“A dunderhead,” say the folk, “can cotch fish; but it takes a man t’ find un.” It is a chase; and, as the coast proverb has it, “the fish have no bells.” It is estimated that there are 7,000 square miles of fishing-banks off the Labrador coast. There will be fish somewhere—not everywhere; not every man will “use his salt” (the schooners go north loaded with salt for curing) or “get his load.” In the beginning—this is when the ice first clears away—there is a race for berths. It takes clever, reckless sailing and alert action to secure the best. I am reminded of a skipper who by hard driving to windward and good luck came first of all to a favourable harbour. It was then night, and his crew was weary, so he put off running out his trap-leader until morning; but in the night the wind changed, and when he awoke at dawn there were two other schooners lying quietly at anchor near by and the berths had been “staked.” When the traps are down, there follows a period of anxious waiting. Where are the fish? There are no telegraph-lines on that coast. The news must be spread by word of mouth. When, at last, it comes, there is a sudden change of plan—a wild rush to the more favoured grounds.
It is in this scramble that many a skipper makes his great mistake. I was talking with a disconsolate young fellow in a northern harbour where the fish were running thick. The schooners were fast loading; but he had no berth, and was doing but poorly with the passing days.
“If I hadn’t—if I only hadn’t—took up me trap when I did,” said he, “I’d been loaded an’ off home. Sure, zur, would you believe it? but I had the berth off the point. Off the point—the berth off the point!” he repeated, earnestly, his eyes wide. “An’, look! I hears they’s a great run o’ fish t’ Cutthroat Tickle. So I up with me trap, for I’d been gettin’ nothin’; an’—an’—would you believe it? but the man that put his down where I took mine up took a hundred quintal[[2]] out o’ that berth next marnin’! An’ he’ll load,” he groaned, “afore the week’s out!”
“SET THE TRAPS IN THE OPEN SEA”
When the fish are running, the work is mercilessly hard; it is kept up night and day; there is no sleep for man or child, save, it may be, an hour’s slumber where they toil, just before dawn. The schooner lies at anchor in the harbour, safe enough from wind and sea; the rocks, surrounding the basin in which she lies, keep the harbour water placid forever. But the men set the traps in the open sea, somewhere off the heads, or near one of the outlying islands; it may be miles from the anchorage of the schooner. They put out at dawn—before dawn, rather; for they aim to be at the trap just when the light is strong enough for the hauling. When the skiff is loaded, they put back to harbour in haste, throw the fish on deck, split them, salt them, lay them neatly in the hold, and put out to the trap again. I have seen the harbours—then crowded with fishing-craft—fairly ablaze with light at midnight. Torches were flaring on the decks and in the turf hut on the rocks ashore. The night was quiet; there was not a sound from the tired workers; but the flaring lights made known that the wild, bleak, far-away place—a basin in the midst of barren, uninhabited hills—was still astir with the day’s work.
At such times, the toil at the oars, and at the splitting-table[[3]], whether on deck or in the stages—and the lack of sleep, and the icy winds and cold salt spray—is all bitter cruel to suffer. The Labrador fisherman will not readily admit that he lives a hard life; but if you suggest that when the fish are running it may be somewhat more toilsome than lives lived elsewhere, he will grant you something.
“Oh, ay,” he’ll drawl, “when the fish is runnin’, ’tis a bit hard.”
I learned from a child—he was merry, brave, fond of the adventure—that fishing is a pleasant business in the sunny midsummer months; but that when, late in the fall, the skiff puts out to the trap at dawn, it is wise to plunge one’s hands deep in the water before taking the oars, no matter how much it hurts, for one’s wrists are then covered with salt-water sores and one’s palms are cracked, even though one take the precaution of wearing a brass chain—that, oh, yes! it is wise to plunge one’s hands in the cold water, as quick as may be; for thus one may “limber ’em up” before the trap is reached.
“’Tis not hard, now,” said he. “But, oh—oo—oo! when the big nor’easters blow! Oo—oo!” he repeated, with a shrug and a sage shake of the head; “’tis won-der-ful hard those times!”