The Deadly Sea

by Jim Wellman

  Ian’s brother, Eric, was thinking the same thing. Both captains tried to manoeuvre their vessels closer to Ian’s boat, but as much as they wanted to rescue Ian and his crew, both skippers were aware that getting close enough to get a line to Ian’s boat would seriously jeopardize themselves and their own crews—instead of one boat stranded in pounding seas, there would be two or three in the same predicament with no hope of rescue. On one occasion, Weldon’s boat was hit by a wave with such force that he was knocked off balance and wound up flat on his back on the wheelhouse floor.

  “I called Eric and said if we try and go in there too close we’re gonna be in the same damn mess the boys are in—but as long as she stays there [on the bar] with bow to the seas, it might be okay. So, I called 911 and said that we needed a Zodiac out here,” Weldon recalls.

  But Ian’s boat didn’t stay put. Each series of waves that pounded against the vessel turned it more and more until finally she had swivelled with the stern to the seas, and that marked the beginning of the end. Now, seas were washing over the stern and swamping the vessel.

  It was a frustrating and emotionally charged time for Eric and Weldon. Ian had been a crew member with Weldon for eight years.

  “He was like a son to me and Genevieve,” Weldon muses sadly. “I suppose they were praying that we could get to them, and I was praying that I could get to them, too. But you can only go so far—I mean, every time we tried to get closer, we were scrapin’ bottom, too, and the tide was falling.”

  As for Eric, watching his twin brother and crew being battered by heavy seas, aground on a sandbar, entirely at the mercy of an unforgiving ocean, was the worst scene he had ever witnessed. Eric’s sense of helplessness was almost unbearable.

  In a media interview, Eric said, “I saw the boat on the bar filling with water and I saw two men on top of the wheelhouse and [knowing] we couldn’t do anything for them—it was too late.”

  Weldon also saw two men on top of the boat, one clinging to the column risers, but he couldn’t tell who was who. In fact, at the time, Weldon wasn’t even sure whether there had been two or three men on board Ian’s boat.

  “Once, I did get close enough, maybe a hundred yards or whatever, but close enough to know it was Alfred, because that time I got close enough that he made it to the bow and grabbed the line hoping that I could get close enough that he could throw it to me—but all I ever saw was two men, so I think that one of them, I don’t know if it was Ian or not, was thrown over when the boat took that dive and hit the bar.”

  Any hope of rescue was quickly fading, although word had spread to other skippers in Tabusintac and several other vessels had arrived on the scene to offer whatever assistance they could. But no matter how many boats were on hand, there was nothing any of them could do. It was impossible to get close to the stranded vessel.

  “Every time we’d go in to take another look, Ian’s boat was getting lower and lower in the water, so obviously she was taking on water pretty fast. And then the last time I went in, she was nowhere to be seen.”

  Weldon explains that there was an area of deeper water next to the bar where Ian’s boat had grounded, so it had obviously slid from the bar and into that “hole,” as Weldon describes it.

  Given the conditions of the sea, the weather, and their intimate knowledge of the sandbars and waters surrounding them, all the captains knew they were no longer on a rescue mission. The next task was going to be a search for bodies.

  Rescuers discovered the body of René Boutin on Saturday afternoon. Ian Benoit and Samuel Rousselle were found the next day. According to Weldon’s estimates, all three bodies were discovered about two and a half to three miles away from where the vessel sank.

  The loss of three young fishermen from the Tabusintac region left people shaken for reasons that go beyond the usual grief with such a sad loss.

  Many people felt the tragedy could have been avoided if government had only paid more attention to fishermen like Ian Benoit, who had advocated strongly to authorities to work with fishermen and find a better system to monitor and dredge the ever-shifting sands on the bottom of the ocean in his area. Weldon Harding says that sand moves and creates sandbars similar to the way drifting snow swirls around, creating high snowbanks in one location, and leaves bare ground a few feet away.

  For that reason, some people say they still have a rage burning inside them because of this accident. Weldon Harding, a veteran skipper who’ has seen a lot in his many years on the water, says he’s lost his enthusiasm and love for the fishing industry.

  “It just won’t be the same anymore,” he says.

  Chapter 7

  The Woodmans of New Harbour

  Fred Woodman Jr. is not shy and he loves to talk. The semi-retired fish processor from New Harbour, Trinity Bay, on the east coast of Newfoundland, leaves no doubt about his opinion on any issue.

  The fifty-three-year-old avid out-doorsman grew up in a family that talked fish from daylight to dark nearly every day.

  Fred Woodman Jr.

  Fred is the son of parents who promoted lively discussion and debate. Fred Woodman Sr. and his wife, Cairine, never held back on expressing their opinions, especially about the fishing industry, because both were owners of Woodman Fisheries, the fish company that Fred Jr. along with his brother Geoff eventually wound up owning.

  Fred Sr. never backed away from an argument and had no time for fence-sitting, either, in his personal life or in business.

  “I remember Dad wanting to finalize issues and he’d say, ‘Make a damn decision—even if it’s a bad decision—at least make one,’” Fred Jr. recalls.

  Fred Sr. dabbled in capital “P” politics for a few years, having run unsuccessfully for the PC Party both provincially and federally. He also served on the board of nearly every fisheries committee and organization that ever existed in Canada.

  Despite his father’s high profile, Fred Jr. points out that he was owner of the family business longer than his dad.

  “People thought that Dad was always the owner because he was so visible and high-profile. People just assumed he still owned and operated the company,” he said.

  Former Woodman plant on north side of New Harbour, Trinity Bay

  In fact, Fred Jr. made a lease-to-buy arrangement with his father back in 1985 in a seven-year package. Fred laughs heartily about it now, but it was no laughing matter when the seven years were up and the time came to take it to the next level.

  It was 1992, the year when cod was placed under moratorium.

  “So here I was, after spending $750,000 or more upgrading and expanding a groundfish plant and buying other companies and everything else, and then suddenly there was no cod to be had,” he said.

  Fred says they managed to survive through complex purchases of Russian cod and scrounging up a few tons of fish wherever they could.

  “Then in 1994, we got a little break—the Japanese wanted as much caplin as they could get their hands on and were paying good money for it, and we just happened to have had a good caplin fishery that year and that’s what saved us for a couple more years.”

  Former Woodman plant on south side of New Harbour, Trinity Bay

  But it was a struggle until, finally, Woodman Sea Products was granted a crab licence in 1997 and the company sailed into financially calmer waters.

  By the time Fred Jr. turned fifty, he’d grown weary of the fish business. After the demise of cod, it was never the same, he says. The industry seemed to lurch from one direction to another like a ship without a rudder and there was no longer any cohesiveness in the industry.

  “Everyone is frightened to death to offer an idea these days, because the minute you fly it they’re out there waiting to shoot it down—sometimes just for the sake of shooting it down, no matter how good and honest the idea is,” he says.

 
Fred says he misses the days of cod when hundreds of people worked at the plant and the wheels of industry hummed along at a relatively steady pace, and if fishermen and processors worked hard, everyone could make a living.

  But everything changed after the moratorium. It was as if the industry’s heartbeat had been stilled. So, in 2010, when Daley Brothers were looking to buy a plant, Fred was interested in talking.

  “After all, it’s not every day that someone comes along and wants to talk about buying your fish business these days,” he says. Fred and Daleys made a deal. Meanwhile, both Fred and Geoff are still involved on a contract basis.

  “I still deal with my fishermen and my traditional buyers, like the Japanese and so on.”

  Daleys have invested further into the New Harbour operation, and that makes Fred very happy.

  “I would not have sold if I thought the buyer was planning to move the business out of the community. I want to always hear the sound of forklifts, air compressors, and trucks forever in New Harbour. That is extremely important to me and that is why Daleys’ offer was attractive to me. I knew they intended to invest in the New Harbour plant.”

  A conversation with Fred Woodman about anything these days usually segues to his lifelong passion: hunting. And now that he has more time to indulge in that passion, he spends more time than ever in the woods. He recently returned from Saskatchewan, where he was guiding a hunting expedition for a month.

  “Hunting is the only thing and place in the world where I am totally at peace,” he says with a smile. “I hunt like I’m hungry. When I’m out there in the morning chasing a bird or something, I hunt like I won’t have anything for supper unless I’m successful. I eat, breathe, and sleep hunting twenty-four hours a day, 365 days a year.” He has also turned photography into a bit of a hobby and has an artistic eye. He is keenly aware when he sees what will be a good photo.

  Fred has many stories about growing up in New Harbour as the son of a businessman. In small-town Newfoundland, class distinction has always been polarized between fisherman and the so-called merchant. From the days of the Water Street merchants of St. John’s, fish processors are often vilified as conniving and bad people. Fred says he remembers being told to leave a friend’s house simply because he was the son of a fish processor.

  “That kind of stuff is hard to understand when you’re only six or seven years old.”

  Perhaps that’s why his mom might have preferred that her sons had followed a different career path. Even though Fred sensed her feelings, she didn’t try to change his mind. Fred says his family worked very hard in the family business.

  “It was daylight till dark, and the first one home would make something for supper because Mother was often the last one to leave the plant,” he recalled.

  Fred’s outgoing personality and joy of living probably helped him deal with the negativity of small-town politics. He truly enjoyed being able to offer jobs to people in his community.

  “I’d say that as many as ninety-five per cent of the working people in New Harbour area worked for us at one time or another.”

  Conversely, he says it was very painful when he had to let someone go.

  “That person was probably a neighbour or a family friend, because in a small town everyone is your neighbour.”

  Fred Woodman Jr. is a content person these days. His dad passed away, but even when Fred Sr. was ailing, Fred Jr. would drop by as often as he could for a visit and took his dad for a drive and a chat.

  “We were very much alike, and that’s probably why we argued so much. There were times we’d almost come to smacks at the plant, and on the way home for supper Dad would say ‘I guess we won’t go troutin’ this evening, then.’ ‘Oh yes, sure we will, I’ll pick you up at six thirty,’ I’d reply, and that would be the end of that.”

  Fred Jr. says his father had ample opportunity to rub his nose in the dirt for making a bad deal once or twice, but he never did. It’s about respect, he says.

  “One time I really screwed up on a deal and Dad looked at me and said, ‘I guess some people have to go to university for five years to learn something, but I think you learned a good lesson this time.’

  “‘Lesson learned, Dad,’ I said. And you know what? Of all the things I can think about now, what I remember most is that he never made anything of it.”

  Perhaps Fred Sr. remembered his own advice. “Make a decision, even if it’s a bad one.”

  Chapter 8

  Privateers and Cutthroats

  “Rosborough” was an instantly recognizable brand in the world of wooden yachts from the 1960s through to the age of fibreglass boats.

  Rosborough was James “Doug” Rosborough from Halifax, the designer of nearly 150 distinctive yachts for a host of clients that included some of North America’s most prominent people.

  Cover of Doug Rosborough’s autobiography

  Confessions of a Boatbuilder (Photo courtesy of Bob Rosborough)

  Doug developed a deep love of boats when he was just a boy. His business career began with a fascination for the lowly little schooners known as “jack boats” that were popular on the south coast of Newfoundland.

  Doug’s business plan was simple: find an old Newfoundland jack schooner that was destined to be chopped up for firewood and bring it to Nova Scotia for rebuilding and put a “For Sale” sign on it.

  In the pursuit of growing a business in the marine industry, oftentimes the people one must associate with are not all members of the church choir. Doug learned all about that when he needed to hire people to sail boats from Newfoundland to Nova Scotia. Finding a crew was not always easy and he’d often be forced to settle for old salts of dubious character.

  In his memoir, a wonderful book called Confessions of a Boatbuilder, Doug recounts a story when one of his clients couldn’t wait to see his future boat even before it had been refurbished and converted to a pleasure craft.

  An American fellow named Sid Rice drove his big yellow Cadillac up from the United States, picked up Doug, and drove to the wharf where Doug’s motley crew of rogues had docked for the night.

  “I tooted the horn [on Sid’s Cadillac] and three bedraggled, hungover heads appeared out of the schooner hatches. One was Don Holder, with stubble beard and a battered hat, while another was one-eyed Eddie who had lost an eye in a barroom brawl and only the sunken socket remained. The third was Captain Tom McMartin with long hair, a huge gold earring, and a two-foot-long sheath knife on his belt.

  “Oh my God, look at them!” Sid exclaimed. “Captain Blood and his Calcutta Cutthroats.”

  After several years buying, redesigning, and rebuilding old schooners, a shipyard owner and friend sat Doug down for a chat one day.

  “Cyril Russell insisted that it would be far less frustrating and easier to build new boats than to repair old ones—and went on to explain why,” Doug says.

  He respected Cyril and valued his opinion, and after some initial reluctance he decided he would study new vessel design and give it a try. Doug, married with children, also worked with the telephone company full-time to make ends meet and couldn’t go back to the classroom, so he bought all the instructional material he could find and studied every word.

  “Dad is a self-made man,” Doug’s eldest son, Bob Rosborough, explains. “He is a vessel designer-constructor,” he says, with heavy emphasis on the tor. Doug also liked to refer to himself by using that old-fashioned term.

  “Traditionally, a ‘constructor’ designed the vessel, took his plans to the yard, and often lived there to interpret his design and the owner’s wishes,” Doug says, giving his reader-listener the feeling that he took great pride in being that person.

  After reaching his self-applied competence and comfort level in new design, Doug was ready for his new career and it wasn’t long before orders were coming in. Doug hired ship
yards in Ship Harbour, Chester, Sambro, and eventually A. F. Theriault Ltd. in Meteghan to carry out his construction work, and soon he knew every yard employee and everything about them.

  While the builders were not as colourful as the sailors, some were “interesting,” to put it politely. After being greeted one morning with a gruff grumble from one fellow, Doug was informed by a co-worker that this was not a good day to ask how the builder’s day was going.

  “His wife left him a few days ago, he just had a fight with his daughter, and she left, too. The mortgage company seized his house and the sheriff seized the boat shop. A neighbour complained that his German shepherd had broken a chain and went over and killed several of the neighbour’s chickens, so he borrowed someone’s gun and shot the dog. So, Doug, boy, this was not a good time to ask how his day was going.”

  Bob Rosborough sitting in one of the company’s current small-boat designs

  Doug’s early love of basic schooner design influenced his work and resulted in sailing yachts of various descriptions, mostly brigantines. Privateers were his specialty. He also did several modern powerboats, but the golden age of sail was his first love. One of his most complex brigs was built for Admiral Richard Black of the US Navy.

  Admiral Black had great knowledge of ships and knew exactly what he wanted, so the construction of his forty-six-foot vessel Valkyrie was very much a custom design. Black had acquired some oak wood from the famous USS Constitution, a three-masted, wooden, heavy frigate built in the late 1790s. The admiral wanted to use the oak to fashion gun carriages for a small, but working, cannon to be mounted on his vessel. In keeping with his desire to have his yacht as authentic as possible to the colonial period that he knew so much about, Admiral Black had Doug design and cast one-inch swivel guns to be mounted on the “taffrails” aft.