During the fishing season, at least for a few trips, we had a Newfoundlander on board as another deckhand.
I couldn’t understand a word he said, but we had fun with him.
I found out he had certain phobias. Spiders. Women.
On the first trip out, Bill had him convinced that on our stop in Rose Harbour, we would be taking him to the dance, and setting him up with a nice girl. (In reality there is absolutely nothing in Rose Harbour, let alone a dance) He spent the next twenty four hours locked in his bunk because “all women had AIDS!”.
During my turn at wheel watch one night I’d promised the Newfie I’d make him a fresh pot of coffee before he’d come to relieve me. He was appreciative. I made the coffee, but I had more in store for him than fresh brew. After my little practical joke was set up, I was relieved of wheel watch by the Newfie. I lay in my bunk, situated off the passage near the galley, awake and listening as he made that quick trip to the galley for his first cup of coffee.
I’d purposely left the galley dark, so he had to feel his way to the cook stove. There was a crash of pots and a blood-curdling screech. He’d run smack into the mess of plastic spiders I had suspended on strings from the ceiling. Dozens of them. He thought he was a dead man.
I’m going to hell for that one.
Newfie also had a thing about his hair, which was quite long and stringy. As far as I understood it, he’d been growing his hair to sell for big bucks to the wig making industry. I kept teasing him about the length, and telling him I would be cutting it right after I had cut Bill’s. This was true in part. I cut Bill’s hair regularly.
Newfie would harass me right back, all in fun, of course, to the point where I finally picked up a pair of kitchen shears and chased him off the deck, through the galley and up into the wheelhouse. He cowered in the corner screaming like a little girl, while I grabbed a small lock of his hair, snipped it off and scotch-taped it to the galley’s cooler door.
There it stayed for the duration, and every time he hassled me, I would point slowly and deliberately, from him to the lock of hair. That shut him up.
As on the troller, I also had the job of cook on the Zapora. There is a saying on a boat, “Don’t mess with the cook.” The implication being; You never know what they’ll feed you! After one trying, tease-fest too many between myself and the Newfoundlander, I decided to lay down my ace. I pointed my finger at him and said, “You better not be hungry for the next few days! I’ll be getting even!”
At the next meal, I served everyone else the same thing. However, Newfie was given a plate of food that looked entirely different. That did it. Newfie, in a bout of unparalleled paranoia, refused to eat anything I gave him, even when I traded my plate of food for his. He was convinced I had messed with his meal.
I finally felt sorry for him, because he worked so hard, and every man deserves to eat. Unfortunately, no matter what I said or did, I could not persuade him that it was all a practical joke. He was his own worst enemy.
On their respective trollers, Bill had me as deckhand, and partner, Leo had Michelle, female as well. The four of us went out to catch the Zap’s halibut quota.
Bait was normally bought frozen in Port Hardy, and we went through a lot as the fishing season wore on. So, anytime we caught octopi on the gear, we had bonus bait. Free. Unfrozen. No cold fingers.
Here’s the thing about catching octopi. If they aren’t immediately hooked with a gaff, and kept away from the hull when the line is hauled in, they always manage to suck onto the outside of the hull, walk their way down to the keel and drop off, and the opportunity for free bait is lost.
Michelle was bent over the rail, gaff in hand, the minute Bill called “Octopus!” She wanted that fresh bait. She too was tired of frozen fingers. She managed to flip that eight-legged critter onto the deck, but she miscalculated the length of those suckered arms. In an instant, one of them reached out wildly, and had her right by the crotch!
I was in the galley cooking, and knew nothing of all this. I did however, hear the screaming. “EEEEEEEeeeeeeeeee!!!! GET IT OFF ME, GET IT OFF!!!! EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!”
By the time I stuck my head out the galley door to see what was going on, she was in full flailing mode. The rubber gear she wore had no bearing on it. From that point on, anytime we caught an octopus, Michelle would stand well away from those thrashing legs.
Tough deckhand or not, she was still a girl!
Zapora continued to be a cantankerous old lady. She was, after all, almost seventy years old by that time. One night we had to limp into Shearwater, with Leo sitting in the lazarette, a crowbar stuck in the rudder stock to steer. The steering mechanism had snapped.
Shearwater sounded like an interesting place. It was not. They also didn’t have the parts needed for the steering, but we managed somehow to get it fixed.
One unforgettable moment is permanently seared into my brain. Bill had to replenish the hydraulic oil tank during a wild, stormy night, but the tank was inexplicably located halfway up the inside of the hollow, aluminum mast. No one knew why such an awkward place was chosen, but there it was, and too costly to change around. Then the thing Bill hoped would never happen …… well … happened!
A leak had developed somewhere, so, to prevent the hydraulics from running dry, the tank had to be re-filled. Bill struggled up the footholds in the mast, hanging on with one hand, the jug of hydraulic oil in the other. I sort of knew what that was like. Masts are masts.
Photo barf
It blew about 30 knots that night and most of the oil that was intended for the tank, ended up sprayed back over the deck, the railings, stanchions, the drum, and all the way back to the baiting claim, as Bill tried to feed it into the tank. It was so slick it was impossible to walk upright on deck. We spent most of the next day crawling on our knees, slipping, sliding, and scrubbing everything down with degreaser. It was all part of the job, and it also led to far too many Mossman’s Laws than I was comfortable with.
Mossman’s Law Rule #6 – If you plan on having an Achilles heel, footwear won’t help. Get full-body armour.
Rule #7 – Sanity is good. Paranoia is more fun.
Rule #8 – You’ll find love in strange places. Proceed at your own risk.
Rule #9 – Common sense is relative.
Elly Mossman
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