Monday, June 9, 2008
Fogo Island Vortex
Where has the time gone?
This place, Fogo Island, Newfoundland, is entrancing us once again. Thrust out into the Atlantic, this island of sharp rock, with its defiant red fishing stages and enduring Outport communities, is a hard place for us to leave.
The coastline is one that Slartibartfast of Magrathea would have been proud of - never a straight line or even a gentle curve to it. Instead it abruptly juts out or cuts in with great gusto, the ancient fissured rocks refusing to be smoothed by the ocean.
The ferry docks at Man O'War cove, near Stag Harbour, several times a day, unless the winter ice is too thick even for the accompanying ice-breaker vessel. Even today, in early June, there are plenty of giant icebergs drifting by in the cold Labrador Current. It took a couple of days for a string of Arctic saltwater pack ice to pass south, visible as a starkly white crusty line on the horizon. It was about thirty miles long, ten miles across, and a very destructive force against fishing nets and lobster traps.
A road links the ten scattered fishing communities with Joe Batt's Arm, a u-shaped inlet, just past Shoal Bay and Barr'd Islands. Protestants faced Catholics across the choppy water. In the winter houses were moved across the ice, and floated around during the summer. The family land was rarely sold.
The bold red fishing stages lean out over the water, supported on a sturdy 'cage' of logs, filled with big rocks for ballast to resist the storms. Thick 'strouters' splay down into the water, deep enough for returning fisherman to tie up to. From here fish would be forked up into the stage to be cleaned and split.
One sunny afternoon we walk the Lions Den trail, passing along well worn coastal pathways, through the site of dismantled communities like Lions Den, our dogs racing ahead across flaming heathers to plunge into a snowbank, or splash through a cold beaver-made pond.
We had an afternoon picnic with many friends made on the trip to Battle Harbour, Labrador last year - which turned into an overnight stay - on Shoal Bay - where the Long-liner shipyard used to be. Now there's a beaten concrete boat-ramp, hidden behind encroaching alders and scrub, its presence overpowered by the impassive rocks, the buildings long since moved or dismantled. The view is stunning.
A hot alder fire on the red granite rocks roasts fresh crab in the afternoon; icebergs glisten offshore in the lengthening sunlight; friends and family tell stories of a hard winter passed; at dusk the chill wind dances around our fire, chasing sparks over the rocks.
As night falls, gulls nest noisily on the rocky outcrops, and the night sky comes alive, sparkling in the darkness.
Around the bay the sparse lights of the communiites of Shoal Bay and Barr'd Islands define the horizon.
Another night is spent at Sandy Cove, the surf hypnotically rolling onto the white sand. A stream flows through the peaty bogs and rocky ponds laden with trout, to the surf, crispy curly brown seaweed crunching underfoot at the pebbly high tide line.
For the last few days we've been grappling with the reality that now we have to leave if we are to meet our plan.
But a friend reminded us that if you follow the plan, you are only following what you used to want to do.
So we stayed for a crab and lobster feast at Nicole and Dave's - more lobster on one table than ever before was witnessed - and before that, delicious meals at Pete and Margarets' of roast seal flipper and moose, sauteed Wrinkles, a baked moose luncheon, salt codfish stew, salt-beef and split pea casserole, and on and on.
Abandoning ourselves to the swirling Decker family vortex, with a cup of tea and a slice of partridgeberry pie, we helplessly watch time pass by, as things get done around us.
Their daughter Amanda is getting married next weekend, and it takes us a couple of days to decorate a stage for their honeymoon suite. It's the stage Zita had rebuilt where her fathers' used to be. Curiously and beautifully it sits on a rock only accessible by foot at low tide.
Now gentle but firm Decker Vortex pressure is being applied to persuade us to stay until after the wedding on the 14th. Several 'departure' days leave without us.
Surely we could stay just a few more days here. We want to be persuaded.
This place, Fogo Island, Newfoundland, is entrancing us once again. Thrust out into the Atlantic, this island of sharp rock, with its defiant red fishing stages and enduring Outport communities, is a hard place for us to leave.
The coastline is one that Slartibartfast of Magrathea would have been proud of - never a straight line or even a gentle curve to it. Instead it abruptly juts out or cuts in with great gusto, the ancient fissured rocks refusing to be smoothed by the ocean.
The ferry docks at Man O'War cove, near Stag Harbour, several times a day, unless the winter ice is too thick even for the accompanying ice-breaker vessel. Even today, in early June, there are plenty of giant icebergs drifting by in the cold Labrador Current. It took a couple of days for a string of Arctic saltwater pack ice to pass south, visible as a starkly white crusty line on the horizon. It was about thirty miles long, ten miles across, and a very destructive force against fishing nets and lobster traps.
A road links the ten scattered fishing communities with Joe Batt's Arm, a u-shaped inlet, just past Shoal Bay and Barr'd Islands. Protestants faced Catholics across the choppy water. In the winter houses were moved across the ice, and floated around during the summer. The family land was rarely sold.
The bold red fishing stages lean out over the water, supported on a sturdy 'cage' of logs, filled with big rocks for ballast to resist the storms. Thick 'strouters' splay down into the water, deep enough for returning fisherman to tie up to. From here fish would be forked up into the stage to be cleaned and split.
One sunny afternoon we walk the Lions Den trail, passing along well worn coastal pathways, through the site of dismantled communities like Lions Den, our dogs racing ahead across flaming heathers to plunge into a snowbank, or splash through a cold beaver-made pond.
We had an afternoon picnic with many friends made on the trip to Battle Harbour, Labrador last year - which turned into an overnight stay - on Shoal Bay - where the Long-liner shipyard used to be. Now there's a beaten concrete boat-ramp, hidden behind encroaching alders and scrub, its presence overpowered by the impassive rocks, the buildings long since moved or dismantled. The view is stunning.
A hot alder fire on the red granite rocks roasts fresh crab in the afternoon; icebergs glisten offshore in the lengthening sunlight; friends and family tell stories of a hard winter passed; at dusk the chill wind dances around our fire, chasing sparks over the rocks.
As night falls, gulls nest noisily on the rocky outcrops, and the night sky comes alive, sparkling in the darkness.
Around the bay the sparse lights of the communiites of Shoal Bay and Barr'd Islands define the horizon.
Another night is spent at Sandy Cove, the surf hypnotically rolling onto the white sand. A stream flows through the peaty bogs and rocky ponds laden with trout, to the surf, crispy curly brown seaweed crunching underfoot at the pebbly high tide line.
For the last few days we've been grappling with the reality that now we have to leave if we are to meet our plan.
But a friend reminded us that if you follow the plan, you are only following what you used to want to do.
So we stayed for a crab and lobster feast at Nicole and Dave's - more lobster on one table than ever before was witnessed - and before that, delicious meals at Pete and Margarets' of roast seal flipper and moose, sauteed Wrinkles, a baked moose luncheon, salt codfish stew, salt-beef and split pea casserole, and on and on.
Abandoning ourselves to the swirling Decker family vortex, with a cup of tea and a slice of partridgeberry pie, we helplessly watch time pass by, as things get done around us.
Their daughter Amanda is getting married next weekend, and it takes us a couple of days to decorate a stage for their honeymoon suite. It's the stage Zita had rebuilt where her fathers' used to be. Curiously and beautifully it sits on a rock only accessible by foot at low tide.
Now gentle but firm Decker Vortex pressure is being applied to persuade us to stay until after the wedding on the 14th. Several 'departure' days leave without us.
Surely we could stay just a few more days here. We want to be persuaded.
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