August Gale

by Walsh, Barbara

  Despite the home’s historic past, its future, Alan has told us, is uncertain. After buying his Uncle Paddy’s home five years ago, he has yet to decide whether he will sell it or tear the house down and rebuild. I cringe at the thought of the home demolished, destroyed.

  In my mind’s eye, I see Lillian in the parlor window, her slender fingers wrapped around prayer beads. The schooners are gone, the Annie Anita and Mary Bernice sailed four days past. Lillian does not sleep while Paddy and her three sons are at sea. Dreams of storms and gales rob her of rest, and on August 24, she sits for hours by the window, waiting and praying for their return. Her eyes on the bay and her hand on her heart, she whispers, “Look after them, Paddy. Bring my sons home, safe ashore.”

  CHAPTER 17

  “THERE’S A DIVIL COMING!”—NEWFOUNDLAND FISHING GROUNDS, AUGUST 1935

  Strange things began to happen in the sea.

  Anchor buoys marking the dorymen’s fishing trawl sank and then shot back to the surface. The lines curled and twisted as if they were caught in a whirlpool fathoms below. Fishermen eyed their gear and the sky. Aside from the orange glow of sunset, no dark clouds loomed. The ocean did not swell, and the wind did not breeze up. Still, the seasoned dorymen knew the sea was not right; the current beneath the dories ran like a river. Something fierce was coming.

  West of Cape St. Mary’s, Mary Bernice’s crew hauled cod from the shoal reefs along Placentia Bay. Bent over the dory gunnel, Dennis Long dragged his fishing line into the boat. The catch was good on this August evening. The gray-haired fisherman pulled a fish from nearly every fourth hook. Long reckoned they could haul a thousand pounds of fish by midnight, but the fifty-five-year-old doryman did not like the peculiar shift in the sea. He had taken to the dory when he was just nine years of age, and more than four decades on the water had taught him to mind the subtle changes, changes that portended deadly storms.

  Long glanced at the pile of cod; the dory was only half full. He could stay out and fill the boat, but getting caught in the shoal waters, twenty and thirty fathoms deep among clusters of rock and reef, would be treacherous in a storm. And if a gale, an August gale, was coming, she would come fast. They would have little time to row back to the Mary Bernice. Long worried, too, about the young captain James Walsh. A maiden voyage was rough enough without fighting an August gale. And the lad had been a bit distracted, fretting no doubt about his wife giving birth while he was at sea. Long knew James would need some help at the helm, if a fierce storm struck. Paddy had asked Long and Dick Hanrahan of Little Bay to keep watch over the young skipper, and there would be hell to pay if James did not return ashore. Long turned to his dorymate, a greenhorn who was eager to prove his fishing skills. “Sorry, son, it’s time to haul the gear and head for the schooner. A fierce storm is drawing near.”

  The younger doryman stared up at the clear night sky and began to argue, but Long’s stern gaze silenced the fisherman’s protest. The two men pulled their trawl into the dory, the hooks cartwheeling beneath their hands. Not caring where they landed or if they tangled, the dorymen tossed the lines in the bait tub and reached for their oars. Long sat down and prepared himself for a rough row back to the vessel. He rubbed the religious pendant beneath his shirt for comfort. The cloth scapular depicted the Blessed Virgin, and he never ventured upon the sea without it.

  “Pull hard, son,” Long told his dorymate. “We’ve not much time.”

  Throughout Placentia, St. Mary’s, and Trepassey Bays, foghorns wailed as schooner captains signaled their crews to return to their vessels. Crosses pressed against their palms, the dorymen rowed against a current that seemed to push them backward. As the southeastern wind breezed up, they pulled with a strength they did not know they possessed. There was no time for slacking off. A hurricane wind or a series of broadside waves would flip their dories like matchsticks, tossing them into the frigid sea. Their fate would be a doryman’s most dreaded end: Weighted down with their leather jackboots and oilskins, they’d sink like stones, dragged to a watery grave. Swallowed by the sea, their bodies would forever disappear beneath the blue-green water. Their families would have nothing then, no corpse to bury, no body to mourn. Their loved ones would keep nothing but the knowledge that their da went to sea and was never seen nor heard of more.

  Anchored off the coast of Cape Pine, the Annie Anita rocked on the swelling ocean. Concerned about the sudden breeze, Tom Reid searched for his own dorymen. The vessel’s three dories had departed not long after dusk. Having fallen seasick like Little Frankie, Reid stayed on board. Paddy had relentlessly teased Reid as he retched over the rail, but then the skipper surprised Reid with an offer: “I’ll take ye place in the dory.”

  Reid suspected the skipper wanted to keep close to his son Jerome, who had gone out with two other of the crew. The young fellow begged Paddy to let him fish. Though the captain was reluctant to let the boy go at night, Jerome pleaded, “I’m fourteen, Da. Ye were in the dory when ye were twelve!”

  As the sky blackened, Reid looked for the dory torches, the small dots of light moving closer to the schooner. Skipper Paddy would have known it was time to return; he would have noticed the buoys sinking, the anchors twirling. He would know that the current had gone mad, a sure sign that a gale was coming.

  Left behind to comfort Frankie, Reid tried to calm the boy. The lad fell silent, terrified of the waves that grew ragged and taller.

  “Jerome and yur da, they’ll be back soon, Frankie. Skipper Paddy knows the sea. He’s been shipwrecked, stuck in ice floes, and caught in gales before. He’ll be on board soon.”

  Frankie nodded, his eyes wide and glassy. The boy clutched the rigging tighter and called for his new companion to come sit by his side. “C’mere, Trey.”

  Reid knew the dorymen would have a fight to get back. They’d be battling the wind and the tide together, their boats loaded down with a thousand pounds of cod. Some of the crew would be tossing their fish into the sea, eager to lighten their load and quicken their pace. They would be fearing the skipper’s fury for returning with an empty dory, but they feared an August gale more than Paddy’s harsh temper.

  Paddy would be raging, cursing God and the oncoming gale as he pulled the oars. He’d be cursing the weatherglass that hours earlier foretold of nothin’ but fair weather, and he’d be cursing himself for letting his son Jerome set out for the night. The skipper, Reid knew, would not return until Jerome was safe on board. The Capt’n had assigned each dory a course; he would hunt for his son’s dory, search for the boat’s light as he shouted into the wind.

  The skipper would also be worried for James. A hundred questions would be roaring through Paddy’s mind. Can we beat the storm and get back on board in time? Should we sail the Annie Anita out to sea or chance heading north east into Trepassey? Is James clear of the ragged Virgin Rocks in Placentia Bay? Will he get his men back on deck?

  Reid recalled the words he had shared with Miss Lillian before they left Marystown. “Not to worry, Lil. I’ll look after Frankie, and Paddy will keep an eye on Jerome.”

  Jaysus, Paddy’d never come back in without his son. He would call down the Lord if he had to, but he would not leave his boy out to sea. Reid reckoned that it might be hours before Paddy returned. He readied the Annie Anita for the blow, battening the hatches, reefing the sails, and stowing gaffs, trawl, and bait tubs below, Still, once Paddy returned, they’d have some hard choices to make. Annie Anita’s position bore them few options. She sat five miles off Cape Pine, a treacherous site southwest of Trepassey Bay. With its sheer cliffs and sunkers, Cape Pine offered no safe harbors. The waters were shallow and littered with reefs. In a gale, ye’d have no chance there, caught in the shoal waters with waves pounding ye; the vessel would be smashed in two.

  Reid cranked the schooner horn again and again, calling his men home. The haunting bellows beckoned in the dark.

  “Where the hell ye at, Paddy?” Reid whispered.

  Hundreds of strokes from the Annie Anita, Pa
ddy rowed in the dark, his kerosene torch lighting a small patch of the sea. The dory rode up and down on the rolling waves. Foam spewed in spindrifts, circling the boat like spirits. The white horses, waves that curled and crested like a horse’s mane, pounded the dory’s bow. As Paddy’s dorymate John Brinton bailed, the skipper struggled to keep the boat from turning crossways in the sea. The combers were almost as tall as the fifteen-foot dory, and she rose up with them and crashed into their troughs with a teeth-jarring jolt. Blood trickled from Paddy’s hands as he gripped the oars and heaved his chest into every stroke. The skipper knew there was little time left to find Jerome and get back to the schooner. There was little time for them all. In the distance, Paddy could see a half dozen vessels racing for shore, their lights blazing on the bow and stern. A schooner hove to the wind, drew closer to Paddy’s dory. As the vessel sailed within shouting distance, the captain hollered over the rail, offering to hoist Paddy and his dory on board.

  Paddy recognized the skipper, a fisherman from Trepassey.

  “Paddy, ye’ve got to get in!” the captain shouted. “There’s a divil coming!”

  “I know,” Paddy bellowed into the wind. “We’d be gone in now b’y, but we’ve got a stray dory!”

  The Trepassey skipper nodded, bid the Marystown captain good luck and God’s blessing before pointing his schooner toward shore. Paddy pulled harder on the oars, his eyes blinded by the rain that lashed from a sky black as coal. Waves crested and broke, one after another, slamming the dory onto her sides. Paddy cursed the wind, the waves, and the gale that threatened to kill them all. He turned to the heavens and shouted: “Take me, ye son of a bitch! Just spare me boys!”

  The captain’s mind raced, wild with worry. He imagined Jerome terrified in a dory that pitched and rolled. The lad would be weeping, crying for the comfort of his mother and a warm bed at home. Jaysus, Jerome, don’t fret lad. The dorymen will get ye back to the schooner; we’ll get out of this then. We’ll pull the anchor and sail into Trepassey. Ye’ll be okay, boy. Hang on to the gunnels. Don’t let the seas wash ye overboard. Hold fast, ye’ll be home at your mother’s side soon.

  Paddy hoped the dorymen who took Jerome out had taken notice of the changes in the tide early. If they’d pulled their trawl at the first hint of the gale, they’d still have a chance to get on board the Annie Anita. Reid would be looking out for them; he’d keep the foghorn blowing, the lights bright. He’d keep the schooner steady and Frankie comforted until they returned. And James, was he keeping Mary Bernice hove into the wind? Was he at the helm?

  Head out to sea, James. Get away from the sunkers and the shoal water, son. The waves there will rise up from the bottom of the sea and pound the vessel to bits with the force of a freight train. Lash yourself to the wheel when the gale hits. When it gets dirty and dark, ye won’t be able to stand in the fearsome wind. And then the waves will come, one after another, combers that look like mountains. Keep ’er steady, take the waves as best ye can. Don’t let ’em hit ye broadside; the vessel, she’ll never right herself with the blow that will strike ’er. Ride with the storm, James, keep yur wits about ye and ride ’er out. You’re a captain now, son, bring yur crew home. I’ll see ye on Marystown’s shores. We’ll have plenty of yarns to share about yur first August gale, me boy. Ye will be telling stories until yur grandchildren tumble beneath yur feet.

  The full wrath of the August gale was but an hour away. The hurricane would strike sometime after 10:00 p.m. over Cape Pine, Trepassey, Cape St. Mary’s, and Placentia Bays. The southeastern corner off Newfoundland’s coast would suffer the top right hand of the storm, where the waves and wind would be most fierce. The waters there would be caught in a deadly trapped fetch. Two types of wind—the counterclockwise velocity of the gale and the forward speed of the hurricane—would combine to blow waves into forty, fifty, and sixty-foot monsters. The seasoned dorymen would remember the sounds as the gale grew closer, the rumbling in the distance, the thunder of mountainous waves crashing in the dark.

  Still awaiting her crew, the Annie Anita bucked into the heaving sea and crashed violently as her anchor pulled her back down. The waves were twenty feet tall now, and she could barely ride them out. If they grew bigger, she’d have no chance. Reid reckoned it was only a matter of time before the sea tore the anchor from the schooner, and then her bow would no longer point into the wind and waves. If she took a heavy sea cross-ways, she’d be doomed. Clinging to the rigging, Reid scanned the horizon. He could scarce see a vessel’s length. Visibility was pitiful with the rain and sea spray. Even the light atop Cape Pine had disappeared. Still, Reid expected to see Paddy’s dory bobbing on the waves. Hear the skipper’s voice bellowing in the dark. Paddy had gotten them home in gales before. Surely, he’d do the same now.

  Hours earlier, Reid had sent Frankie down below to his father’s cabin. The boy was trembling, the tears streaming down his face. There was nothing left for Reid to do but join the lad. He could barely stand in the wind; if he remained on deck any longer, he’d be washed overboard himself. Securing the hatch, Reid made his way below. He found Frankie in his Sunday suit, prepared to meet God. The lad sobbed as he lay in his father’s bunk, clutching the small Bible his mother had packed in his duffle. Reid sat down next to the boy and held the child as the vessel rolled violently to port.

  “It’s alright, son; here, let’s read from yur Bible together.”

  Frankie nodded, and Reid read from the passage stained by the boy’s tears. Reid and other Catholic fishermen knew the psalm well, St. Mark, verse 4:39, “And he arose, and rebuked the wind, and said unto the sea, Peace, be still. And the wind ceased, and there was great calm.”

  Reid rubbed the boy’s shaking back and urged the lad to recite the Lord’s Prayer. Frankie uttered the words, his voice trembling, “Our Father, who art in heaven . . .”

  “Keep ’er going, Frankie. I’m going on deck for another look for yur Da and the rest of the crew.”

  Frankie nodded and reached for Trey. The dog whimpered as the schooner creaked and shuddered, pummeled by the waves striking her sides. In the galley, mugs, plates, and pots flew from shelves. Trawl tubs rolled and bounced in the hold, dorymen’s boots tumbled end over end, and precious keepsakes—pictures of wives and daughters, sons and mothers—fluttered like confetti from cabin walls.

  Outside, the wind roared like a church organ and the waves grew taller than a vessel’s mast. On schooners and dories along Newfoundland’s southeastern coast, captains lashed themselves to the rigging and the deck bolt below the wheel. Dorymen clutched lifelines and marked crosses over the giant combers, beseeching the Lord to calm the seas. Waves tall as three-story houses struck decks, breaking masts in two and sweeping men and everything else on deck into the raging sea. Vessels large and small foundered in the hurricane-ravaged waters.

  Fifty miles east of the Annie Anita, the crew aboard the Jane and Martha struggled to stay upright. Waves crashed over the deck and battered the vessel with such force the schooner pitched on its side; its masts nearly flattened to the sea. The wind howled and the rigging shrieked. Captain James Bruce warned his crew “Get ready, boys, ’tis going to be a dirty long and god-fearing night.”

  Fishing since he was eight years old, the skipper had weathered many storms, but this gale would prove to be the captain’s most fearsome challenge in his fifty-four years at sea. A few hours before midnight, the full force of the hurricane roared overhead. The winds gusted to sixty, seventy, and eighty miles an hour, battering vessels and splintering them to pieces. Belowdecks, Bruce’s crew braced themselves in their bunks and prayed they would live to see morning. By dawn, the seas still heaved, and the winds continued to knock fishermen off their feet. Hoping to make it into harbor, Captain Bruce ordered the crew to rig the sails. As they headed for shore, they came upon a schooner in distress. She rolled back and forth in the giant breakers, exposing her keel before she righted herself. A Marys-town man on board the Jane and Martha recognized the vessel.


  “It’s the Mary Bernice!”

  The schooner’s deck was stripped bare; her dories and sails had been washed overboard. Bruce searched unsuccessfully for the vessel’s captain and crew. Caught crossways in the sea, walls of water pounded the schooner.

  Oh God, b’y, James Bruce thought. Those poor fellows are doomed.

  The skipper and his men watched as the schooner pitched and rolled. Slammed onto her starboard side, the Mary Bernice’s anchors and chains hung from her bow. Bottom up with the weight of her anchor holding her down, she’d have no way of righting herself now. Bruce knew the schooner’s crew had no chance a’tall. If they weren’t swept into the sea before the vessel capsized, they were certain to be drowned now, their bodies floating in the cabin, their lungs gasping for air as they begged the Lord for mercy upon their souls.

  Bruce and his men whispered their own prayers as the schooner named for Paddy’s lost child, Mary Bernice, disappeared in the roiling sea.

  CHAPTER 18

  MOUNTAINOUS WAVES AND MIGHTY MEN—MARYSTOWN, 2003

  We do not get far from Paddy’s house before a blue Toyota pulls up to our rental car. A red-haired man shouts out the window at us.

  My father, Joanie, and I stand in the street wondering who the stranger is.

  “Hello,” he says with a broad smile. “I’m your cousin, Tom Reid.”

  Tom Reid as in Tom Reid, Paddy’s second hand?

  “I hear you are Paddy Walsh’s relations,” he tells us. “My grandfather, Tom Reid, sailed on the Annie Anita with Paddy’s crew.”

  I nod and compare my mental image of Tom Reid to his grandson who now stands before me. Reid was stocky, tall, and like Paddy, known for his fierce, stern gaze. The younger Reid bears few of his grandfather’s traits. He is shorter, bearded, and jovial, chatting with us as if we are neighbors and good friends. A barrel-chested man like his grandfather, he gestures to a buff-yellow dory in the bay, a boat Reid rows when the weather is fair. In his mid-forties, Reid is a few years younger than his grandfather was during the Annie Anita’s 1935 journey.