“Frankie,” Jerome hollered. “There’s Tides Point! We’re almost to the sea!”
Paddy grinned as his boys raced to port to view the red-and-white-striped lighthouse that rose up from its perch atop a cliff. The sight never ceased to stir Paddy’s heart. The last protected cove, Tides Point bordered the sea, heralding the start of the journey, the beginning of the adventure, and a freedom that he could never taste on shore.
Paddy remembered the joy he experienced on his first trip with his own father, Tom Walsh. A boy of twelve, he was awed by the wild and unpredictable sea, the challenge of finding the fish, and the fierce competition among the dorymen and skippers. Oh how he loved standing on board, watching his father race back to Marystown, wanting to be the first to return with a boatload of cod.
His love for fishing and the sea grew with every sail, every journey. “Yur a natural son, a born fish-killer,” Paddy’s father had told him.
When he returned from Boston, a man in his twenties with a few years’ apprenticeship behind him, Paddy was confident and prepared to take on the job of a skipper. And he soon learned: There was no greater calling than to command a vessel, command a crew. Ye felt like a king, in charge, from dawn to dusk, fighting the sea that could be yur friend or foe. And no matter the conditions—ca’am waters, gales, fierce wind or t’ick of fog—Paddy always found the fish. His reputation had spread far and wide from Newfoundland’s shores. His legend grew with every catch, every return as the “highliner,” the captain who always came home with his vessel loaded to the brim, overflowing with fish, rail to rail.
And now he stood at the helm of Annie Anita, ready for another go, another challenge. Aye, but along with the thrill came the responsibility of getting the crew home safely, making sure they made a fair catch, a good haul to feed their families. He sized up his men now as they finished securing lines. His second hand, Tom Reid, towered over the others. A giant of a man, he always met Paddy’s gaze straight on and followed orders without a fight. Reid could be counted on to work hard, keep his wits about him, and take command if needed.
Paddy recited the other crew names in his head: John Brinton, George Mitchell, Dominic Walsh, Charles Hanrahan, and Edward Clarke. Good men, each had sailed with Paddy many a time. With the exception of Dominic, who was soon to be married, all of the other crew members had children and wives depending on them. Paddy never forgot the men had families at home waiting and worrying, families that prayed for their safe return. He had never lost a man in his years as skipper, and despite the dorymen’s unspoken worries about this journey and the August gales, Paddy was not about to lose a member of his crew now.
As the sun rose higher, it colored the dawn like a kaleido-scope with streaks of pink and peach. Paddy searched for oncoming clouds, clouds as gray as mackerel tails, but his eyes spied nothing but swaths of blue.
Aye, a fine day, and a fine stretch of weather ahead, Paddy told himself. Me boys will have a good trip.
A few miles behind Paddy’s vessel, James Walsh stood at the helm of Mary Bernice. James gripped the wheel and tried to contain the joy, the fierce pride that threatened to burst through his chest. In the days before they sailed, his father Paddy had told him, “James, there’s no describing it, no telling what it’s like to captain a vessel, be yur own man, yur own boss, king of the seas.”
For years, James took orders from his father and other skippers, listened to their shouts and curses. But now he was in charge, the one who barked the orders, plotted the course, decided where to fish, and when to lower the dories over the side. Not long after they hoisted the sails that morning, a crew member had called him Capt’n, and James had nodded nonchalantly. But silently he told himself: I’m a captain! Since he was a small boy rowing dories in the bay, he dreamed of being a skipper, a highliner like his da, outfishing, outsailing the other schooners. And now James had his chance, his own vessel to master, to command.
Aye, his father was right: ’Twas no feeling like it. Nothing compared. Still, James knew his shoulders bore a tremendous responsibility. He had heeded the advice from his father. “Respect the sea; know its strength, its fearsome power. If ye don’t, ye and yur crew won’t live very long.”
James watched his crew now as they stood on deck, the four men his father had handpicked: Richard Hanrahan, Dennis Long, Michael Farrell, and Billy Reid. Except for Reid who was in his twenties, all of the other men were veteran sailors, dorymen who had seen their share of storms, gales, and had spent many days lost at sea, rowing their dories in fog and dark of night. He hoped to give them all a fair journey, find the fishing grounds that would offer them tubs of cod, a successful trip for his maiden voyage, a grand trip for them all. And of course, James would like nothing more than to beat his father, to fill his hold first. But there was another reason he had hoped to land the cod quick and fast: He knew his wife, Lucy, wept over his absence.
The image of her sobbing tormented him. In the hours before he departed, she sat by the kitchen stove, her feet swollen, her broad belly stretching the seams of her cloth dress. James had knelt at her feet and held her hand.
“It will be alright, Lucy,” he told her. “I’ll be home in a week’s time.”
“But what about the baby?” she cried. “It will be here soon. I want ye near.”
“I’ll be by yur side soon enough. The cold months are comin’ and we won’t be to sea then. I’ll be here with ye through the winter, helping ye care for our wee child.”
Lucy wiped her tears, knowing there was little she could do. She knew James had desired to captain his schooner long before he met her. He had talked, dreamed, planned for this trip over the past four years. Now the time had come for James to stand at the helm, and Lucy understood that nothing—not even the birth of their child—could keep him ashore.
She fingered the Rosary beads in her lap and made the sign of the cross upon her forehead as her husband turned to leave. Her words, a plea loud and desperate, followed him out the door: “Mary, Mother of God, bring him safely home to our baby.”
CHAPTER 14
“WELCOME HOME”—MARYSTOWN, JUNE 2003
The directions seem simple enough.
“Turn left at Goobies,” my cousin Jack Brenton, Alan’s son, tells us. “And just keep going straight till you hit Marystown.”
“Goobies?” my father, sister, and I ask each other.
After landing at St. John’s, renting a car, and traveling one hundred miles west along the Trans-Atlantic Canadian Highway, we arrive in the small village of Goobies. A community of near two hundred, the village is known among travelers as a place to gas up and get grub at the Irving petrol station. The rest stop is also renowned for Morris the Moose, a statue which towers over the parking lot. Ten feet tall, the sculpture was created as a reminder to tourists and Newfoundlanders to keep a careful eye out for the 110,000 moose that roam the province and cause up to nine hundred car accidents a year.
Thankfully, dusk (the preferred time for moose to forage) is three hours away on this June evening as we leave Goobies and head south. My cousin does not tell us much about the two-lane throughway that will take us through the “barrens” and onto Marystown and the Burin Peninsula but we soon learn: It will be a long and lonely ride.
For the next ninety minutes, we will see few cars and minimal signs of civilization. Ten thousand years ago glaciers ravaged this land, scraping the terrain of its topsoil and trees. What remains are the barrens—miles and miles of rocks, boulders, and cliffs—remnants of mountains that were broken up by ancient sheets of gigantic ice. Aside from occasional birds, we see no other evidence of life. The stark landscape stretches south for nearly one hundred miles, testing our eyes after a full day of travel. My father, tired and still uneasy about this trip, utters the first of many “Jesus Christ! Where the hell is Marystown?”
Joanie and I smile and say nothing, figuring we haven’t a clue where Marystown is anyway. We take turns driving, and as I focus on the flat stretch of road ahead,
I muse that it could be worse. The fog that often shrouds Newfoundland in the summer, endangering fishermen and sailors, would make this ride particularly unpleasant. The sheets of mist would blind us and put us at even more risk of hitting one of the myriad of animals (bears, coyotes, caribou, and moose) that roam the barrens.
I take careful note of the bright yellow road signs that depict a moose and a crushed car. An hour or so into our journey, we are heartened by the sight of villages and harbors. We read markers for Petite Forte, Rushoon, Red Harbour, towns that lie to the east on the shores of Placentia Bay. Settled in the early sixteenth century, the Placentia Bay communities were named by the European fishermen who were drawn to Newfoundland’s bountiful waters. Portuguese, French, Irish, English, Spanish, and Basque fishermen sailed along Newfoundland’s shores, eager to hunt cod, the bottom-feeding fish that British explorer John Cabot noted were so plentiful that they could be plucked from the sea with a basket weighted down with stone. “The sea is swimming with fish,” Cabot reported when he claimed the island in the North Atlantic as “New Found Land” for King Henry VII in 1497.
Four centuries later, I picture Paddy sailing the bays of Placentia and St. Mary’s, the hold of his schooner filled with layer upon layer of cod. I see the sails of Annie Anita stretched tight against the wind, with Jerome and Frankie on board as the schooner sluices through the water on its August journey. I am eager to reach Marystown and to stand along the bay where Paddy’s crew unfurled his sails and heaved the anchor on that warm summer morning. I am excited, too, to see Paddy’s home, the old Molloy Hotel bought for his wife Lil. Fortunately the 120-year-old house is still standing and is owned by my cousin, Alan Brenton, who has done little to change the historic building. I am anxious to step inside, to walk along the pine floors where Paddy, Lillian, and their children once stepped.
The summer sun continues to sink lower in the sky, and after traveling nearly two hours along this bleak highway, we are restless to arrive in Marystown, the largest of the five communities on the boot-shaped Burin Peninsula. “Jesus Christ,” my father mutters again, exasperated. “I wish I had a beer.”
Spotting a roadside shop, we pull over to stretch our legs, get beer, and buy a gift for our relatives. Inside the store, which is actually a garage of sorts, Joanie and I find a sparse collection of groceries—milk, bread, cereal, cigarettes, beer, and liquor. We explain to the woman who presides over the premises that we’re looking for a present for our relatives. She quickly suggests Screech, Newfoundland’s beloved one-hundred-proof rum. I will later learn the liquor received its name in the early 1900s, after an American commanding officer was offered a shot of the caramel-colored liquid as an after-dinner cordial. Seeing his Newfoundland host toss back the drink, the officer did the same. Not prepared for the scorching sensation as the liquor traveled down his throat, the officer let out a loud and anguished howl. His scream drew the attention of his sergeant, who pounded on the door and asked, “What the cripes was that ungodly screech?” A Newfoundlander replied “The screech? ’Tis the rum, me son.”
The setting sun burns the clouds orange and violet as we begin to see houses along the road, signs of an oncoming community; Marystown, we hope. Soon a roadside sign informs us we are indeed in my grandfather’s birthplace. “Thank God,” we tell each other, relieved that our arduous day of travel is nearly over.
Not long after we enter the town, we find our relatives’ business, Brenton Rentals and Sales, which is co-owned by Jack and his father, Alan. We pull up to the large garage doors and yard, where several large tractors and excavators loom. Inside the garage bays, the Brentons are waiting for us. They shake our hands and offer hugs, telling us, “Welcome Home.”
Both Alan and Jack are eager to meet Ambrose’s firstborn son and his granddaughters. They consider our side of the family a bit of a mystery: the relatives who were never heard from, the family that chose to disavow its Newfoundland roots. Years ago, through Ambrose, the Brentons have heard bits and pieces about our lives. They know that my father was a successful engineer who at one time managed hundreds of employees. They know he has a home in New Hampshire, a wife, Patricia, six daughters, and several grandchildren. And they understand, after phone calls and e-mails with my father, that he is apprehensive about this trip and meeting strangers, relatives who are familiar with far too many details of his life and the life of the man who abandoned him.
After a few minutes of awkward conversation, my father, Joanie, and I realize that the Brentons are sincerely excited that we have traveled to Marystown. While Jack gives us a tour of his offices, Alan silently studies my father, considering the likeness between my dad and Ambrose. He notes their similar build, their tall, muscular frames. Alan also takes a quick liking to my father, whose confident nature and affable manner remind him of his Uncle Ambrose. Still, Alan is careful not to say too much about my grandfather on our first night. An astute businessman adept at reading customers’ wants and needs, Alan saves details and conversations about Ambrose for later—some of which will be difficult for my father to hear.
While Alan is more reserved and quiet, his son Jack, a thirty-five-year-old man with a family of his own, is jovial and outgoing. He feels comfortable with us soon after we meet. “It was like I knew ye all my life,” he will later tell me. “Ye felt like family pretty fast.”
The Brentons’ hospitality quickly sets my father at ease. Joanie, too, is surprised at our cousins’ friendly nature, and she wonders about their resilience, their ability to thrive in such a struggling community. She sizes up their looks, their features, disappointed that they do not share our family’s likeness, our dark hair, our freckled skin.
I am struck by the sound of the Brentons’ voices. When Jack and Alan speak, their tone is lyrical, singsong, like the Irish brogue that was first spoken in Marystown and other southeastern outports in the mid-1800s. Their conversation is infused with “aye, right on, and ye,” and I am comforted by this connection to our Irish ancestors.
“Right, so why don’t we give ye’s a quick tour of Marystown before we head out to camp. Aye?” Jack suggests.
We nod and follow the Brentons in their car past Tim Horton’s, McDonald’s, the town’s one traffic light, and over the Cannery Bridge which was built in the 1950s to connect Marystown’s southern and northern shores. The bay that leads east to the sea is dark and rippled by a slight evening breeze. Here, Paddy’s schooners once moored. Here, he unloaded thousands of pounds of cod, his catch drawing a crowd of young and old fishermen, who marveled at his skill in finding the fish. Across the bridge, we turn left and stop before a hill that slopes down the road. A three-story house looms above us. Several of its windows are boarded, the paint is peeling, and the two chimneys are crumbling; still, the sight of my great-uncle’s home mesmerizes me. I picture Paddy slamming shut his broad front door and walking along the footpath to his wharf. He would have strolled along on the road where we now stand. I envision young boys carefully doffing their caps and offering, “Evening, Capt’n Paddy, sir.” I hear Frankie and Jerome running after their da, hollering as they raced toward the Annie Anita, eager to climb the rigging, place their small hands on the helm.
There is a chill in the early June night air, and the sky is black with a sprinkling of stars. Lights flicker in the homes that hug the bay; a century ago, village kerosene lamps cast shadows onto walls, woodstoves warmed small kitchens, and Rosary beads were pulled from pockets for evening prayers.
Knowing we are eager to get inside Paddy’s home, Alan promises to give us a tour the following day. Back in the car, we drive over the bridge, past the Sacred Heart Church, past the cemetery, to Jack’s nearby summer camp. Not long after we drop our bags in the cottage, we offer our gift to the Brentons. Jack and Alan laugh as they open the bottle of Screech. Jack pours a glass for each of us, and we toast to our unexpected trip to Marystown. I swallow the Screech and wince; the liquor is potent and burns my throat. My father also grimaces. “Wow,” he says, “that
is strong.”
Joanie sips hers with ice and puckers her lips after a swallow. “This isn’t bad.”
The Brentons have stocked our fridge with bacon, eggs, cheese, milk, coffee, and beer. Their hospitality, we will later discover, has just begun. Noting our tired faces, they bid us goodnight and tell us once more, “Welcome Home.”
Exhausted, my father, Joanie, and I quickly claim our beds. My father offers to sleep on the pull-out couch, Joanie chooses the room with bunk beds, and I head to the adjoining bedroom. My father falls asleep quickly, and in the dark I listen to his slow, measured breathing. I cannot hear Joanie from behind her closed bedroom door, and I want to whisper, ask her if she too is awake, but I don’t want to roust her or my father. I toss beneath my bedcovers and wonder what the next few days will bring. What stories will we hear about the gale and about my grandfather? How will people treat us, how will they react to Ambrose’s son?
In my mind, I hear the Brentons’ initial greeting, spontaneous and heartfelt, “Welcome home.” Home, they tell us, as if we were missed, long awaited, and are now embraced after decades of absence. Before I drift into sleep, I think of my grandfather and my Nana: What would they have thought of our coming home?
CHAPTER 15
THE TEMPEST ROARS NORTH—NORTH ATLANTIC, 1935
A few days old and whirling north, the hurricane season’s first tropical storm caused little concern along the American eastern coast. The National Weather Bureau reported the tempest had blown out to sea with no apparent danger of striking the States—unless it unexpectedly changed course.
August Gale Page 11
