Читать книгу That Wasn’t the Plan - Reg Sherren - Страница 24

The small French islands of St. Pierre and Miquelon off Newfoundland’s south coast were still sovereign French territory, France’s last toehold in the New World. These two islands claimed their own economic zone as well as the right to fish inside Canada’s two-hundred-mile economic zone. For them too the fishery was about tradition—and survival. No fish, no jobs. The fact that millions in oil and gas might be lying beneath the ocean floor might also have been driving the French push for that economic zone.

But Canada maintained the French had no jurisdiction in Canadian waters and threatened to arrest anyone caught fishing illegally in them. So, to make a point, in late winter of 1988 the St. Pierre fishing vessel the Croix de Lorraine, with several politicians on board, sailed into Canadian waters to do exactly that—get themselves arrested.

The DFO responded by sending a ship to intervene with an armed boarding party. When word got out, the new national reporter in St. John’s had visions of videotaping this confrontation on the high seas. You couldn’t really blame him. It all sounded very dramatic. But to do it, you’d have to hire a ship to take you where the action was happening, then attempt a ship-to-ship transfer in ten-metre swells or worse. This would be no small feat, especially in winter on the North Atlantic.

It was suggested by some of the more experienced camera people that the reporter’s best bet would be to grab some shots, from a vantage point high on Signal Hill, of the arrested vessel being escorted through a thin strip of water called the Narrows. From Signal Hill you could see out across the ocean for several kilometres. But undeterred, the reporter hired a small fishing vessel.

I wasn’t there, but cameraman Sterling Snow was, and he told the tale of what happened. Now, Sterling is a larger-than-life character who tells one hell of a story, and he wasn’t above a little, shall we say, embellishment—you know, just to help the story along.

According to Sterling, they were preparing to set sail from St. John’s Harbour. Our national reporter friend and his Radio-Canada counterpart were down in the galley. The French journalist said, “It could get a little rough—you eat maybe a couple of pieces of dry toast to help keep your stomach settled.” He was not going. He had been out in these boats before and learned his lesson.

Sterling picked up the story just as they were beginning to leave the harbour through the Narrows. Sterling, the captain, the first mate, our national reporter, and local reporter Rick Seaward were all standing on the bridge, looking out the front windows. A somewhat concerned Rick was clutching onto a support beam as though it contained the essence of life itself. (Thank God I was not assigned to go; I am no sailor.) The national guy was bundled into a heavy coat, sweater, hat and scarf as it was freezing outside.

Suddenly, off came his coat. A minute later, off came his sweater. The first mate looked at Sterling and said, in his best Newfoundland accent, “Yer buddy looks some queer colour.” The poor reporter was now a greyish hue of green. He made an abrupt dash past Sterling to the door at the back of the bridge. “I’ve got to get some air!” he wailed.

After a moment or two, Sterling went out to check on him. The poor fellow was drenched with sea spray, shirt torn open almost to the waist, and he was now completely grey, just like the colour of the sea. Sterling said he grabbed him by the scruff of the neck, worried he might get washed overboard, and put him in the small head (bathroom) so he could throw up in the sink.

They still hadn’t even cleared the Narrows. The captain said, “I think it’s gonna get rough, but I can punch on through ’er for a few more miles if ye wants.” Sterling said, “No, that’s okay, bring her around and we’ll head back in.”

The next morning, sitting on the reporter’s desk like a little pyramid was a stack of Gravol.

You can’t beat local knowledge. Or listening closely to the people you are trying to talk to. Often, when sent down to the wharf to speak with fishermen about the state of the fishery, I would first ask the camera person to leave the gear in the van. If the folks on the dock were already busy doing something, say, hauling out a boat, we would join in and help out. Only afterward would we ask if they were okay with talking to us about whatever was going on. Those first few moments were always critical in establishing a connection.