Episode #12 Stay off the Government Wharf ! There’s a good reason why no one in my family became a fisherman. Mom would never have allowed it! Our beautiful mother was always overly concerned for the well-being of myself and my nine siblings. She kept a watchful eye over her brood from the front window of our house, like some sentry standing guard over the world’s most precious diamonds. She would never leave her post until all who should be home, came home. One minute past the expected arrival time, and my father would be summoned to send out the alarm (some day I’ll tell you about my father’s whistle). There were few things on earth that scared my mother as much as water. That’s right… ordinary, free-running, wash-your-face-and-hands, don’t-get-your-feet-wet, H-2-O. The bigger the body of water, the more frightening it was. Of course, this presented an obstacle of titanic proportions (oops, bad adjective!) to a young boy who wanted more than anything to learn how to swim. I don’t recall at any time in my young life, leaving my house and not hearing the words… Stay off the Government Wharf! King’s Point, like all Newfoundland communities, possessed a wharf bought and paid for by you, the taxpayer. That edifice was the centre of much activity during my childhood and telling me not to go near it was like telling Lot’s wife to keep looking straight ahead! The temptation was just too great! That soggy block of piles stuck into the bottom of Green Bay was a centre of commerce when the coastal boat arrived. It also served as an unloading area for our local fisherman (I say fisherman, but I think King’s Point had 3 or 4 of them). You might guess that the two aforementioned uses would be the most important to our community. Alas my friend, you have erred! Of all the uses for that government structure, its true value to the town was that of a social nature. Surrounding the government wharf was a menagerie of fin-carrying wildlife that would make the late, great Marlin Perkins roll over in his chest waders! Thank god my mother never saw me with my legs wrapped around one of those slimy pylons, hanging over that black water, mere feet from Neptune’s icy grasp. But you see, the risk was quite necessary. All the biggest tom-cods lurked beneath the wharf. To fish those monsters, a daring (and foolish) individual had to climb down the side of the structure, suck in his rib cage, and slide through a narrow slit between two piles. Inside that dark, damp crypt was what resembled a cat-walk, except it was cylindrical. That beam, spiked to a solid column of pylons, stretched along horizontally the whole width of the wharf. On any given day a variety of riff-raff would line up along that girder. The scene was not unlike that of a family of vultures, waiting for something to spice up an otherwise dreary day. Excitement would always come at fairly regular intervals though, and in a multitude of forms. If it wasnt some big tom-cod below us being pulled around by the lip, it was some older teenage boy on the plank surface above us, being cajoled by his girlfriend (pulled around by the lip). Of course, this would be usually result in him showing off his agility behind the wheel of his old mans Fargo pick-up. In our small community, one of the greatest tests of a young mans courage was for him to turn his car around on the wharf. Actually it was his dads car and we all know that if teenagers didnt naturally have a death wish, they wouldnt take their dads car on the wharf! In the late sixties, my father owned a big old Meteor and, after I reached the age of consent (or maybe it was the brake pedal), he generously bestowed it upon me on a regular basis. Anyone who knew this car can testify that it was at least the length of a soccer field and could transport ten refined young gentlemen to Springdale on a Saturday night. The process of rotating that much metal on that small surface took skill, guts, and a substantial amount of stupidity! The approach to the wharf was a smooth turn off the dirt road onto it’s rough-sawn surface. The routine was to proceed toward the Atlantic until the front end of the auto hung precariously over the edge. Mercifully, the wharf’s circumference was guarded by an elevated perimeter the height of two pieces of 6 x 6. The protocol then required that the vehicle be turned at very sharp angles, back and forth (about 100 times) until the tail-lights faced the ocean. The Government Wharf circumnavigation was no task for the faint of heart and upon completion of such a feat, a young man (such as myself) deserved a smoke. That exercise itself was somewhat ceremonial. A proud youth would emerge from his machine, bathed in the adoration of the little brats who had recently emerged from the damp underworld. With the car door left open, he would then strike his best James Dean pose against the fender and light up a Rothmans. The only set-back to my cool moment was the company that happened by. It was hard to look cool when right there, sitting next to me on the wharf, was a cigarette-smoking sculpin! That’s right! Those two-legged wharf rats knew that the sticky lips of a sculpin were perfect for holding a filter tip, so they had offered him one! There on the wharf during my moment of glory, that ugly fish was out-smoking Jimmy Dean! Wait a minute! What was that sound? A whistle coming from the direction of my house!
Posted on: Sun, 25 Jan 2015 02:37:28 +0000
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