‘LONGSHOREMEN.
_Standing firmly behind...._
Standing firmly behind the craft, whether large or small, that crown
both Bluenose Fishing and Bluenose Foreign Trade with success, is an
army of men and boys heterogeneously grouped together as ’Longshoremen.
We find them in each and every village-by-the-sea, wherever there is a
boat. Here is a caulker, there a tar-boiler and pitch-runner, an old
knitter of fishnet, an old sailmaker--needle and “palm”, in hand--a
woodcarver, an oakum-picker, an old boat-builder, “the weather prophet”,
and all the old fellows who lend a hand when a heavy boat is to be
hauled up the beach, or to be pushed into the sea again. In the
evolution of coastal-life these men are amphibious. In their youth they
went to sea, but in old-age they retired, not to idleness, but to uphold
what is known in the trade, as the “Shore-end” of fishing.
As one follows the long coastal road macadamized by the Maritime, the
‘Longshore men and the ‘Longshore women afford some of the most
picturesque _genre_ encountered anywhere in all Canada. They are unique,
in that in every individual case, the product is “the Sea-coast’s Own”.
And no two of them are exactly alike. They not only mend and reinforce,
tar and paint, but they are the Historians, the Spinners-and-Weavers of
Traditions, the story-tellers, that keep alive in the hearts of their
listeners the sea-spirit--without which, ships are useless. And so, some
morning, when you come along over the cliffs, and see a smoke, black as
the traditional pine-cone over Vesuvius before the burial of Pompeii,
you know that some old fisherman and his pals are tarring the old boat.
The old boat that calls for tar is certainly a personality. Coming
nearer, and taking care to keep to windward, you stalk this group and
watch. First there is the fiery cauldron, that is the Tar-pot, above its
blaze of driftwood, with its own special attendant, looking like a
Prince of Darkness, wielding the long-handled dipper; and at a little
distance by the boat two other figures with long brushes, calling for
ladles of tar. Good and thick they lay it into the old seams and over
the old plank, the smoke pouring upward like smoke of incense, offered
on the altar of the great out-of-doors.
Such scenes are imminently in danger of passing out of Canadian life.
For the old boat that calls for tar, and “the old-timer” that believes
in it, are everywhere giving way before the modern gasoline-driven
launch--“Gasolener” the Newfoundlanders call it--with “speed” written
all over it, and in its tanks “Power” to laugh in the face of gales and
head winds. But whereas the “gasolener” may boast of these things, she
can never boast of the atmosphere and spirit of romance emanating from
such a scene as--“The tarring of the Old Boat.”
The men who tar the boat to-day may have turned their hands to something
else by to-morrow. On fine days the old sails are spread out on the
beach to dry or stood to flap-in-the-breeze from the mast-hole of some
old boat on the beach, long ago condemned as unseaworthy and gradually
being disintegrated by the elements. Oh what lovely seats these old
gunwales make for the audience of men and boys, eyes aflame with
imagination, as some old grandfather of the beach, in the role of
_raconteur_, makes the details of a noted gale live anew in the vision
of his listeners. To-morrow these listeners of to-day may themselves be
tossing in the arms of a gale and half-drowned in the volume of green
water encompassed by the “crest” and the “trough”.
Inanimate individualities of every beach are the spreading fish “stages”
generally of green or auburn-tinted spruce-boughs. These stage the women
of the ‘Longshore. It is a most interesting item of the Court of King
Cod that the entire family is here, even to the baby.
Catching the Cod seems to be the least part of the work when one beholds
the amount of labour expended on the Shore-End. Early and late, during
the season, the women stand to their task of drying the fish. When the
weather is fine two weeks often slip away before a batch of cod is
properly hardened and “dry”. Fish, destined for the long voyage to the
West Indies and where Tropic heat is likely to cause a sweat in the
“hold”, the Canadian and Newfoundland fishwives “cure” until it is hard
as the proverbial brickbat. The amount of fish-lore contained in the
heads of these women with ballooning skirts, is amazing. As judges of
weather, they often put the “Weather-man” to shame. Sometimes the coming
cloud is entirely unseen by the mere stroller when these women begin
pell-mell to take in the fish. And when a fine evening says it is safe
to leave the fish out all night, these careful souls may be seen turning
over each fish, “oil-skins” up, in case
[Illustration:
TARRING THE BOAT.]
[Illustration:
A NONOGENARIAN GRANDFATHER PLACIDLY
CATCHING UP THE MESHES OF AN OLD NET.]
of a shower. These women turn easily to housekeeping duties, and often
the out-of-door tasks accomplished, continue the web of romance with
knitting, spinning and hooking rugs.
The sailmaker is a romantic figure in the doorway of some old “gear”
house, as he sits surrounded by billows of canvas, dark and mildewed,
patching, roping and otherwise overhauling the old mainsail. His, too,
is a figure in imminent danger of passing. The dashing motor boat,
blowing the spume from her bow, says, “The day of sails is over.”
One summer, visiting with the Lighthouse-keeper’s family in their
characterful little binnacle-home on the edge of the rocks at Peggy’s
Cove, our last day for adventuring having arrived, and even as we waited
for the coming of the mail-carrier’s cart by which we had engaged
“outward passage”, we strolled down to the waterfront to say a last
farewell to our “old-timers”. It was at that last moment, in what turned
out to be the eleventh hour of his life, that we chanced upon a
ninety-year-old grandfather in high boots and straw hat placidly
catching up with his nonogenarian fingers the broken meshes of an old
net. Mailcart or not, we must have this picture! Click! As it happened,
mending this bit of net was his last task. For before the picture which
we promised to send back to him could come into his hand, the Great
Reaper had brought him to his last illness and he was soon awa’!