’s trust level is understandably low, but if all goes according to plan, Didi and the Evil-Lyn will be back on the water shortly, travelling past Massachusetts, Maine, and Nova Scotia before crossing the Gulf of St. Lawrence. “At which point I will be very happy to see him,” Marion reminds me.
“I worry about him, because he never gets a chance to sleep, sailing alone. And, while some couples find it difficult to live together on a small boat, that is not the way it is with Didi and me — we are finding it hard to be separated. We’re very unhappy to be without each other. So when I see him come sailing into McCallum, I will be the happiest person in the world. Then we will lock ourselves in our house, closing all the curtains, and no one will see us for two weeks.”
Fourteen
Today’s long journey starts with a short ride through the passage that runs between Daniel Island and the Devil’s Knob. I’m not surprised that the skipper has us hard to the right in an effort to avoid the underwater rocks that lurk to our left. It’s the wee hours of the morning and we’re on our way to the deepest region of the Bay Despair — fifty kilometres inland, as wild a landscape as Canada has to offer. Big hills, deep valleys, large rocks, and abundant beauty. We’re hoping to see some moose, but right now it’s only blackness and trickery. Lucky for us there is little wind, so the water is somewhat smooth. Yet, travelling in an open boat the way we are, we generate our own chill factor.
I’m baffled by the bright light that unexpectedly appears when we turn towards Buffett Tickle, when a big number of bulbs come blinking and flashing at us from one of the salmon cages that are increasingly showing up everywhere. It’s not that I don’t understand how lights are needed for navigation given the enormous territory that a cage covers, but seeing this much light pollution on a wilderness journey seems sad and unnecessary. Especially when it causes me to lose sight of a handsome sky.
While I’m the only member of this crew moaning and complaining about this invasive event, I know I’m not alone in disliking it. I can see it in the others’ expressions — they’re as agitated as I am. Light caroming off of cliffs at this time of the morning is an insensitive reminder that the feelings of the people who live on these waters are an afterthought. Nobody gives a damn about us or that one of Newfoundland’s few remaining fisheries is at further risk because no one in power cares enough to consider the precautionary principle — the idea that if you’re unsure about the environmental impact that fish farming has on the ocean, you proceed with caution.
The only thing that matters to the province of Newfoundland and Labrador is the wants and needs of politicians and big business — a bunch of like-minded individuals and organizations that I increasingly find impossible to tell apart, who would pull the last wild creature from the sea if they thought they could make a penny from it, and who are not particularly smart when it comes to seeing beyond the almighty dollar. Don’t get me wrong, there are some clever people involved in politics and big business, but they’re not as smart as they think they are, rendering them the most dangerous kind of decision-maker. They’ll tell you that they are creating employment — like the jobs they provide should make you want to get down on your knees for them — but are you aware of the conditions and terms by which aquaculture employees work? Low hourly pay, ridiculously long days, and no time off for most of the year.
How long can a person work under those circumstances before sickness sets in? And how often in such a high-risk ocean environment can one person work alone before the grim reaper comes calling? I’m sure actuaries have answered these questions, but they’ve done so on behalf of governments and big businesses that require insurance policies to protect their millions, not the poor working stiff who faces danger daily.
The big questions around here are: What happens to the aquaculture industry when government subsidies dry up? And who can we expect to pick up the pieces when businessmen walk away with their pockets lined, laughing? Because fish farming shows no indication that it will ever find success on its own, especially if it’s required to be environmentally responsible. In the meantime, government shows little sign it will ever learn to do its work differently.
My best learning occurs when I’m taught content that explains and reinforces ideas that I already naturally knew — like a college course I once took on critical thinking. That curriculum gave me permission to feel comfortable about things that I thought might be right but had doubts about until someone scholarly validated what I intuitively knew to be true.
Of course, not all education comes from courses. Practical experience is priceless, and reading has played a large role in my learning — especially book reading. Three in particular: John Steinbeck’s Grapes of Wrath, Michael Lewis’s Moneyball, and Edward Abbey’s Desert Solitaire — Grapes of Wrath because it opened my eyes to the plight of the oppressed, Moneyball because it inspired me to look at the world in ways it’s seldom seen, and Desert Solitaire because the content really resonated with me. Abbey was the first author to capture my attention as I entered adulthood, because he was angry and he knew why. Thirty-one years my senior and ecologically ahead of his time, Ed filled a vacant hole in my heart, in an area of expertise that I was aching for information on, in an era when environmentalists were seen as alarmists. As if.
Sensitive to the disappearance of wilderness, Ed’s base was the American Southwest, but it could have been anywhere. It could have been Newfoundland, where, if you consider the commonly accepted definition of wilderness as “five thousand continuous acres of roadless area,” there is much less wilderness left than the average person realizes, what with the large number of ATVs running around.
&nbs
p; Dirt roads are everywhere and getting wider. Newfoundlanders adore their dirt roads, so this development will only get worse, because the people empowered to protect us against sprawl — our governments — are benefitting from such unruly expansion. Unregulated roads make it easier for governments to justify additional development, sell adjacent land, and collect related taxes. Especially when wilderness is no longer pristine enough to warrant protection, in the eyes of policymakers.
Abbey knew this. A student of anarchy, Ed saw politicians as people to keep yourself safe from. “A patriot must always be ready to defend his country against his government,” he said, in ways that resulted in government putting Ed on their watch list because he was seen as someone who encouraged ecoterrorism when he wrote about pulling up survey stakes, sabotaging construction equipment, and blowing up dams.
As with many ecological inquiries, I can find no easy answer as to how I feel about this gang who goes to such drastic measures to defend life on Earth. I see the world they work with, and it’s a nasty one. On one side of our current socioeconomic scale are the extreme narcissists — unethical people who don’t care who or what they kill, as long as they’re making money and feeding their ego. So I’m not surprised that, in opposition to this despicable bunch who care about no one but themselves, we find strongly principled activists who are willing to take enormous risks in support of their environmental beliefs, to offset the evil at the other end. I’m not surprised that there are these people who take action on behalf of the planet even when their institutions declare them criminal. Because, in many people’s minds, the legality of a law does not alter the fact that that law might be immoral. So while I don’t have the conviction, myself, to take such extreme action, I’m no less intrigued that such committed radicals are out there and that I’ve had a chance to sit with some of them. I’m speaking about Snook and Lucy Lee.
