Читать книгу That Wasn’t the Plan - Reg Sherren - Страница 23

Pam and I had settled in. There was a story around every corner and down on every wharf as it appeared the cod fishery, one of the largest food sources in the world, was also in trouble. Catch rates had plummeted with the Europeans, Russians and Japanese right on the edge of the two-hundred-mile limit, scooping up whatever they could.

The Russians had made a deal with Ottawa that even allowed them inside the limit, on the very spawning grounds of the Northern cod. As long as they were buying Canadian wheat, they could fish. Factory freezer trawlers fished relentlessly, twenty-four hours a day, and as the cod disappeared, the fishing community scrambled to adjust.

But that summer my first story on the network from Newfoundland came from another species entirely. Humpback whale activity was on the upswing in the waters around Newfoundland, and they were constantly coming into conflict with fishing gear—cod traps in particular. A cod trap was like a big box of fishing nets and rope, laid out in the ocean to trap schools of cod. One could cost as much as $8,000 to $10,000. Having a creature that weighed several tons plow through it, tear it up and drag away what was left wasn’t a welcome prospect, and it was happening all the time.

World-renowned environmentalist and filmmaker Jacques Cousteau had travelled to Newfoundland earlier in the ’80s, and his crew filmed while they released an entangled baby humpback. It was a touching scene with momma humpback circling nearby, but in the process of releasing the little fellow they cut all the fishing gear loose, letting it drop to the bottom of the ocean. It was a huge loss for the owners, and they were decidedly not happy about it.

There had to be a better way, and Memorial University professor Jon Lien thought he had found it. He wanted the fishing community to respect whales, not hate them, and he had developed a way to recover some of the damaged fishing gear the next time a whale was trapped. “This will make great television,” I thought. “All we need to do is be there when he releases the whale and catch it all on videotape.”

You would have thought I had learned my lesson with cougars, but no.

Jon was a great fellow and he agreed to let us tag along, but he would not wait for us. We had to be ready when he was. I was in bed when he called around midnight. A whale had been caught in fishing gear, just off St. Bride’s, Placentia Bay, a good three hours away, and they were heading out. Camera operator Kevin Hanlon and I scrambled to meet Jon and his student assistant in the middle of the night, out by the edge of the city. Towing a small rubber Zodiac boat, our little convoy headed down the coast. The fog was so thick we could barely see the headlights coming toward us.

We crawled along and arrived just as the sun was rising, casting a shimmering golden hue on thankfully calm water. As Jon was preparing to launch the little Zodiac, we realized there was not enough room for all of us. Jon decided the assistant would stay behind and I would go along to help out. Right.

We followed the fishing crew who had called as they led us out to where a large humpback was entangled in about a hundred metres of line. Jon threw a line of his own with a grapple hook on the end—like one of those gizmos cat burglars or commandos use in movies when they have to scale a wall. He hooked the line trailing behind the whale and began pulling. We drew closer and closer—until suddenly we were literally on its back! Jon, who was wearing a diver’s wetsuit, put on a snorkel and mask. “Hang on to the belt on my waist,” he said. With that he bent over the side, right up to his waist—I thought we were going in the water—and cut the line as close to the whale’s mouth as possible. A huge pectoral fin flew by my head, and just like that the whale, blowing and rolling, was free.

Jon still held on to the cut line and the fishing crew began gathering up as much of the damaged gear as possible. Over the side came two of the biggest lobster claws I had ever seen. No lobster, just the claws and arms, stuck in the rope. They were almost the size of footballs. I joked about this giant lobster, back on the ocean floor, telling his buddies, “Jeez, there I was minding my own business caught in this cod trapline, when this bloody whale came along and ripped my arms off!”

I did several more stories with Jon, and it was always fascinating. Years later I dove on a lobster conservation site, farther up in the head of Placentia Bay, with another expert from the Department of Fisheries and Oceans, Gerry Innes. Fishing at the site had been banned for the better part of twenty years, and lobsters there were the length of my leg.

The piece about rescuing humpbacks from the nets went over very well back in Toronto with the network crowd. It had definitely been worth the risk (as if I’d given the risk any thought). But it did confirm for me once again that stories that delivered unique pictures, wildlife, adventure or emotion would find their way onto the network. Riding on a whale’s back—who wouldn’t want to watch that, especially if it was combined with important issues around conservation and the fishery?

There would be many more fish stories in the days ahead. Things were heating up on the high seas. Many nations wanted the ocean’s fish, and those fish were becoming scarce.