by Jim Wellman
But it doesn’t stop there. The other two office staffers, Nancy and Connie, are also family members.
“Generally speaking, we get together and, based on the best information we can get, we hash it out and arrive at a decision. If one of us has a really strong or really bad feeling about going in a certain direction, the rest of us take note and usually don’t push it, even with a majority,” Shawn said.
Claude used to try to find time to stop thinking about business and concentrate on relaxing. He was a long-time amateur radio operator and, even with today’s wireless innovations, he and many of his friends remained true to their hobby. He owned a Goldwing motorcycle that he loved dearly. He also scuba dived and loved hunting. Claude tried golfing once but decided it wasn’t for him.
“I discovered that golfing was just a way to ruin an otherwise perfectly nice walk,” he joked.
Chatting about his ham radio hobby versus modern wireless phones, Claude told us an amusing anecdote about the new technology.
“I remember once when I was deer hunting. I was sitting there quietly in a tree stand with my gun ready as soon as I saw a deer—suddenly, my phone rang. I looked at the name and number and saw that it was a fellow I was trying to make a deal with, so I answered. I made the deal to sell one of our boats to him right there,” he laughed, citing both an upside and a downside of cellphones. He might have lost the opportunity to get a deer, but, on the other hand, he wrapped up a successful business transaction.
Family-operated businesses are common among Nova Scotia Acadians. In fact, the principles of “family” seem to be an important cornerstone in the Acadian French culture in southwest Nova Scotia. The entire community seems to look after its own.
Claude d’Entremont was the eldest of eight children. His sister Carmelle is the youngest and, although she is not part of the company, her name has certainly been prominent. Several of the company’s vessels have been named after her, beginning with Carmelle #1 through to Carmelle #6. The company currently owns and operates three vessels, including the Carmelle #3 and Carmelle #6.
Their other vessel, Poseidon Princess, has proven to be what Claude describes as an “adventure.” He chuckled when asked what that meant and passed it off as a long story, “too long for this conversation.” All three vessels are in excess of sixty feet in length.
After forty-plus years involved in the most dangerous industry in the country, Claude said he and his family had been blessed with good luck.
“In all those years, only once did I have to call a vessel in from sea because of an emergency,” he said. That incident involved the tragic on-shore death of a family member who was related to the captain on one of the company’s vessels.
“I called the captain and said, ‘You have to come in—I can’t tell you why right now but you must come in.’ The captain said, ‘Okay, but can I ask who (on the boat) does it directly involve?’”
“I had to tell him that it was him . . . that was hard.”
Claude was very much a family man. He was married, a father of a son and daughter, and a grandfather to three. He always smiled broadly as he talked about his mother, who was unable to care for herself at the end and decided to enter a seniors’ home. Claude said one evening he thanked his mom for everything she had done for him and his seven siblings.
“Mom said that she didn’t do much, but I told her she was wrong about that—she was always there for the family, constantly. When we all came home from school, when we came home from being away or whatever, she was always there, and that was all that mattered to us. Not everyone is so lucky, especially many children today,” he said.
Claude talked philosophically about many issues in the fishing industry, ranging from the return of haddock on George’s Bank, to the damage to groundfish stocks by burgeoning herds of grey seals, to the foolhardiness of many people these days.
It frustrated him to see how people didn’t think twice about paying hundreds of dollars to attend a sports or music event every month or spending thousands of dollars on high-tech toys—but if the cost of milk went up two cents a litre, they got upset and angry and refused to buy it and demanded reductions, even if it meant putting a farmer out of business.
“There’s something very wrong with that way of thinking,” he would say.
But, positive thinker that he was, Claude soon moved the conversation to a less frustrating topic. For him, the bottle was always half full.
Chapter 3
Like a Duck on the Water
Andrew “Chum” Greenham was one of Twillingate’s many famous schooner captains in the early to mid-1900s. The son of Captain Isaac Greenham, Andrew was nicknamed “Chummy” when he was a young boy, and even as he grew older the moniker stuck but was shortened to “Chum.” Even some of his friends had never heard his real name in all his ninety-three years.
Andrew was still called “Chummy” when he first went to the Labrador fishery in 1907 as a shareman on board a fishing schooner. He was fourteen and he begged his father to take him as part of the crew on the family schooner Fleet Queen, but Captain Isaac refused, explaining that the young lad should stay home and help his mom with all the chores of summer.
Captain Chum Greenham shows off a nice Atlantic salmon.
The Fleet Queen sailed out of Twillingate one day in early June, leaving behind a very discouraged lad. But young Chummy was determined, and when he heard that Captain Loder from nearby Back Harbour was still looking for a shareman for the summer’s voyage, Chum walked, mostly ran, across to the north side of Twillingate Island to try and convince the skipper to take him on. Captain Loder was hesitant, but when Chum stretched the truth a bit, saying that he had both his father and mother’s blessing, Captain Loder finally agreed.
“Okay then, my boy, get a bit of clothes, and a pair of rubber boots, and be here tomorrow morning before five o’clock because we sail by six,” said the captain.
Young Chum was at the Back Harbour wharf long before daylight the next morning, waiting for the skipper and other crew members to set sail for Labrador.
Chum Greenham worked as hard or harder than the veteran fishermen that summer and proved himself a very worthy shareman. In fact, on the way home to Twillingate in the fall, Skipper Loder called the crew together to talk about young Chummy’s “share.” Because Chum was just fourteen and on his first trip, the captain asked the crew if Chum should be paid only a half share.
“Oh no, sir,” the crew all responded vigorously. “Chum gets a full share like us, or we only get the same as he does,” said the crew spokesman.
“If the rights of it was known, he should get more than the rest of us,” said one fellow.
Andrew “Chum” Greenham had earned his stripes as a full-time schooner fisherman at the tender age of fourteen.
The following year, 1908, Chum fished with his father, but if Captain Isaac was thinking that his son would be his successor as skipper of the Fleet Queen, he soon had to think again. Chum was much too impatient for the wait. Only one year later, when Chum was just sixteen, he heard that William Ashbourne’s company was looking for a captain for one of its schooners. Undeterred by his young age, Chum went to see Ashbourne.
“I’m here because I heard you were looking for a skipper for one of your schooners,” Chum said.
“Yes, Chum, that’s right. Do you know someone who is interested?” Mr. Ashbourne asked.
“I am, sir,” Chum said.
The businessman was surprised at the teenage boy’s boldness to ask for such a responsible position, but he had heard about Chum’s ability as a crewman, so he paused to think about the proposal.
Recognizing that Mr. Ashbourne was actually considering his offer, Chum jumped in with what might be considered a negotiating point, albeit a risky one.
“If you give me the chance, sir, I’ll hire a crew of young fellas my a
ge and younger. That way, there will be no dispute about who is skipper.”
William Ashbourne had become a very successful businessman through taking calculated risks, but he also knew that giving control of a vessel to a teenager whose intent was to hire more teenagers would probably be one of his riskiest decisions of all. But he took the chance and shook hands with Chum to seal the deal.
Twillingate harbour circa 1920s
Chum Greenham didn’t disappoint William Ashbourne. With his crew of “rough and ready” teenagers, the youthful skipper caught so many fish that they made a rare two trips to Labrador that summer.
By 1926, Chum Greenham was a very experienced and highly respected schooner captain. William Ashbourne had been keeping a steady eye on Chum’s accomplishments, and one day while he was planning for the summer schooner fishery, he called the young skipper to his office.
“Chum, I’ve been very pleased with your work, and so I have an offer for you to consider,” he said. “We’ve added a new and bigger schooner called the Stanley Smith to our fleet and I’m wondering if you’d like to take her over.”
Before Chum could answer, Mr. Ashbourne continued with a little additional information that he wanted Chum to know.
“They say she’s an unlucky schooner, Chum,” Mr. Ashbourne explained. “She has never caught a full load of fish.”
Chum Greenham had beaten a lot of odds in his life, and although he admitted to being a bit “uneasy” about taking on a supposed unlucky ship, he didn’t hesitate.
“I will gladly take the Stanley Smith, sir, and even though I can’t guarantee you I’ll get a full load of fish, I will give it a good shot,” he told Ashbourne.
The next day, Chum contacted his regular crew, and because the Stanley Smith was a large schooner, he hired two additional crew members. In a few hours, all the young men were fitting out their vessel in hopes of a great summer on the Labrador Coast.
After taking their new schooner out for a couple of test runs, it soon became obvious that the Stanley Smith was a great sailing vessel.
“She’s the best sailing schooner in the Ashbourne fleet—she’s real fast, and the harder the wind blows the better she likes it—she’s like a duck on the water in any wind,” Chum told his friends.
Skipper Chum and his band of young, bold sharemen on board the Stanley Smith set out in June for Cutthroat Islands on Labrador’s south coast, where the crew was eager to set cod traps. Whether it was in keeping with the schooner’s reputation as a bad-luck schooner or pure coincidence, the 1926 fishery would be one that Captain Chum Greenham would remember till the day he died at the age of ninety-three.
Upon arrival in Labrador, Captain Chum and his crew quickly set out the cod gear, excited about their new schooner and in high hopes for a good summer season. A full load of codfish would be extra nice that year because their relatively new schooner had never landed a bumper catch and was considered an unlucky boat. Low landings in the first couple of weeks worried some of the crew, who wondered if it was an omen of a poor voyage. Maybe the Stanley Smith really was a bad-luck schooner after all, they thought. Even Captain Chum admitted that the thought crossed his mind, too.
Weekly landings didn’t improve much over the summer months, but Captain Greenham was determined to go home with a full load, so he continued fishing on the Labrador Coast much later than usual and fished hard every day. By October 24, the Stanley Smith’s fish holds were filled to the hatches with about 3,000 quintals of salt cod.
In preparation for the journey back home to Twillingate, the crew was instructed to stow fishing gear below deck, clean out the pumps, and fasten down the trap skiffs and the punt, along with barrels of cod livers and other product on deck. Buoyed by anticipation of a good voyage, some of the crew members laughed that they had proved the Stanley Smith to be a lucky vessel after all.
But the trip home was just beginning.
There was a beautiful sunrise in southern Labrador on Monday, October 25, 1926. A pleasant north-northwest breeze was a fair wind for sailing south—the perfect day for the crew of a fine sailing schooner to head home. The Stanley was low in the water, laden with the full load of fish, but still they made excellent time all day. Late at night they were ready to cross the Strait of Belle Isle to the island of Newfoundland.
Captain Chum looked at his weather glass. The barometer, or “glass,” was the only forecasting instrument on board schooners in those days and was usually a reliable indicator of impending bad weather. The glass didn’t suggest anything to be concerned about, so Captain Chum decided that, with fair winds and clear skies, he would sail all night instead of anchoring in a nearby harbour on the Labrador side of the Straits to wait for daylight. He instructed four-hour watches, with himself and three crewmen taking the first watch that night. Two men were on the bow and two on the quarterdeck. Each would share one-hour stints on the wheel, located toward the stern of the vessel—there was no wheelhouse on the Stanley Smith.
The crewmen were in high spirits as the fine sailing schooner plowed white water.
“Won’t be long now before we give our women a nice kiss,” sang out one crewman.
But the kisses would have to wait.
Although the weather glass was still indicating good barometric pressure, the midnight sky had darkened and winds had strengthened enough that Stanley’s leeward rails were dragging through the water and its decks were awash in increasingly heavy seas. Ordering the crew to lower the mainsail and to double-reef the others, Captain Chum set their course due south and lashed himself to the wheel—just in case.
Temperatures dropped and, by daylight on Tuesday, powerful winds whipped snow across the faces of the worried crewmen.
By mid-morning, winds were raging at gale-force strength as Captain Greenham ordered the men to lower the jib and most other sails to avoid capsizing. The crew also shuttered the entrance to the forecastle and kept the pumps going almost constantly because heavy seas were now constantly washing across the schooner’s decks. Despite solid lashings, the barrels on deck broke loose and smashed against the bulwarks. The deck of the Stanley Smith had become an incredibly dangerous environment as pieces of wood and metal were tossed around in sea water. All the men tied themselves to whatever seemed secure and worked feverishly for hours to stay out of harm’s way. Skipper Chum yelled to the men to keep debris away from the bulwarks to allow the waters to wash from the decks.
“If necessary, chop the rails as well and let it all go overboard, because if you don’t we will sink!” he shouted.
By dark that evening, there was hardly anything left on deck. Even the punt, which was lashed down bottom-up, had been seriously damaged. Without sails the Stanley Smith was running with the winds and seas, although the skipper tried to maintain a southerly course by working the rudder very hard. One young fellow was so certain that they would all die that night that he wanted to get it over with. He tried to untie his rope and allow himself to wash overboard. Fortunately, the other crewmen were able to subdue him. Captain Greenham wondered out loud how much longer they could last.
Amazingly, the Stanley Smith was still floating as winds abated on Wednesday, October 27, but the captain and crew were battered, hungry, and tired. No one had eaten in more than twenty-four hours. Someone had taken a look down in the galley and reported back with the bad news that all their food had been tossed around in the storm and water leaking down from the deck had ruined everything. Adding to their misery, the barrels of fresh water that were on deck had also been washed overboard.
Ordering sails to be raised again, Captain Chum tried to figure out where they were and set course for what he hoped would be the tip of Newfoundland’s Northern Peninsula. His reckoning was true, and about midnight the Stanley Smith dropped anchor in Quirpon harbour.
Captain Chum Greenham (standing on rock) sings the Johnny Poker
Although it was the dead of night in the sleepy little Newfoundland community, Skipper Chum knew that his men couldn’t wait until morning to have food and water. Lowering the battered punt over the side, he and his “second hand” and brother-in-law, Stanley Elliot, managed to keep the punt afloat and rowed to the community wharf. From there they walked to the home of the local merchant, whom Chum had met before.
When the merchant opened the door, he couldn’t believe his eyes.
“Where in the world did you come from tonight, Chum?” he asked.
After listening to Captain Greenham’s story, the merchant took the men to his store and offered them food, dry clothes, and anything else they needed.
In later years, Captain Chum often talked about the Quirpon merchant’s kindness that night. The young captain said the merchant even gave the crew his motorboat to take with them in case they needed it to go ashore or use as a lifeboat if anything else went wrong. While the crew made repairs to the schooner for the trip home, they discovered that the weather glass was not working properly. That explained the false readings on the day they left Labrador.
Captain Greenham and his crew made it home to Twillingate at the end of October, tired and weary after the battle to survive a vicious storm, but very thankful and feeling lucky that their first voyage on the so-called unlucky Stanley Smith in 1926 had not been their final voyage.
Chapter 4
The Fish Ladies
On my travels through Atlantic Canada, I have been blessed to meet hundreds of wonderful men and women. Among the most fascinating women I met along the way, two of them have a lot in common. They are close to the same age, they have very similar personalities, share many of the same interests, and they even look a lot alike. And they are both known as “Fish Ladies.” One lives in New Brunswick and the other in Newfoundland. It is my great pleasure to introduce to you two of the nicest and hardest-working people in Atlantic Canada, Marilyn and Karen.
