Fishing

Every bit of Fogo Island fits my personal definition of an outport: small fishing communities (or former fishing communities), rugged landscape, friendly people, accessible only by boat (in this case, an ice-breaking car ferry). Natalie has been excited about Fogo Island for a long time. For some reason, I could not get my head around the abstract notion of Fogo. However, once we got there, I was smitten! I could stay there a long, long time.

One of the many ways we get to know a community is to eat at the local restaurants. Our first night on Fogo we ate supper (the evening meal) at Beach’s Restaurant in the village of Fogo. Anouk was busy doing her job, serving as the MacSpring ambassador to Newfoundland. She would walk her adorable little baby walk, a wide-legged stance sort of wobbling around, arms held shoulder high for balance. Every woman in the place commented that “she is some cute” or “she is some precious” or “she is some adorable” or “she is some blond…and look at those blue eyes.” Anouk would go up to them, smile, and sometimes take their finger or touch their leg. The men, almost in spite of themselves, would warm up, too.

This opened up a meal-long dialog with the table immediately adjacent ours. Junior and Carole King introduced themselves, Junior offering his hand in friendship, “I’m Junior—that’s my given name—Junior King, and this is my wife, Carole.” Junior works as a medical technician in the local hospital (given our spate of injuries, Natalie has taken to noting the location of every hospital), a local boy who grew up in neighboring Change Islands.

During the course of the evening we talked up a range of subjects: fishing, medicine (Canadian vs. American vs. Canadian), out-migration (Newfoundlands biggest export is its people), politics (we both bemoaned the sorry state of the U.S.’s global standing), and fishing (in Newfoundland, everything comes back to fishing). It turns out the next day was the start of the recreational Cod-fishing season, or, in local parlance, it was the start of the fishing season. In Newfoundland, there is only one fish, and that is the Atlantic Cod. All other fish are called by their common or colloquial names. I had barely made a comment about hoping to go fishing at some point when Junior offered to take me out the very next day.

So the next day, Tuesday (22 July), started off with a virtual cloud over the day: I severely sprained my foot (see the next story…). OUCH! The day picked up with the unexpected finding of a life-bird: a Redwing (see the next story…)! At this point, I really did not expect that we would get to our campsite in time to meet Junior.

By suppertime, time of the evening meal, we finally made it back. The local little kids were at soccer practice in the field adjoining our campsite, so Anouk made a bee-line for them. Natalie later told me that a little boy, all of 3 or 4, was trying to teach Anouk how to kick a soccer ball. Apparently his mother kept telling him that Anouk was too little to know how to kick the ball and the boy replied emphatically that was why he was trying to teach her.

Anyway, Junior pulls up in his pick-up truck and asks if I was up for fishing…or did I want him to amputate my foot…he had a dull and rusty box-cutter with him that he thought would do the job. Marshall, the campground manager, pulled up in his mini-van and asked if Junior was bothering me. Suddenly I was one of the locals, leaning against the car, chatting about the kids’ soccer practice. Marshall asked Junior if he was going out fishing or not, and Junior asked me if I was game. YOU BET!!!

So off we go, to his home about a kilometer away. Junior’s garage may be the fishing equivalent of Natalie’s and my basement: he could outfit and a Boy Scout troop for fishing. I say Boy Scout instead of the more traditional ‘army’ because all of the Wellies he had were made for small feet, not the size 12 canoes I sport. Anyway, he rustles up a pair or felt-lined Wellies, pulls out the felts, and voila, I have boots. Then he gives me one of those jackets with the life-jacket built in…and we are good for bear…or Fish. Junior’s son, Chris, is to join our party. Delman, whose Newfie accent is so thick I need Junior to interpret, comes by to send us off.

We motor out through a narrow channel into the open ocean. Fifteen minutes of cruising later and we spy a wooden dory that two men rowed out to fish. We pull up and they say the fishing is no good, so we cruise another ten minutes, slow, and drop our lines. Junior and Chris are using handlines; they give the CFA (Comes From Away) a heavy-duty rod and open-face reel.

We all are jigging, letting our lures sink ten fathoms to the bottom, then twitch them up and let them settle. Junior catches the first fish (Hey Junior, how much are you going to pay me to not post its size here?), and minutes later I pull in a good sized one: over half as long as I am tall and a good 3 or 4 kilograms. No sooner had I pulled it off the hook, placed it in the fish bin, and dropped my line before I hooked another. And another. And another. Junior was pulling them in, too. In no time flat, between us, we landed ten Fish. Chris did not catch any up to this point; Junior said it was because Chris was fishing on the wrong side of the boat. Eventually Chris did catch a fish: a sculpin. This wide-mouthed, spiny-finned bottom-feeder is not a desired fish and Junior is sure to remind Chris of this fact. We slowly drift into deeper water and we are all catching sculpin. After another hour of chasing Fish, the sun is getting low to the horizon and we head in.

On the way in, Junior says that he is not sure of the regulations, and with me being an American CFA, to avoid trouble, that I should give him the fish. Back at the dock, he quickly fillets (in Newfoundland, they pronounce the ‘t’) the fish and gives me four, which become supper the next night for the family MacSpring.