Three Ways To Capsize A Boat Part 7

FOR THREE DAYS AND three long nights we lay buffeted by the elements at some point between Iceland and Greenland. We kept up our routine of an hour on watch, then back to the cabin, though to be honest it probably made no difference if anyone were at the wheel or not. Indeed, when any of us were woken for our watch-perhaps by John, his beard dripping icy water into the cup of tea that he'd brought-there would always be a few minutes, struggling with the pantomine of putting on foul weather clothes, while three long nights we lay buffeted by the elements at some point between Iceland and Greenland. We kept up our routine of an hour on watch, then back to the cabin, though to be honest it probably made no difference if anyone were at the wheel or not. Indeed, when any of us were woken for our watch-perhaps by John, his beard dripping icy water into the cup of tea that he'd brought-there would always be a few minutes, struggling with the pantomine of putting on foul weather clothes, while Hirta Hirta bucked and plunged, alone and unwatched, with us seven vulnerable souls shut below. bucked and plunged, alone and unwatched, with us seven vulnerable souls shut below.

Still, we took our watches seriously. First I would go forward and, shackling myself to the forestay, scan what I could see of the horizon. Nothing, just gray heaving sea in all directions, populated spa.r.s.ely by the odd baffled-looking fulmar. Next I would check that all the las.h.i.+ngs and stays were tight, that everything was in place. And finally I would return to the c.o.c.kpit, strap myself in, and busy myself with watching the waves as they burst over the bow and come sweeping knee-deep along the deck to pour out of the scuppers. It was raining hard, too, although even heavy rain didn't make that much difference because we were already lashed by the salt spray that flew from the wave tops.

I would pull the peak of my woolen ferreting cap down over my gla.s.ses and hug myself against the cold. Wedged into the c.o.c.kpit by the wheel at the back of the boat was one of the best places to be; the weight of the engine was at the back, so that's the most stable part, and from a relatively still platform I could watch the bow with its long bowsprit rearing into the sky only to crash back among the waves, each time in a hissing cloud of spray that scattered instantly on the wind. You can scarcely imagine a thing so dramatic and beautiful.

We had almost got used to storm life onboard when, around about the middle of the morning on the fourth day, there came a lightening in the unrelenting grays of our world. A cloud like smoke whirled away for a moment, and behind it a brief glimpse of the palest disc and, looking down, a hint of a glitter and a s.h.i.+ne in the joyless matte gray of the waves. Within an hour we were down to a fierce gale, but seemingly a wild thing of exuberance, crying exultantly farewell as it hurtled away to the east.

Four hours later and the sea itself was settling; the wind moderated and veered a little, so we shook out a reef and bounded again toward the west. There was a tangible sense of relief to be sailing again: everybody laughed easily and the old refrains and jokes were taken out again and dusted off. Patrick and Tom sat down and thrashed out their differences in the matter of boat handling and came to a perfectly sensible agreement. Meanwhile the rest of us had returned to the Jumblies: And every one said, "If we only live, We too will go to sea in a Sieve,- To the hills of the Chankly Bore!"

AS OUR COURSE TOOK us northwest toward the southern tip of Greenland, the ice cap, the greatest repository of frozen freshwater on the planet, the very air began to freeze. We had thought it was cold before, but this was different, and we felt it. And we already had all our cold-weather gear on, so there was nothing left to add. us northwest toward the southern tip of Greenland, the ice cap, the greatest repository of frozen freshwater on the planet, the very air began to freeze. We had thought it was cold before, but this was different, and we felt it. And we already had all our cold-weather gear on, so there was nothing left to add.

Day after day we scudded on toward the west, sometimes chugging along with the engine, sometimes driven like a leaf before a gale, and at others, more rarely, gliding across the s.h.i.+ning swell with the wind behind us. This was a lovely motion that tended, with its feeling of being lifted and gently hurled forward to where we wanted to go, to induce in us all a mild euphoria. Sometimes the clouds lifted a little and then there was an intense, crystalline brightness to the air and the sea. The sea would turn gla.s.sy all around, not a s.h.i.+p, not a boat; n.o.body else was crazy enough to be out and up at these sort of lat.i.tudes. All the more sensible sailors were cruising across the milder bluer seas of the world: the Mediterranean and the Caribbean, and it made us feel just the tiniest bit sanctimonious.

On one of those gla.s.sy days, I was leaning on the shrouds, staring idly around, when I noticed the slightest puckering of the surface away in the distance ... then nothing. I must have imagined it ... but then again, a little more and closer. Patrick noticed it too. Soon it was unmistakable. Dolphins. There were scores of them, and they came racing playfully from the distant horizon toward our boat, leaping like puppies and dancing and diving as they came. I had never seen dolphins before and I was unprepared, so far out in the loveless wastes of the northern ocean, for such a dazzling display of physical exuberance.

They gathered round the boat and rolled and dived beneath the hull; they weaved joyously among one another as they hurtled along riding the bow wave, now diving deep, now leaping full clear of the water. A little ahead and to one side a dolphin leaped right out of the water and with muscular thrusts of its tail, performed two or three skips across the surface before falling with a great splosh back beneath the waves. They didn't tire of their games; they played and played, on and on ... and we too were almost leaping with excitement on the deck. Hannah squealed with utter delight; we were all swept up in the same astonished thrill. I climbed the mast and from high above the deck watched their glorious antics. The water was clear and I could see their great dark glistening bodies way below us, spiraling up and twisting over to show their pale undersides.

You couldn't help but be foolish and imagine that those tiny eyes of theirs, deep in their protective hoods of blubber, were smiling and laughing at the sheer fun of it. I had seen a similar phenomenon with a flock of crag martins, forty or so of them horsing around in the suns.h.i.+ne and shade of the rocks by the sh.o.r.e in Greece. The only explanation I could possibly think of for this behavior was that it was a manifestation of sheer animal joy. Me, I found myself whooping with pleasure. All the cold and the boredom and the misery and the fear of the journey were amply repaid by such a sight.

The others were a little dewy-eyed about the dolphins, too, for although every long-distance sailor has often seen them, it's a sight you don't tire of. And from here on, as we crossed the Greenland Sea, there were dolphins with us almost all the time, and we felt comforted by the presence of such benignity. Until now we had had the birds: fulmars and skuas and cormorants and gannets; creatures that had both moved and fascinated us, and kept us company in times and places of loneliness and fear. For this I'd felt a certain grat.i.tude and respect. But the dolphins ... well, the dolphins are mammals; they are "one of us."

WE HAD BEEN HOPING to make a landfall on the coast of Greenland, but the ice reports had not painted a rosy picture of the seaways up to those ports: there was pack ice and drifting ice, and the westerlies had blown all the ice from the west side of the Sea of Labrador over to the east, where it was blocking access to the coast. This, of course, was back in the 1980s; if you'd a mind to today, you could sail round the Greenland coast in your little Cornish Crabber. There's almost no sea ice left anymore. to make a landfall on the coast of Greenland, but the ice reports had not painted a rosy picture of the seaways up to those ports: there was pack ice and drifting ice, and the westerlies had blown all the ice from the west side of the Sea of Labrador over to the east, where it was blocking access to the coast. This, of course, was back in the 1980s; if you'd a mind to today, you could sail round the Greenland coast in your little Cornish Crabber. There's almost no sea ice left anymore.

"Trouble is," said Tom, "that you can be sailing in the evening through waters lightly packed with thin sheets of ice that just tickle the sides of the boat as she pa.s.ses, and then you wake up in the morning and it's turned to slabs of pack ice six feet thick. That's the way it is up in these beastly lat.i.tudes. Give me the Torrible Zone any day ... and the hills of the Chankly Bore."

So we didn't make Greenland-it was just too d.a.m.n dangerous in a wooden boat-although that evening we pa.s.sed close enough to the southern tip to be able to make out, in the faintest of pastel blues, Cape Farewell. We watched it wistfully for an hour or two as we pa.s.sed and warmed our bellies with whisky.

The next day there was mist in the morning, and something new to talk about: John had spotted a growler.

"So tell me about your growler," I suggested as I emerged on deck.

"You can see for yourself," said John. "There it is, right behind us."

I looked back to where he was pointing. There it was, a rather unexciting block of white ice bobbing about on the sea.

"It doesn't look much to me," I said, a little disparagingly.

"It may not look much to you, Chris," said Tom. "But if we'd hit it at the speed we were going, it would have stoved in the front of the boat, and we wouldn't have been here now, nicely up on the surface of the sea; we'd have been well on our way down below it. From now on, this being growler country-and maybe there'll even be icebergs, too-we're having a man on the bow on lookout day and night. So off you go and wipe the breakfast out of your beard and then get shackled on to the forestay; it's your turn first."

Keeping watch on the forestay was different from being in the c.o.c.kpit. There was no shelter for a start; you were right out there on the front of the boat, peering keenly into the mist. You had to see the growlers and bergs; it was simply a question of life and death. This made me feel very important, and feeling important kept me good and alert for at least fifteen minutes. But then the intense cold and the tedium of the thing began to kick in. There didn't seem to be any more growlers in this particular patch of sea. I turned round and grinned at Patrick, who was at the helm. He waved back. Then I jumped up and down a bit, to see if I couldn't get some circulation going again. Next I leaned my back against the forestay and recited the whole of "The Dong with a Luminous Nose," then I did "The Jumblies." And then I saw the growler.

It was a hundred yards away off the port bow, so it didn't pose any threat to us. "Growler off the port bow, Pat," I said in a seamanlike way, mainly in order to give the impression that I was alert and doing my job. We watched it as it bobbed away into the mist. That's what growlers do: they move with the waves, in contrast to an iceberg, which sits foursquare and serene. Growlers are chips off icebergs or broken bits of pack ice that have fled south on the winds and tides. They tend to be somewhere between the size of a small room and a big house, and they get scattered all over the northern oceans. Of course, to a great s.h.i.+p of iron and steel they barely represent a hazard, but to a small wooden boat like ours a collision with a growler would mean the end of the line for us all.

I resumed my watch; there was nothing to see as we b.u.t.ted on through the mist. I stared and stared as hard as I could, and soon there seemed to be wraiths and plumes of swirling cloud in the enfolding whiteness, and then shadows of gray that might be the walls of soaring icebergs just ahead, or more likely just the play of the breeze in the mist. I looked down into the bow wave to reset my vision. I looked up and there was a growler dead ahead.

"GROWLERDEADAHEADPAT!!" I yelled. "HARD A STARBOARD NOW!"

Patrick swung the wheel hard over, and the growler slipped along the port side. It glowed and gleamed in purest white and turquoise and froze the very air around it. Patrick spun the helm back and the sails took up the wind once more.

"Blimey, that was a close one," I said, as I wiped the mist from my gla.s.ses. "I think it's your turn up on the front now, Pat. I'm about frozen solid."

"You've another fifteen minutes, by my reckoning."

I grumbled quietly and wrapped myself tightly around the forestay, peering still into the mist. There was something out there, something enormous.

"WHAT IN THE NAME OF HEAVEN IS THAT, PAT?" I shouted.

"What, where?"

"That b.l.o.o.d.y great thing lying on the water over there, look at it!"

"Holy mother of G.o.d, it's a whale. It's a b.l.o.o.d.y great whale!"

Patrick stood up and looked openmouthed at the apparition, then shouted down the companionway: "Whale ahoy!" Then he felt a little self-conscious about what he'd just shouted and said, "There's a whale up here, lads, come and have a look," but this time more quietly.

Now, the whale was not like the dolphins; it wasn't horsing about, it was much quieter, more dignified. Then it blew, a great wet whoomph whoomph from its blowhole, and over all the Labrador Sea there spread a great miasma of marine flatulence, a thing with overtones of krill and plankton and seaweed and whole hosts of the fishy animalcules of the northern oceans. from its blowhole, and over all the Labrador Sea there spread a great miasma of marine flatulence, a thing with overtones of krill and plankton and seaweed and whole hosts of the fishy animalcules of the northern oceans.

By now everybody was sitting on deck in awed silence. It was as if we had just seen G.o.d.

"Pooh," said Hannah, pinching her nose, then thought better of it and joined in the awe.

The great creature swished its flukes idly and drifted through the water, easily keeping pace with us. It was bigger even than the boat, probably sixty feet or more. It was a finback, one of the most enormous creatures on the planet. There we were drifting in perfect silence alongside one of the few remaining survivors of the great whales, for man has pursued and hunted these peaceful creatures to the very verge of extinction. I had seen film of the appalling things we do to whales, of the pilot whale cull in the Faroe Islands, where they corral hundreds of these small whales into a shallow bay, using motorboats and nets. Then, when the poor confused creatures find themselves in water too shallow to maneuver, they are set upon and butchered by scores of men wielding axes and flensing hooks. The sea runs literally red with their blood. And this is done not as a matter of survival, nor of necessity, but as a ritual for men to prove their manhood.

Two hundred years of whaling doesn't seem to have convinced whales of the evil intentions of men, and they have retained their peacefulness and their curiosity. For a long time our finback kept station with the boat, as if it were interested in us. Then eventually it sounded again and dived, leaving us with a flourish of its colossal flukes, s.h.i.+ny, barnacled, and running with seawater.

NIGHT BEGAN TO FALL as we ran toward the coast of Newfoundland, a deeper, darker night than we had been used to, for the summer was drawing on, and by this time we were a lot farther south. Once again the port and starboard lamps glowed red and green against the mainsail. The wind had come round behind us at last, and we were loping along in great bounds across a long lazy swell. There was a mood of high antic.i.p.ation onboard, as after nineteen days at sea it looked like we might at last see land. as we ran toward the coast of Newfoundland, a deeper, darker night than we had been used to, for the summer was drawing on, and by this time we were a lot farther south. Once again the port and starboard lamps glowed red and green against the mainsail. The wind had come round behind us at last, and we were loping along in great bounds across a long lazy swell. There was a mood of high antic.i.p.ation onboard, as after nineteen days at sea it looked like we might at last see land.

Tom was on deck, staring ahead into the falling darkness; I was at the helm with Patrick perched out on the bow. There was still a risk of the occasional growler, and we had recently picked up a signal on our radio direction finder, a series of four beeps followed by a silence, like the flashes and occlusions of a lighthouse. The pattern told us that the beacon was on the coast of northern Newfoundland. Unfortunately, because we couldn't get another signal, we had no way of establis.h.i.+ng exactly how far we were from the coast. We knew the line down which we were sailing to reach the coast, but had no idea of where we were on it. We hadn't had a reliable sun sight for several days because we had been sailing through mists, probably caused by warm air currents colliding with cold air currents or some such thing.

Anyway, Tom didn't like it.

"We're running down onto a lee sh.o.r.e with a big wind up our a.r.s.e, night falling fast, and no way of knowing how far off we are. It's a cla.s.sic recipe for disaster. No one's going to like this, but I'm afraid we're going to have to turn around and head back the way we've come."

We looked gloomily into the rus.h.i.+ng dark. So near and yet so far. We had all been looking forward so much to the land. On land there were women and there was beer and bars, and flowers and trees and a certain undeniable solidity to things, which was conspicuously lacking at sea. We all wanted it ... and we wanted it tonight.

"Pat," called Tom to the shadowy figure hanging from the forestay. "I think we're going to have to beat back out to sea. What do you reckon?"

"Well, I tell you what, skipper: I think you'd be crazy to keep running in toward this coast in the dark. I may be hallucinating out here on the bow, but I keep thinking I can hear the sound of waves cras.h.i.+ng onto rocks. We could be fifty miles off ... but we could be no more than half a mile away."

"OK, Chris," ordered Tom. "Bring her about. Pat, you come back here and haul in the foresail sheets."

I swung the wheel and the boat described a great curve away from the longed-for land. Tom hauled in the yards and yards of mainsheet, and we resumed our more usual motion of beating hard into an oncoming sea.

And so all the long dark hours of that night we fled from the land, for if there's anything more terrifying than the fathomless depths of the ocean-and, let's face it, they're pretty terrifying-then it's the hungry rocks of the land. If worldwide there is a big s.h.i.+p lost at sea once a week (for that is the figure), then the figure for s.h.i.+ps wrecked on the rocks must be many times that.

At dawn, however, we turned again and ran toward the south. I was asleep when the lookout spied the land, at first the faintest of blue lines on the southern horizon, and by the time I came on deck there was a distinct line of low, green hills. It was still a long way off but we could already smell it. I had thought this was the most fanciful of notions-the belief that sailors can smell the land long before they see it-but take it from me, you can. We were all on deck in the early morning, bundled up against the cold and sniffing the air like a pack of dogs. I could smell flowers (which is what you're supposed to be able to smell), and I could also smell bread and women, and cakes and hay. It seemed extraordinary, and I wondered about it for a bit, and came to the conclusion that we were closing with an entire continent, and that from Halifax to Vancouver there were countless bakers baking bread and cakes, and millions of women scented and powdered, and prairies of new-mown hay drying in the August suns.h.i.+ne. All these scents were rising on the cus.h.i.+on of warm air above the land and falling to earth over the cooler sea, where they drove mariners insane with longing for the loveliness of the land.

The New World

NOW, THE IMPORTANT THING when you make a landfall, as I well knew from my experience in Greece, is that your boat looks good. The wind and the tides were on our side and we were able to make our approach into the bay of Quirpon all standing, which means with all the sails up and looking pretty d.a.m.n good for the benefit of any nautical-minded folk who might be watching. At the last minute we rounded up, dropped the bags, and, with the skipper standing proud at the wheel, edged in to the long wooden jetty. Mike sprang across the narrowing gap with the head rope; I took the stern line and we made fast to a couple of bollards. when you make a landfall, as I well knew from my experience in Greece, is that your boat looks good. The wind and the tides were on our side and we were able to make our approach into the bay of Quirpon all standing, which means with all the sails up and looking pretty d.a.m.n good for the benefit of any nautical-minded folk who might be watching. At the last minute we rounded up, dropped the bags, and, with the skipper standing proud at the wheel, edged in to the long wooden jetty. Mike sprang across the narrowing gap with the head rope; I took the stern line and we made fast to a couple of bollards.

Then we climbed back onboard and joined in the general preparations for going ash.o.r.e. This meant folding the sails tight and neat in a "harbor stow," flaking down all the ropes and lines, and generally tidying up the boat. Then we washed and shaved in salt water from buckets on the deck, and finally dressed ourselves in clean, dry finery for that great moment when we would march along the dock and greet the natives. It was pretty exciting for Mike and me, as neither of us had set foot on the soil of the New World before, and we were unsure what to expect.

On the jetty were a number of men all dressed more or less alike in dungarees, thick checked s.h.i.+rts, and baseball caps. They were bent intently over what they were doing ... mending nets, I shouldn't wonder, as it's fis.h.i.+ng that makes things tick around these parts. Not one of them so much as raised his head at our arrival; to our surprise, and indeed chagrin, they took not the slightest bit of notice. It was hard to believe: you'd have thought that the arrival out of the northeast of a boat that looked like something out of a romantic historical drama, with all her sails set and flags flying, would have excited a certain interest. But no-these were the most phlegmatic of men.

"Right," said Tom. "I guess we'd better go and make ourselves known to these good people."

We all climbed over the rail and onto the dock. Together we took two swaggering strides and promptly keeled right over ... all of us in a chaotic and undignified heap. At this, one or two of the fishermen almost imperceptibly raised their heads and mumbled something with the faintest play of a smile. We picked ourselves up and, with circ.u.mspection and intense concentration, stumbled on. You get your sea legs, but when you've been at sea for days on end you lose your land legs, and so our first longed-for taste of terra firma was letting us down; the land was rolling and lurching, so it seemed, all over the place.

Tom staggered toward one of the fishermen. "Good morning to you. We've just come from Iceland ..." He left a pause for the enormity of this statement to sink in.

The man looked with great deliberation up at him from beneath the peak of his baseball cap, while we wobbled about on the dock behind our skipper. Eventually, after perhaps a minute, he said: "Iceland, huh? I guess that's a mighty long way off."

We were clearly in a land where words and ideas were accorded their full due dignity; snappy badinage was not what these people did.

"Yup," continued Tom. "Nineteen days and headwinds all the way." Behind Tom we simpered modestly as one, but this statement failed to elicit a response. Then the man rose to his feet and held out his hand.

"Y'all welcome to Quirpon," he enunciated.

Wobbling still, but wreathed in grins of jolly bonhomie, we clambered over one another in our eagerness to shake our fisherman's hand. This was a big moment.

Tom continued: "I guess we'd better report our arrival to customs and immigration."

Our man mulled this over for a bit, while we busied ourselves looking around at what we could see of Quirpon. It didn't look like the sort of place that would have a customs and immigration: there was the jetty and a few sheds of a lowly sort, and a clapboard shack or two. In confirmation of which, our new friend said: "Ain't no customs and 'magrayshun in Quirpon." Then, by way of explanation: "Jus' too darn small."

"What do you suppose we should do, then?" asked Tom.

"There's Wally Stocks down in Griguet; he's a customs man. Maybe y'all should see him."

"And how would we get to Griguet?" (p.r.o.nounced "grigget").

"Guess I'll take y'all there in the pickup."

And so we found ourselves speeding down the gravel road to Griguet-Tom, Ros, and Hannah in the cab with our new friend, who was called Eli Bridger, the rest of us heaped happily in the open back.

Later that afternoon we had tea with the Bridgers. Eli and his family lived in a little wooden house on the rocks on the edge of the bay of Griguet. From the kitchen where we sat warm as toast by the wood-fired cooking range, we could see the beautiful bay, s.h.i.+ning blue, the surface unruffled, sheltered by the horns of low-lying land that almost met at the entrance.

Eli's wife was called Lee-Anne and she was as talkative as he was taciturn. Her speciality was baking, and there we all sat laying waste a huge plate of sweet fairy cakes, light as a feather, that she had baked that afternoon. Ros and Hannah, who were more fastidious about these things than the rest of us, were taking a long, hot shower. The kitchen, smelling of tea and cakes and a hint of wood smoke, was the sweetest, coziest thing after the trackless wastes of the North Atlantic.

Later, sated with cake and awash with strong tea, I turned again to gaze at the beauty of the bay. To my horror it had completely disappeared. Where before there had been a glorious sheet of calm water, now I was looking at what looked like a sc.r.a.pyard full of decomposing pickup trucks, rusty engine blocks, and heaps of a.s.sorted junk. It was hideous. What in the name of heaven had happened while I had been drinking my tea?

It transpired that the tide had gone out to reveal the arrangements made by the locals for mooring their boats. The custom was that, when your pickup truck died, you ran it into the bay at low tide and there, with a stout chain pa.s.sed through the windows, it served as a mooring block for your boat. It was hard not to admire the good sense of it.

There's not a great deal happens in Griguet, so, in contrast to our first impressions, our arrival and the few days we were there, caused quite a stir. We were adopted by the Bridgers, who were as generous and kind as folks can possibly be, and I suppose got a certain amount of kudos from the fact that we were always around at their place. They took us to Lanso Meadows-or L'Anse aux Meduses-where the Vikings, whose journey we had been following, had made their first settlement. There was a museum and the reconstruction of some of the turf-roofed longhouses. It was a bleak, wind-blasted spot, open to the ocean to the north, but I suppose that, to the Vikings, after many weeks tossed by storms across the sea in an open boat, even a settlement as comfortless as L'Anse aux Meduses would have seemed as cozy as Lee-Anne Bridger's kitchen.

It was an odd thought, that this was the first settlement on the New World by Europeans, five hundred years before Cabot or Columbus made their more lasting marks. We all cast about for meaningful observations on this singular truth, which is complicated by the fact that when John Cabot arrived in 1497 to claim the New World for the British Crown, there were no fewer than a thousand Basque fishermen already there, drying the cod they had caught on the Grand Banks. This must have taken the wind from his sails somewhat.

WALKING ALONG THE QUAYSIDE, distracted a little by the sharp angles of pickup trucks poking out of the water, Eli and his son Jeb told us about the cod fis.h.i.+ng. There had been a time when it was said that a man could walk across the Grand Banks on the backs of the cod; for hundreds of years it had been the greatest fishery in the world. But the size of the catches, and the size of the fish, had dwindled to almost nothing, and it was the same story with the smaller inland fisheries like this one. It was no longer possible to make a living from fis.h.i.+ng, especially as the sea here was frozen solid in the winter months.

"Yup," said Jeb. "Whole darn sea's frozen solid just as far as you can see. You can make a hole and take a fish or two for the family, but there ain't no money in it."

"So how do you make a living?" I asked. It was something I'd been wondering about for a while.

"Well, there's only one way hereabouts. We take some seals. It's all there is in the winter."

"Seals?" There was a pause.

"Yup, seals," repeated Jeb a little less certainly.

"What do you mean?" asked John.

"We cull 'em," said Jeb. "We jus' take the young 'uns. The furriers pay well for the pelt."

"You mean you're ... seal clubbers?"

"Well, that's sure the way we kill 'em: quick crack on the head with a club. Kills 'em instantly."

These were our new friends-the very acme of kindness and generosity-and we struggled to take this revelation onboard. A pall of silence descended as Jeb went on to explain his work.

"What you gotta remember," he told us, "is that there's millions and millions o' them seals out there. On the coast of Labrador just across the water, there's a colony with about four million seals. It ain't just man who's over-fis.h.i.+ng the cod; it's them darn seals, too. If we go out of a morning and so much as see a single seal, we turn right about and come home again. You'll never catch a fish when there's seals about. So they gotta be culled."

"But what about the clubbing?" I held out.

"Be a whole lot easier to shoot 'em with a rifle, but it don't do the job quick enough, so we ain't allowed to use rifles. The club kills 'em right away. It ain't a nice thing to have to do, but then nor's killin' fish ... an' not cows nor pigs nor lambs, neither."

We listened quietly, gazing at our respective feet or the distant horizon, as Jeb tried to put the facts straight.

"I tell you the controls is strict, too. You gotta have a license and there's fishery protection officers there all the time. There's any irregularity, you lose your license, and there ain't n.o.body here can afford to do that."

A COUPLE OF DAYS later I watched as later I watched as Hirta Hirta hoisted her sails and tacked out of the harbor to start her run down the eastern seaboard. She was laden to the gunwales with fairy cakes, dried fish, and the warmth and good wishes of the Bridgers of Griguet. For a long time I stood on the dock and waved. It was such a lovely sight, I couldn't leave until she had disappeared from view behind the hills to the east. Then I gathered up my pack and my guitar and headed off to see the New World ... or at least Newfoundland and Nova Scotia. I wanted a spell on land, and a little independence, so I had forged a plan to hitch down through Newfoundland, across to Nova Scotia, and meet up with the boat in a week's time in Lunenburg. hoisted her sails and tacked out of the harbor to start her run down the eastern seaboard. She was laden to the gunwales with fairy cakes, dried fish, and the warmth and good wishes of the Bridgers of Griguet. For a long time I stood on the dock and waved. It was such a lovely sight, I couldn't leave until she had disappeared from view behind the hills to the east. Then I gathered up my pack and my guitar and headed off to see the New World ... or at least Newfoundland and Nova Scotia. I wanted a spell on land, and a little independence, so I had forged a plan to hitch down through Newfoundland, across to Nova Scotia, and meet up with the boat in a week's time in Lunenburg.

I trudged off down the cinder track that led south out of Quirpon. You can walk a long way-sometimes half a long day-among the blueberries and the cloudberries in northern Newfoundland before you get a lift. And so I spent a glorious seven days alone and on the solid unmoving road, wandering slow and easy down from the north. I walked for hour after hour, dreaming of home a little and longing for love. Sometimes people took me in, other nights I slept in barns or cheap hotels in the towns. And I ate lobster for the first time, when I got a lift with a lobster fisherman.