Authors: Barbara Walsh
Brenton invited my uncle and his family to stay with him, and one evening over dinner and drinks Brenton asked, “Do you think your brother Ron would ever come to Marystown?”
My uncle shook his head, knowing my father's feelings about travel and Ambrose. “It may come to the point sometime in my life where I could forgive my father,” my uncle explained, “but I don't think my brother Ron would ever forgive him.”
Now, thirteen years later, I sit next to my father on a small plane headed for Newfoundland. I turn to him, eyeing the gray hair that peeks beneath his Navy baseball cap. Dressed in khakis and a blue sweatshirt adorned with large yellow letters that also proclaim naVY, he is a few months shy of celebrating his sixty-eighth birthday. I hope this trip will be an early gift for him; a chance to understand, to know his father better. A chance to consider forgiveness.
As the pilot pulls back on the throttle, slowing the plane's engines, the red light over our seats pings, warning us to buckle our seat belts and prepare for landing. I pull my belt tighter and wonder what Brenton and others will say to my father about Ambrose and what my dad will say in return?
My father glances out the window at the massive island that is now beneath us. He shifts his weight and sighs, knowing we will soon be among Ambrose's relatives, people who are fond of the man who remains a mystery to me and provokes a longstanding bitterness in my father's heart. Would my dad turn this plane around if he could? Would he abandon this trip now if Joanie and I were not with him?
Hoping to offer him reassurance, I reach for my dad's hand. His eyes meet mine, and I ask: “Did you ever think you'd be coming to Newfoundland?”
Though he does not have to think about his answer, my father speaks slowly: “Not . . . in . . . a . . . million . . . years.”
We both fall silent again, and I turn to the window so he will not see my tears. Wiping the drops from my cheeks, I look across the aisle toward the back of the plane, searching for Joanie. She is seated a few rows behind us and is the picture of calm; she harbors no worries about this trip. She is eager to meet our Newfoundland relatives and to connect with our past. Noting my concerned face, she offers a smile. I smile, too, but my heart is far from at ease. I pull my seat belt tighter as the plane's wheels kick open with a thud, preparing for its arrival in St. John's, Newfoundland's capital city. I close my eyes and whisper a silent prayer, bracing for the landing and an uncertain journey to my grandfather's homeland.
T
he sails clapped like thunder in the wind.
“Hoist the main!” Paddy shouted to his crew.
Frankie Walsh cast his eyes heavenward following the canvas sail as it soared up the sixty-foot mast. Two of the crew groaned as they tugged on the halyards, securing the sheet. The southeast wind at their backs, the sails held taut against the breeze. Waves slapped the bow, sending sea spray onto the deck as
Annie Anita
glided through the bay.
“We're underway, boys!” Paddy hollered to Frankie and Jerome.
Jerome ran to his father, eager to stand at the helm; Frankie kept his place. He leaned against the stacked dories mindful of the crew that scurried about him. He did not want to get tangled up in a line or trip up the men. The twelve-year-old boy drew a deep breath to calm the worries that bubbled up inside him. Searching for a distraction, he looked toward the stern where his father stood, his large hands on the wheel, his eyes focused on the schooner's course. Frankie reckoned his da's mind was busy now, thinking on where he'd find the fish, where he'd drop the anchor once they hit Cape St. Mary's. The journey, Frankie knew, would begin slowly at first as the schooner traveled east in the protected inlet that wound its way past Marystown, Little Bay, Beau Bois, and Tides Point before sailing into the vast open sea.
Wanting one last look at his home, Frankie turned west and glimpsed the whitewashed house on the hill as it faded from view. His mother would have risen early, poured herself a cup of tea and gazed out the window, watching for their parting sails. The thought of her without them, the three eldest boys and their father, saddened him, for he knew her heart would be heavy with worry during the week they were gone.
Jerome had tried to comfort her before they left: “We'll be fine, Mum. We'll be home soon enough.”
Frankie only offered her a quiet, “So long, Mother,” and a quick hug good-bye. She had not wanted to let them go, delaying their departure, packing and repacking their duffles with extra woolens caps, mittens, and their Sunday suits in case they stopped in a church or somewhere proper along their journey. On top of their clothes, she carefully placed their pocket Bibles. “Read the good book before bed and on Sunday, and don't forget your prayers.”
“Yes, ma'am,” they had told her.
No, Frankie would not forget his prayers. He prayed to the Lord over the past week, pleading for courage. The boy tried to embrace the sea like his father and two older brothers, but he was not fond of how the ocean changed so quickly. It could be calm, safe like the bay outside his home. And then it could be dark, with ragged waves that grew taller than a ship's masts. Last summer's journey with his da had been miserable. The sea swells and the constant motion of the schooner had brought on the queasiness and trips to the bucket at all hours of the day and night. His father tried to comfort him, “Keep yur eyes focused on the horizon, me boy,” but the advice did little good. Frankie came home red-faced, shamed. The lads at school had been ruthless with their taunts. “Sissy. Seasick sissy. Are ye sure yur Capt'n Paddy's son? Ye ought to be staying home with yur mama.”
Frankie heard their voices in his mind now as the wind rose and cold water sprayed his cheeks.
Stand tall
, Frankie told himself.
Yur Capt'n Paddy's boy. This August journey will be different. This time, I might even have some adventures aboard
Annie Anita.
Perhaps, I will have some stories to tell the fellas back home about the cod I hauled, the dory I rowed
.
“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 conditionsâca'am waters, gales, fierce wind or t'ick of fogâPaddy 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 nothingânot even the birth of their childâcould 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.”
T
he 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 barrensâmiles and miles of rocks, boulders, and cliffsâremnants 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?”