A Stroke in Time

by Gerard Doran

  “I can’t read plans, so we uses hatpins to help me understand scale and distance. The pins are equal length, at ten to one, to each rib from centre board to gunwale. The ribs are an exact distance apart, to hold the planking tight to the centre board.”

  Sexton got up and walked the full length of one side of the half-completed boat, his hands passing tenderly over the unvarnished cedar.

  “Mahoney couldn’t have built this. The length of the ribs from gunwale to gunwale gives you the curve of the hull. The ribs are important. They got to be exactly the same from the bow to stern.”

  Watt and John had built boats themselves, trap skiffs and punts. Watt shook his head. “How do you do all this all by yourself?”

  “It’s not hard for me to build a boat, but I’m that much better at it since Rendell came on the scene. Dr. Rendell knows how to design a boat. Building them this way makes them faster because of the strong hull. We already knows Rendell can deliver. The last three boats I built were his design, and look at their regatta records. Look at the Glance! By gum, they were going to cancel the regatta in ’96 if the Glance was entered, seeing she won thirteen out of fourteen races in ’95.” For a moment, Sexton’s face was alive and shining with memory. Then it grew serious again. “If the hull is weak, a crew full of big men can row as hard as they want, but the boat won’t hit top speed.” Sexton walked over to Watt and John. “Brute force alone won’t make this boat go fast. You got to know how to manage her. She’ll go like the wind if you handle her right.”

  When he heard the word “wind,” John made the sign of the Cross and looked out a window.

  Sexton, eager to share his knowledge, held court for an hour or so, John and Watt hanging on his words. Darkness began to settle on the shed, and the fading evening light struggled to get through the small windows. Sexton struck a match to the wick of the kerosene lamp. Its glow pushed back the darkness in the shed, the light dancing off the hull. The long, skeletal form of the partially completed hull gave a clue to its structure.

  “I never seen a boat like this before,” said Watt.

  “When it’s finished in the spring, I’ll take the back wall out of the linny before I puts the final coats of varnish on.” Sexton waved his hands at the back of the shed. “I needs to be sure there’s lots of warm air coming through here when the varnishing is done. It got to be coated completely in one day, and dry the same day, too.” He picked up the lantern and walked along the side of the boat, holding the lantern close to the frame. “Every square inch of the hull got to have the exact same finish.” He raised his hands and then lowered them as if he were taking the final details out of thin air and applying them. “If she’s smooth all along the length of the hull, that will add more speed to her.” Sexton patted the sleek cedar. “If a boat is exactly right—not built weak, not old and rotten—then you rowers won’t have your strength wasted, strength you needs against the water. A bad shell takes the good right out of her rowers. It makes sense.”

  Watt looked at John and inclined his head toward the door. “It’s getting late, my son. We should get back to the cove. This is fine work, Bob. Thanks for showing her to us.”

  John and Watt made the short, steep walk down to gather the horse and cart from the stable on Duckworth Street.

  “Jeez, John, couldn’t you find an easier way back to the stable than Holloway Street? This is too steep for me old knees.”

  “Watt, I’d say your legs are a bit weak from the surprise you got seeing that shell.”

  “You’re half right, John. That’s going to be quite the race boat when it’s done.” Watt grabbed John’s arm as they moved toward the bottom of the street. “How will we get the use of it if we race next year?”

  “Hold on, skipper, we’re almost on the flat.”

  Though nothing was said, both men felt the temptation to turn the cart toward the Cochrane Street Hotel for a jar of ale. But John snapped the reins, and Prince kept going along Duckworth. As they travelled the worn and rattling cobblestones and rolled onto Ordnance Street, the first night stars flickered in the sky over Government House. The city had quieted down while they were at Sexton’s. The night was disturbed only by the clattering hooves of Prince and the last evening run of the streetcar chugging westward along Military Road. Sparks burst from the overhead connecting rods as it passed them. Prince snorted, and John said a few soothing words to him.

  The canopy of leaves overhead along King’s Bridge Road dropped an early autumn leaf into the carriage, which landed between John and Watt. It had fallen silently, but it broke the hush between the two men.

  “I can stroke that boat Sexton is building, Watt.”

  “Guaranteed, John. But it’s October now. You can’t plan to row next year in the hopes of finding a crew in the spring. Spring is too late, you knows that. You got to get the men to sign on now.”

  “Will you get the right men together?”

  “I will. We’ll meet on Sunday night. One thing is certain—the McCarthy brothers will row. But we needs three more besides them. I think I can find them. The hard part will be making the few fellas I won’t be asking mad at me. But I’m used to that.”

  Excitement raced through them, and through Prince, too, it seemed, as the horse picked up his pace along King’s Bridge.

  “Are we going to go up Kenna’s Hill, John, or down Cottage Farm Road by the pond and take the shortcut across Ross’s farm?”

  John smiled. He knew what Watt wanted. “We’re heading to the pond, b’y.”

  They pulled Prince halfway down the long dirt road and looked down the bank at the pond. The absence of light did not affect its grace and beauty as it lay motionless in the quiet of the evening. How could a still, dark, mile-long length of water seem so full of life? It was devoid of motion except for the brown trout that breached its dim surface. The pond had many stories, but it was keeping them to itself tonight, those stories of victory and heartbreak—even of death.

  John slipped into the quiet kitchen where Kate sat next to the crackling wood stove. He took off his jacket and cap and flopped onto the daybed.

  “I’m so glad you’re home. What in the name of God were you doing and what kept you so long?”

  “Looking at the pond, that’s all.”

  “Looking at the pond?’

  “Yes.”

  “Reliving past glories or planning new ones?” Kate shook her head. She stood up, lifted one of the stove lids, and took a poker to the fire. Then she lifted a junk of wood from a box beside the stove and slipped it in. The kettle steamed to life a short time later.

  “You and Watt are both fools. Old fools at that.” She laughed.

  “Oh, Kate, we were just looking at the pond, that’s all.”

  “You know, there’s more to life than rowing, John. Tommy Slater was here almost till dark this evening. He said his mother is feeling sick and that she hasn’t been able to care for herself or him the last few days.” Kate sat down next to John and folded her arms across her breast.

  “I’m sure we can find some help for them,” said John, sitting up. “I’ll talk to the lads at the beach tomorrow. I’ll go see Father Clarke, too.”

  Chapter

  5

  Watt pitched himself on the top of the grassy bank like an eagle coming to land among her nested young. He gazed down at the boats pushing off into the choppy sea. The time to make choices for next year’s crew was now. Talk and more talk never amounted to anything. Could he stay away from the drinking and build a crew? Those who work hard are rewarded. The core of the crew was Whelan—he could build around John. The others would get better by following the best.

  Who would the other three be? Jack Nugent and Martin Boland were fine, experienced oarsmen. Would they want to make up next year’s crew? Could they put themselves second to the crew? Could they take the hard work and the risk
of everything going bust? He was far from perfect, but he could commit himself to the task. As he scanned the cluster of men in their boats, Tommy Slater appeared.

  “Mr. Power, how come you don’t have a boat in Outer Cove?” Tommy walked in a circle around Watt and then sat down beside him. ‘You seems to like it here.”

  Watt hid his grin, pretending not to hear Tommy.

  The boy followed Watt’s stare. “Some of them men out there have rowed in the regatta, you know. They’re stronger than the Torbay men.” Tommy looked up at Watt. “I hears them talking. Are you too old to row anymore, Mr. Power? My mother says you sits in the boat and tells the other men how to row.”

  “Tommy, you’re a devil for questions. But that’s a fine thing, shows you’re interested in how things work. You’re a clever boy.”

  A cool autumn breeze tousled Watt and Tommy’s hair. The smell of lingering wildflowers was long gone from the air, warmed now only by sporadic breaks in the clouds that eclipsed the weakening rays of the sun. Tommy stood up and leaned his elbow on Watt’s shoulder, man and boy watching the men in the cove rowing out into the mackerel-blue sea.

  “Mr. Power, why do some of them in the dories row together so quick while some of the others appears to be all mixed up?” Tommy moved his head from side to side. “Just look at Mr. Nugent and Mr. Boland out there. They rows like the birds. I means the geese. You knows, the ones way up high that makes that big V shape.”

  Watt struck a match to his pipe and made short puffs until the tobacco was lit. Tommy ducked away from the smoke wafting in his direction.

  “Why do you smoke that pipe, Mr. Power?”

  “It helps me figure things out sometimes.” Watt smiled at Tommy. “But I don’t think you should try. It might make you sick.”

  “Mother said if I smokes I won’t grow up to be tall like a man.”

  “You should listen to her, my son.” Watt patted Tommy on the top of his tangled mass of hair. “She’s a good woman. You should always listen to your mother.” Watt dusted off his pants and tapped his pipe against a rock to empty the ash.

  Eager to get back to the beach and be part of the commotion on the shore, Tommy sped back down over the slope. Watt watched him jump from punt to punt, sitting down in one from time to time pretending to row or shouting from the stern like a coxswain.

  Sunday afternoon in outer cove was a time of welcome rest, but Sunday evening was a dreadfully idle time, except for seven men on this particular Sunday evening. They were heading to a meeting with Watt Power at the liver house. It wasn’t the grandest place to have a meeting, with its barrels of fermenting liver that stank to high heaven, but it was a private shelter nonetheless.

  Watt stood at the entrance to the liver house and shook the men’s hands as they arrived.

  “Good evening, John.”

  “Good evening, Watt.”

  “Boland, Nugent.” Watt faked a punch at Martin Boland, who quickly sidled away.

  “Hello, Mr. Power,” said Nugent, grinning. “The McCarthys here yet?”

  “They’re inside.”

  Jack Doran rushed up to the door, gasping for breath. “Sorry I’m late.”

  “Go in, we’re all here now.”

  Watt went in last and closed the door behind him. He stood for a moment to try to gauge the mood of the room, and then he walked across the rickety floor. He checked the cover of one of the liver oil barrels to be certain it was tight before he sat on it. The stink of the place made his stomach turn. He sat down, holding his cold pipe in his hand, and cleared his throat.

  “Thank you for coming this evening. I’ll try not to keep you late.

  “Five miles from this place is where we’ll be at seven o’clock in the evening Regatta Day next year. We all know that day is our day. Or it can be.” He got up and walked a few feet along the rough floorboards, stopped, then turned on his heel and returned to the barrel.

  “You came here as single men—Martin, Dan, Din—” Watt pointed his finger at each man in turn, naming them, “—but we gathers here as a crew. Torbay already has their crew formed. Let’s make no assumptions, but I’ll tell you this.” Watt paused and jabbed his finger southward, in the direction of St. John’s. “When the bugle calls at the start of the championship race next regatta, the crews that answers it will be from Torbay and Outer Cove. And not one of the other Outer Cove crews, but ours. The best one.”

  The noise of the brook underneath the liver house crept up through the gaps in the floor.

  Watt left the barrel and stepped toward the men. He stopped and looked at them. “I don’t give a damn about the other crews—Blackhead, the Gut, the town crews. The whole works of them can watch the races from the shore.”

  “Watt, you’ll have to row without me.” All heads turned in Jack Doran’s direction. “I didn’t want to tell you that I couldn’t come to the meeting. Besides, I wanted to say my piece to the whole crew. I can’t row. I can’t pledge to be there all the time.” Doran’s voice was low and thick. “Me brother Richard, he has a bad back, he can’t fish all the time. And he got a young family. I got to help him out, do the work of two men. I’m sorry, b’ys.”

  The sound of the brook beneath the floor was suddenly louder. The liver house had become as silent as an empty church.

  “You’ll have to find another number three oar. Young Denis Croke is a good hand. He’s a tall lad, and strong, too. He’s been helping my brother when I can’t.”

  “You’re just saying that because he’s after your sister,” said Dan McCarthy. “Croke isn’t old enough to row with us. He’s green.” Dan looked at the others. “We should ask Bill Pine.” He nudged Martin, who sat beside him. “He’s always asking me what it’s like to be in the regatta. He’d like to try it out.”

  “Just a minute now, Dan,” said John. “I don’t know where you been all summer, but I seen Croke row many times. Let me ask you this—could you row from Logy Bay to Outer Cove alone in a stiff northerly breeze with your punt loaded to the gunwales when you were nineteen?”

  Jack Doran reached for the manila-rope-covered door handle and quietly stepped out of the liver house. The door closed on the remaining six. The stoggy air of the liver house seemed even thicker. Watt sensed the uneasiness. The men were thinking that perhaps a prizewinning crew was beyond their reach.

  “I’m not so sure about young Croke,” said Watt. “I can’t say I’ve seen him row much.”

  “Then why can’t you ask Pine?” Dan McCarthy wasn’t going to give up on his farmer friend.

  “Croke has never rowed in the races,” said Nugent. “There’s a big difference between rowing a trap skiff and rowing a shell on the pond. It’s a big step. Most of us rowed as juveniles, and we moved up with the men as we got older. We had time to get used to the shells.”

  “Those shells are pretty tippy, worse if you’re a greenhorn.” Din McCarthy rocked back and forth on his barrel. He winked at Watt. “If we’re going after Torbay, we better be ready.”

  Dan jumped to his feet. “There’s no bigger man in the cove than Bill Pine. I seen him building fences near our place. Three swings of the sledge and the fencepost almost disappears into the ground. He got brute strength. And I heard him say many times he’d like to row.”

  “Now, I’ll hear nothing more of this Bill Pine on the pond in any boat that I steer. I don’t have the rest of my life to teach someone how to row. He’s never rowed nothing.” Watt brought his hand down hard on the top of a barrel. “For the love of God, let’s stop this criss-cross yapping about this one and that one.”

  The meeting fell silent again. Watt stood and surveyed the five sets of eyes.

  “I know Pine is a strong man, but farmers don’t have time to do much else in the summer but work.” Watt took his pipe from his breast pocket. “Cows don’t take time off. Besides, I don’t thin
k Pine ever sat in a boat before, much less rowed one.”

  “I seen him out in a punt a few times on a Sunday afternoon.” Dan had to have the last word.

  “Pine is a good man, and a hard worker,” Watt said.

  “Then why don’t you give him a fair shot at it?” said Dan.

  The stench of fermented cod livers and musty lumber wasn’t as thick as the tension in the room, which was rising quicker than the sun was setting. Watt looked longingly at the door, and then replied to Dan. “I’m going to take Jack Doran’s advice. I’ll speak to Croke tomorrow.”

  “So you’re not going to ask Pine.” It was Jack Nugent this time.

  “No,” Watt said, raising his voice. “He’s never rowed before. This is not a lifting competition. If strength were the only thing needed to move a boat, I’d train six oxen to row.” He kicked an empty bucket, sending it tumbling over the floor. “Enough out of everybody!”

  “But Croke’s just nineteen,” said Boland.

  “Young blood can be a good thing.” Watt was having trouble controlling his anger.

  There was a murmur of unrest.

  “Some boys are born to be at sea,” John said, “and Din Croke is one of them. Croke can row and work with any of us.” He went and stood beside Watt. “He’s been out in a boat, sometimes six days a week from May to October, since he was fourteen. Not on the pond, but out there, out there where you become a fisherman, a rower.” John kicked open the door to the liver house and pointed at the beach. “Out there, where you have to row against the wind and the waves and tides. Out there on that big pond that turns a man into a rower, a rower like me and like all of ye here.” He stood in the doorway. “Croke might be just nineteen, but he’s a fisherman.”

  Chapter

  6

  The liver house was empty except for John and Watt. The decision to leave Pine out in favour of Croke had been made, but Croke still had to be asked. Even if he agreed to row, he’d need a lot of practice. Watt frowned. “Well, all we can do is ask him.” He drew his pipe out of his jumper pocket and lit it.