It is morning, just before the dawn. The “Polly J.,” her new paint all
silver in the early light, rides proudly at her anchor in the centre of
the tideway. The nip of winter lingers in the air, but the snow is gone
and the rigging is no longer stiff to the touch.
It is just daylight when the last dory is hoisted aboard into its nest.
Three or four figures on the wharves, outlined against the purple sky and
hills, stand waving Godspeed to their fisher-folk. Women’s voices ring out
between the creakings of the blocks, “Good luck! Good luck! ‘Polly J.’;
wet your salt first, ‘Polly J.’” It is the well-wishing from the hearts
of women, who go back to weep in silence. Which one of them is to make
her sacrifice to the god of winds and storms?
There is a cheerful answer from the “Polly,” drowned in the flapping of
the sails and creaking of the windlass. The anchor, rusty and weed-hung,
is broken out and comes to the surface with a rush, while sheets are
hauled aft, and, catching the morning breeze, the head of the schooner
pays off towards Norman’s Woe, the water rippling merrily along her sides.
The figures on the wharves are mere gray patches in the mass of town and
hills. The big sails, looming dark in the gray mists of the morning, round
out to the freshening wind, and push the light fabric through the opal
waves with ever-increasing speed. By the time the first rays of the rising
sun have gilded the quivering gaff of the main, Eastern Point is left
far astern, and the nose of the vessel ploughs boldly out to sea, rising
with her empty bins light as a feather to the big, heavy swell that comes
rolling in, to break in a steady roar on the brown rocks to leeward.
There is man’s work and plenty of it during those sailing days past
“George’s,” Sable Island, and the St. Lawrence. The provisions and salt
are to be stowed and restowed, ballast is to be shifted, sails to be made
stronger and more strong, fish-bins to be prepared, old dories to be made
seaworthy, rigging to be tautened, and reels and lines to be cleared and
hooked. Buoy-lines and dory-roding are to be spliced, and miscellaneous
carpenter work takes up the time about the decks. For a skipper unprepared
to take advantage of all that luck may throw in his way does an injustice
to his owner and his crew. But, busy as the time is, the skipper has his
weather-eye open for the “signs.” The feel of the air, the look and color
of the cold, gray Bank Sea, tell him in so many words how and where the
fish will be running. At last a hand takes the heavy sea-lead and moves
forward where the line may run free. Deliberately the line is coiled
in great turns around the left hand, and then, like a big pendulum, the
weight begins to swing with the strong right arm.