BONAVENTURE BUFFALO AND BEER

"Bonaventure, Buffalo, and Beer: 

A Wild Delivery that Became an Adventure  "

In the summer of 1975, I had the opportunity to work with Paul Dzuban for Bernie Herman on his impressive C&C 53' racing yacht. But it wasn't all serious business and hard work. One particular trip stands out in my memory, and it involved delivering Bonaventure from Toronto to Detroit.

The plan was to get the boat ready for the Mackinaw race, and Bernie generously gave us a budget of $1000 for food and another $1000 for booze to put a crew together to deliver the yacht to Detroit. Naturally, we invited some of our friends, including Gord, Katie, Krash, Wendy, and Matt, to join us as crew members. And let me tell you, it was a trip to remember.

As we sailed through Lake Erie, we indulged in endless beer and even wine that I had bought for dinner. I cooked up a feast of roast leg of lamb and lobster for Sunday dinner. But the real adventure began when we hit one of Erie's infamous storms in the middle of the night.

I was on watch around midnight, and I couldn't have been happier as we flew over the waves at 15 knots. When it was time for Matt to take over, he was a bit apprehensive, so I gladly stayed at the wheel. The storm broke towards morning and we continued sailing towards Detroit on Lake St. Clair.

But as we approached the city, we realized that most of us had some dope on board that we needed to dispose of. We all pulled out our stash and were going to throw it overboard when Paul came up with a clever plan to take all the drugs and stash the drugs in a phone booth when he went to call customs. Then we would retrieve them later. But things took an unexpected turn when Paul went to the phone booth we were suddenly raided by customs and immigration officers they came in boats and came over the side with guns drawn.

meanwhile, Paul had lost his coin and came back to the boat to get another without stashing the drugs.

The Officers asked who was the  Captain and we all pointed at the very surprised Paul panicking, realizing that he had forgotten to stash the drugs in the phone booth. But luckily, As they searched the boat from top to bottom they didn't do any body searches, and we were able to keep our booze and drugs. The officers were upset about how much booze we had on board. I assured them we were not smuggling. I jokingly said you do not smuggle booze into the United States but smuggle booze OUT of the United States. They did not laugh but I promised to buy  $500 of American booze and they let us go on our way.

After a day of work at the Detroit Yacht Club, we decided to do some shopping and check out the local nightlife. Detroit was a dangerous place in those days We ended up at a private club, where we made sure to arrange for cabs back to the yacht club.  

After a night of partying, Paul and I sailed the yacht across the to Sarnia and docked at the customs dock early Sunday morning. Everyone else was sleeping, and there was no one around except for a phone with a sign that read "call officer." So, we called, and half an hour later, an officer showed up in his bathrobe and slippers. We nervously declared our deck shoes and a few beers, and he gave us a lecture on regulations before asking if anyone else was on board. When we said yes, he asked if they had bought anything, to which we replied, "deck shoes and booze." He shrugged it off and let us go with another lecture, which we laughed off as we tied up. Canadian customs sure was different then the American's.

But our adventure wasn't over yet. On our way back to Toronto, we had to make a detour to Buffalo to pick up a part for the boat. By this time everybody was hungry except me I wanted a beer. so I spotted a bar across the street from the restaurant we stopped at. I told everyone to meet me there after they finished eating, and I headed over.

As I walked into the dark, strangely decorated bar with paintings of vampires and gangsters on the walls, I sat at the end of the bar near a small stage with a big old Wurlitzer jukebox. The bartender got me a beer and went back to what he was doing, and I put in a quarter for three songs on the jukebox. But just as I was settling in to enjoy my drink and music, a totally naked go-go dancer appeared from the back and started dancing on the stage beside me. I was caught off guard and told her she didn't have to do that, just as my friends walked into the empty bar just me and a naked lady. Confused and slightly embarrassed, we left the bar and continued on our journey.

But that wasn't the only time Bonaventure provided us with unforgettable memories. I had previously refused to race on her because Bernie wouldn't allow beer on board. But one day, when his crew couldn't make it, he asked me to gather my Wednesday night race crew. I agreed, but only if he allowed beer on board. Reluctantly, he agreed, and it turned out to be the only race he won that year.

We sailed across Lake Ontario to an American yacht club, with legendary sailor John North leading the way. And thanks to our size and John's expertise, we didn't even have to tack once until we reached the finish line, almost an hour ahead of everyone else. We may not have been the most traditional or serious racing crew, but we certainly celebrated like champions. The Yacht club gave us a great party. And that, my friends, is the story of how Bonaventure, Buffalo, and beer gave us a summer to remember.

Gary LeDrew

Mother's Blue Ribbon Cow by Celia LeDrew (nee)Shaw

I was lucky to live in a resourceful family during the Depression. We lived by the sea and my father was lucky to have his job, but he had to accept $50 a month, a third of his former salary. He was also an able hunter and fisherman. We had a small fishing boat to catch our own fish, so we had food on the table. We always had a barrel of salt cod or mackerel and we had a small barn where we raised two pigs for meat and a cow for milk, cream, butter and cottage cheese. We were always reminded of how lucky we were to have all this.
We had a beautiful Jersey cow named Blossy and it was my job to take her to the pasture every morning before school. I would lead her on a rope to the pasture which we rented for $3.00 a year.
Blossy was a kind, gentle cow, with the most beautiful eyes. It was always a pleasure to look after her. She never gave us any problems. At 5 o’clock, I would go back to the pasture and bring her home for the evening milking – keep her in the barn till morning. Caring for the milk was a chore. My mother mostly looked after her. We had to separator so the extra milk was put in large black pans till the cream separated from the milk. Mother would scoop it off with a spoon. That cream was so thick. Jersey cows were well noted for their cream.
Later in the day we had the old wooden butter churn to make our butter. The milk that the cream was taken off was put in a large pot on the stove until it became curdled. Mother would put the curds in cheesecloth and on a fine day hung it on the clothesline to dry for cottage cheese. Curds and cream was a delicacy in our household. Even though we had lots to eat and home-made bread made twice a week, we had salt fish and pork. Mother would always say ,”Go easy on the butter.” When the bread was hot we kids would love to smother our bred with butter when Mother wasn’t looking. She sometimes took the butter off the table if she thought we used too much. We had a chicken pen. Mother would put down eggs in Isinglass for the winter, occasionally a chicken was killed for dinner on Sundays. We raised our chickens with a clucky hen. I remember my mother borrowing a clucky hen to sit on the eggs to get our chicks and when the chicks were on the their own take the clucky hen back and give the neighbor a few young chicks for the loan of the hen. We sold a few quarts of milk a day, never got much money for ti. A few people paid and lots of time we were paid nothing. Mother never complained.
One day when my mother was walking home from helping some lady who had had a baby (Dr. O;Neil would always call my mother if he needed help) she was passing a house where a woman had six children, all very young. She called my mother and told her, “We don’t have even a piece of bread to feed the children.” So Mother asked me to take a double loaf of bread up to her. “Put it under your coat so your father won’t see it.”
The door opened as I was going out. When my father saw the bread, he said, “Where do you think you’re going with that loaf?” He took me by the hair and turned my head to where Mother was, and said, “Look what I caught this child with going out the door.” Mother told him she was sending it over to Mrs.X who didn’t have a bite for the children . Mrs.X had a husband who drank every cent he ever got his hands on . My father said, “Put the bread back. I am not working to supply the drunk’s family with food.”
Mother gave my father his supper and when he went back to work Mother said, “Put that bread under your coat and take it over to Mrs. X and don’t let your father see you.” My father never did find out that Mrs. X got the bread. Depression affected a lot less fortunate but Mother could never see children hungry.
In 1932 the worst thing happened that could happen. Our vegetable peelings were put in a bucket by the back door for Blossy’s treat. She loved vegetable peelings. I brought Blossy home from the pasture one night at 5 o’clock. That night, someone forgot to take a potato out of the peelings and Blossy swallowed it. That night she bloated and was choking. Mother sent for a neighbor, a blacksmith, to help us. He put a broom handle town the cow’s throat to push the potato down. It failed, and she died that night.
We kids were crying our hearts out. It was the biggest blow my mother and father had during the whole Depression. No milk, no cream, not butter, no curds and cream. It was a disaster.
My father was talking to a man off a vessel that was bringing produce from Prince Edward Island and he said that they had black and white cows that gave three times the milk of a Jersey cow. He said the cows were not that expensive. So Papa borrowed $50 (a month’s salary) from his boss and sent Mother up to the Island on the produce boat to buy a cow.
The owner of the boat charged a small passenger fee for herself and guaranteed Mother he would bring a cow back for her. I can still see that two-master little vessel leaving the harbour right from our kitchen window. It left all of us kids in a turmoil – the boat was old and it leaked and it always had the pump going .
After five days the boat came back and we saw the black and white cow on the deck strapped to whatever, we scrambled to the wharf so fast. My father got the hoist that they haul up fish, got a piece of canvas to put under her stomach, and put it on the block and tackle. At last she had her legs again. A halter was put on and a rope to take her from the wharf to our barn. We never saw so many people going in and out of our barn to see that blue ribbon cow that Mother paid the full $50 for the cow
We kept her tied on a rope and stake for a few days to eat the grass behind the sheds and stores not far from our house. The first bucket of milk Mother milked she kicked it over and we lost all the milk. We lost a few more pails of milk before we could manage her. We had to hold a dipper in one hand, milk with the other hand, and keep the milk pail far away from the cow’s hooves. She was a real kicker.
At last when Mother thought I could handle the milking, she sent me out to milk. She watched when I started. After a few kicks at my milking stool I managed milking in the dipper. I found it so strange as old Blossy would let us put the pail down and milk with both hands, plus we got the job done faster. We always had deadlines to meet – pasture and school. One evening when I was alone I rigged up two poles and drove them under the cow to the barn wall. I nailed them on a 2 x 4 of the barn. I brought them across her legs to see if I could hold her legs back and milk with both hands. I had nothing to fasten the poles on the other side I milked from. I found an old anchor and strapped it by the door and tied the poles to that. It wasn’t long when she kicked them right off the wall, and the anchor came down and spilled what milk we had. After six months we finally got the cow tamed down to milk with both hands. We found she was a real milker we never had enough pots and pans to keep all the milk. We sold more milk which gave Mother a few cents to buy extras like a spool of thread, etc.
We kids were starting to grow up a bit, too. We had an Aunt in Boston who sent all their old clothes to us and my sister Carrie found a beautiful blue Celanese dress in the bundle and it fitted her. She washed it and hung it on the line outside to dry. Our beautiful Blue Ribbon Cow was grazing close to the house and spotted the dress and by the time we got to her, half the dress was chewed right off to the waist. We had to watch the cow and tie her away from the clothesline. This cow was something else. The cow was forever knocking down fences and my poor father would get home from work only to have to go and fix them. Milk or no milk he cursed that Blue Ribbon cow every day.

‘Biggest fish of my life’: A Cape Breton fisherman’s hunt for the majestic bluefin tuna

‘Biggest fish of my life’: A Cape Breton fisherman’s hunt for the majestic bluefin tuna

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Jake Edmiston | November 6, 2015 7:34 PM ET

PORT HOOD, N.S. — The fishing rod lurched down like it was pulled by a motorcycle, rattling in its holster as the frantic bluefin tuna fought against the hook. It was as thick as three men, long as a kayak, and strong enough to drag the the 40-foot boat in the Northumberland Strait.

Courtesy of Jeff MillsJeff Mills, and his fishing partner Freeman Piero, with their 870-lb tuna catch at the wharf in Port Hood, N.S.

“Look at him bending that rod,” captain Jeff Mills said to his two-man crew, three kilometres off the coast of Cape Breton. “You feel the boat going?”

The rod suddenly straightened out and the line went limp.

“Gone!” Mills screamed.

The three fishermen stared at one another. Then Mills looked out at the water and realized the fish wasn’t gone; it was swimming toward the boat.

The captain called for his driver to turn toward the port side.

“The prick’s been hooked before,” he said. “If he shoots under the boat, we’re f—ed.”

As the boat swung around, the line tensed and the rod bent down again. Mills pulled down on the line with one gloved hand and turned the reel with the other, wrenching his entire body in an attempt to inch the tuna closer.

“That’s a good fish, man,” Mills said, shaking his arm out and wiping sweat from his face.

Darren Pittman for National PostCapt. Jeff Mills looks out at the water in the Northumberland Strait.

If he could get it near the boat, he’d hit it with a harpoon — guaranteeing capture, but instantly dropping the price at market, where buyers are willing to pay up to pay thousands of dollars for the perfect fish, and frown at any puncture holes.

Capt. Mills has been eluded by these cunning fish before. He has watched his paycheque break the line and swim away. So he prefers a discounted tuna to no tuna.

“This is the only time you’ll ever see me pray,” he said, clutching the rod.

—

The bluefin tuna hunt is not the mythic lottery it once was, when the one fish could pay out a year’s salary for a day’s work. Now, the tuna’s allure as a rare delicacy may be fading away — and the massive price tags with it.

Buyers and fish brokers used to flock to the wharfs in Nova Scotia for dockside auctions in the 1990s, when fish could fetch upwards of $20,000 on Japanese markets. Matt Ross, a fish broker, is one of the few left on the docks in Cape Breton, looking for tuna with ruby red, fat-streaked meat. When the fish is good enough, it’s beheaded and rushed to Halifax airport, where it’s shipped to Japan on ice.

“The days of these big, crazy prices … they just don’t exist,” said Ross, who usually sells the tuna on a consignment basis for fishermen.

Jake Edmiston / National PostJeff Mills, right, readies a harpoon while Freeman Piero steers the fish closer to the boat.

The emergence of tuna farming and ranching, starting in the mid-1990s, has supplied Japan with a steady supply of fish — ending the huge spikes in demand that made the market a “cowboy’s game,” as Ross put it.

Twenty years ago, Ross could expect $20 to $30 per pound in Tokyo for fish from wharfs in P.E.I and Cape Breton. This year, with Japan racked by a decades-long economic slump and plenty of cheaper farmed fish available, he’s lucky to get half that. With North American environmental groups calling for an end to commercial fishing for endangered bluefin, breaking into local markets has proved difficult. This season, with a weak Canadian dollar, he was expecting a surge in sales to the U.S. Instead, 80 percent of his fish still went to Japan.

“The big false narrative out there in the public is all these fish are worth tens of thousands of dollars,” Ross said.

Some buyers, unsatisfied with the quality of farmed and ranched fish, will still pay good money for the perfect wild tuna to be used in sushi restaurants.

“It’s incredibly rare,” Ross said. “The reality is only a very, very small percentage of fish go for over $10,000.”

But fishermen like Capt. Mills makes an annual pilgrimage to the Gulf of St. Lawrence in search of one.

———

In early October, Mills drove the boat from his home in Louisbourg, N.S., tracing around Cape Breton to Port Hood on the western coast. The tuna season starts in August here, though most fishermen wait until the weather turns, when the fish will be fat from a summer of feeding on the herring, mackerel and squid that are abundant in these waters.

Jake Edmiston / National PostCapt. Jeff Mills struggles with an 870-lb bluefin tuna off the coast of Cape Breton on Oct. 5.

It’s a bit of a gamble, though, because the season ends abruptly whenever the region hits its government-mandated quota. When the quota is maxed out, the boats still holding permits to catch a tuna are out of luck.

The night before Mills’ fishing trip, while he was docked, another fisherman from the wharf came to visit. He told Mills that if he wanted to land a tuna, “Henry Island Bank is where you gotta be.”

Mills and his friends — Paul Mullins and Freeman Piero — left at dawn as the sun rose over the bluffs, sending creamsicle streaks across the sky. At Henry Island Bank, an underwater ridge jutting up from the ocean floor, they baited two lines with live, good-looking mackerel — always reverent of the powerful tuna.

Whenever they had to touch the fishing lines, they were careful not to get their finger caught. If the tuna took the bait while the line was looped around his finger, he would be dragged down with the fish, Mills warned.

Darren Pittman for National Post

“That’s why I’ve always got my knife on me,” he said.

By mid-morning, nothing was happening — no bites, no big red spots on the fish finder; just a bird trying to steal his bait. Mills was starting to think the guy at the wharf had lied to him.

They were the only ones above the bank. No sign of any other boats from the wharf.

“I don’t know if they’re playing games with me or what,” Mills said, leaning on the wheel in the pilot house, gripping his wavy hair.

He was quiet for a minute, then straightened up and told his crew to start the barbecue and get a tray of bacon on it.

“And let’s play them f—ing fish a song,” Mills said.

They pumped techno music through the on-board speakers and the three men danced on the deck, cutting up pieces of dead mackerel and throwing them into the water.

Darren Pittman for National PostJeff Mills at the wheel off the coast of Cape Breton.

“You just pick your place for the day and you fish it,” Mills said. “If you let your mind wander and think you got to keep moving, you’ll drive yourself nuts.”

A mink whale crested and sprayed sea water in the air, 50 feet from the boat.

“That’s a good sign,” Mullins said, standing at the barbecue. “Lots of bait fish around.”

Then the tuna came streaking across the top of the water. It bit down on the mackerel and kept pulsing ahead until the hook caught its lip, sending the fishing line screeching out of the reel.

—

The bluefin are known to travel in schools, sometimes hunting in a formation, like soldiers. In the western Atlantic, the tuna spawn in the Gulf of Mexico and most migrate up the east coast of the U.S. en route to Atlantic Canada, where they can weigh up to 1,100 lbs. But they have been charted crossing the Atlantic, and it’s not unknown for a bluefin from Morocco to end up in the Gulf of St. Lawrence, said Gary Melvin, a scientist with the Department of Fisheries and Oceans (DFO).

The Atlantic bluefin was declared endangered in a 2011 assessment by the Committee on the Status of Endangered Species in Canada. DFO has since been trying to decide whether the fish should be added to the Species at Risk Act, which would essentially shut down Canada’s commercial bluefin fishery in the Atlantic.

It’s responsible and highly regulated and controlled

Meantime, DFO scientists have noted that spawning tuna stock in the western Atlantic has increased to 30,000 tonnes — roughly double the alarming levels in the late 1990s that sparked an international rebuilding plan, with strict regulations and catch limits. But it’s still short of the 50,000 tonnes during the early 1970s.

“Don’t get me wrong: Bluefin tuna were in trouble in the past, ” Melvin said. “[Now] they’re not completely where people would like them to be, but they’re in the right direction and substantially much better off than they were in the 2000s and late 1990s.”

“It’s responsible and highly regulated and controlled.”

Activist groups, like the Arizona-based Center for Biological Diversity, maintain that bluefin tuna populations are nowhere near healthy, and concerns about the tuna’s endangered status have permeated into the culinary world — where North American restaurants and chefs are joining boycotts of the fish.

“It’s a failure that the population is one-half the size it was in the 1970s, when the population was already depleted from decades of fishing,” Catherine Kilduff, a lawyer with the Center for Biological Diversity. “That cheats our children of the world our parents had.”

——

It had been fighting for more than half an hour, and the fish still had fight left in it. It was close to the boat now, swerving around the motor, and Mills was afraid the propeller would cut the line.

The motor was revving hard, trying to stay ahead of the tuna, and the hum of it all was drowning Mills out. His voice was hoarse now, after screaming commands to Mullins at the wheel.

“Turn it around to the starboard,” he said.

The boat didn’t move.

“Starboard,” Mills said again, this time higher-pitched.

“Good?” Mullins asked.

“He’s just towing us around at will,” Mills said. “Keep going around in a slow f—ing circle. We’re going to try to keep him cornered.”

“He might be starting to tire out.”

By 11:30 a.m., the tuna was pinned up along the starboard side and Mills jumped away from the rod, took his harpoon with two hands and jabbed the fish.

Jake Edmiston / National Post Jeff Mills looks at herring boats in the distance off the coast of Cape Breton. The bluefin tuna hear the hum of those boats and come racing in, knowing the herring will be spilling out of the nets.

“There we go, guys,” he said.

The water went maroon with blood and the fish floated up to the surface, with panicked eyes the size of baseballs staring up at the captain.

Mills steered the fish, once strong and fast and smart, around to the back of the boat and ran a line up through its mouth and another around its tail.

“Now we’re gonna swim him,” Mills said.

He let the fish go, dragging it behind the boat to let it cool down. If they had pulled it aboard after it had spend 45 frenzied minutes fighting for its life, the tuna’s body heat would have cooked it from the inside while it lay on the dock. At the markets in Japan, the buyers call it burned meat.

After two hours, the fish was jumping again, pulling on the lines. The three fishermen pulled it in and Mills raked a sharp gaffe along its gills and made a small incision on its side, cutting the lateral line. It bled out in minutes.

“Beautiful fish,” Mills said.

——-

Back at the wharf, they lifted the 868-lb tuna off the boat, cut off its head, cleaned out its entrails and sent it packed in ice to Japan. There, buyers would judge it by looking at a tail cut of the meat, along with a sample of the meat at the core of the fish.

“Nice tight, white, creamy fat is what you’re looking for,” said Matt Ross, the tuna broker. “I look for the shape of the fish. Fat and round and short like a football … Then you look for harpoon damage or any scars on the fish that might indicate some infection.”

Mills’ boat made $11.78 per pound on the fish, which weighed 660 lbs once it was beheaded and gutted — a $7,700 payday. It was a decent price, by this year’s standards.

“It’s the most exhilarating, mind-blowing thing you’ll ever do on a fishing rod,” Mills said.

“Biggest fish of my life.”

National PostGary LeDrew

Old timers Race

Gary LeDrew

Surcouf or Swordfish

My Uncle Al Bussey harpooned a big swordfish off of Scaterie island In the Fall of 1941.They were in the process of drowning it when something took the line they saw a gigantic shadow under the boat and watched the line stretch and snap freeing the fish. They watched in amazement as the huge shadow disappeared in the distance

My father told me this story and it was confirmed this weekend at the Farmer's market by a writer Mr.Goldman who had been interviewing my Uncle Al but he had died before he got the details.

I am sure it was the French submarine Surcouf which was steaming to Halifax from St.Pierre about that time.

Liberation of St. Pierre and Miquelon

In December 1941, Surcouf carried the Free French Admiral Émile Muselier to Canada, putting into Quebec City. While the Admiral was in Ottawa, conferring with the Canadian government, Surcouf's captain was approached by The New York Times reporter Ira Wolfert and questioned about the rumours the submarine would liberate Saint-Pierre and Miquelon for Free France. Wolfert accompanied the submarine to Halifax, where, on 20 December, they joined Free French "Escorteurs" corvettes Mimosa, Aconit, and Alysse, and on 24 December, took control of the islands for Free France without resistance.

United States Secretary of State Cordell Hull had just concluded an agreement with the Vichy government guaranteeing the neutrality of French possessions in the Western hemisphere, and he threatened to resign unless President of the United States Franklin D. Roosevelt demanded a restoration of the status quo. Roosevelt did so, but when Charles de Gaulle refused, Roosevelt dropped the matter. Ira Wolfert's stories – very favourable to the Free French (and bearing no sign of kidnapping or other duress) – helped swing American popular opinion away from Vichy. The Axis Powers' declaration of war on the United States in December 1941 negated the agreement, but the U.S. did not sever diplomatic ties with the Vichy Government until November 1942.

The Black Buoy

 

Louisbourg April thick fog pervades the town and harbour. In the silence between the foghorn hoots a high-powered patrol boat has looked in the harbour and raced away again. Word spreads It sparks enough interest that a dozen men or so wander down to have a looksee.  Their eyes search the fog again patrol boat looks in at the dock and turns back out the harbour searchlight scanning the foggy harbour slob ice scattering. This happens twice more in the next 2 hours. Then there is a new sound a different boat chugs through the night and carefully emerges through the gloom to tie up as the patrol boat comes minutes later and lays alongside mounties quickly boarding.  

A Mountie runs to the townsfolk. Quick we need a doctor. Is there a hospital four men have been gassed? There is no hospital the men are carried to Bessie Shaw's boarding house almost next to the government wharf. The men are bedded down and the doctor arrives. More mounties arrive from Sydney and take charge everybody else is sent away. The boat is searched and sealed and the house put under guard. Nobody is allowed to talk to the men. When Charlie shaw arrives at the door they have to let him in it is his house.

The gassed men recovered slowly but in a week or so they were recovered enough to sit up and talk and were soon going to be moved to Sydney. charlie thought a little shot of rum might help their recovery and soon he got the story. Before they headed in the Harbour they had managed to put the cargo in a large net and sank it under the ice near black point and marked it with a black buoy. At this point, the men had no interest in salvaging the cargo as they were of getting rid of the evidence.

Charlie soon gathered four friends and a boat and a pile of burlap potato sacks

It made for a long night but they soon had the sacks filled and hidden in the ruins of the fort. So there was no trouble taking the boat home. The next they retrieved their booty. Sacks were buried, bottles stashed everywhere Charlie liked the lumber yard next to his house. Cape Bretoners are generous folks of course and the town was pretty well drunk for the next year or so. Bessie snow soon learned to follow charlie through the lumber yard and one of the McIntyre's was taken to hospital with the Blind staggers.

Codfishing with Uncle Kippy

 August 1955

On holiday from Ontario. Uncle Kippy Shaw and 3 friends took my mother and I cod fishing off of Louisbourg. We were also rigged for swordfish and i spent some time up the mast on the lookout but never saw any. first, we went to Shag Island and then a huge whale surfaced beside us. it was twice the size of our 40 ft boat and most exciting. I remember seeing the ten-mile buoy and we stopped and fished. We were hand-lining and soon filled the bottom of the boat. We then cleaned our catch and watched the gulls gather as we threw the gurry overboard. Kippy tried to start the engine but it was no go. The engine was a car engine in a hatch on the floor of the boat. It was somewhat exposed and the theory was maybe some fish gut had got into the carburetor. Kippy and the men took some hours of stripping the engine and rebuilding it. It would start and then stop after a couple of rebuilds it seemed to work and we headed home. it was about 11 o'clock when we were passing Cranberry cove and the engine stopped and would not start again. The sea was up by this time and we were being pushed to the outer cliffs on the east side of the cove in 5ft swells. Kippy says we got an anchor. he did a small anchor we would have called a lunch hook. but then there was no anchor warp. he did have a harpoon warp but not practical for an anchor. the cliffs are coming closer. Strangely there are about a half dozen wooden barrels from somewhere breaking up on the rocks. an eerie forewarning of what fate awaited us.  Kippy has a plan,he will take Mother and me in the dory and row in to shore and we will run to Little Lorraine for help. As we prepare to put the dory in the water we discover there is only one oar. Kippy goes into the cuddy and returns with a hatchet and rips up a floorboard and in a few minutes has shaped it into a oar-like paddle. Mother gets into the bow I get in the stern and Kippy gets in the middle with oars. No mean feat in the rising seas. Off we go in about 5 or 6 feet swells on the rise, mother yells "The whale!" then no! No! It is the rock we are headed for the huge rock at the entrance of the cove. Kippy paddles the jury rig oar like crazy. We get around the rock and somehow make it to the beach fumbling in the darkness. we can see the breakers and Kippy rows hard. Jump he hollers to Mother but fortunately, she waited for another swell and only went into her waist. She pulled the painter furiously and we landed wet but safe. Kippy pointed out there is a trail to Little Lorraine. Mother somehow found it with her cigarette lighter. Thinking of the three men left on the boat we ran like phantoms in the dark. Kippy led us to a Mr Gallant's house who he knew and blurted out the story. They quickly ran to his boat and chugged out the harbor into the night. As mother and I had tea and cakes. she got on the phone and got her father Charlie Shaw and told the tale. In Louisbourg, a search party had been organized and they were relieved to hear from us.  They got to the boat in time and towed it back to little Lorraine and the final word was from Grandfather Charlie who chided Mother."I told you I wouldn't go across the harbour with Kippy.'

Gary LeDrew

Colin and Justin believe in 'an allure here' after buying Cape Breton hotel

 

 Interior design pros Colin McAllister and Justin Ryan, known for TV shows like Home Heist and Cabin Pressure, stand in front of their newest renovation project, Point of View Suites. The Louisbourg hotel will relaunch in 2022 under its new moniker, North Star. The property is made up of about 22 bedrooms, a beach house, staff quarters, two restaurants, a stage for entertaining, as well as five acres of ocean-facing grounds and a private beach. - Saltwire network

ROLLING WITH THE R’S by Celia LeDrew (nee)Shaw

ROLLING WITH THE R’S
Back in the 1930s Canada had one of the most efficient ice breakers in the world – the C.G.S. MONTCALM. It was used to break up ice in the St. Lawrence River. Steel and coal were shipped from Sydney and Louisbourg. In the winter Sydney Harbour would freeze so solid that no icebreaker could break the ice so all shipping was directed to Louisbourg Harbour, which was open all year around.
When the C.G.S. MONTCALM sailed into Louisbourg Harbour it was a very exciting moment for the townspeople went to the docks to greet her. She was the most powerful, magnificent icebreaker in the world at the time.
The MONTCALM’s crew were mostly all French from Quebec. The Captain was English and his Chief Engineer was a six-foot, curly red-haired Scotsman from Scotland.
All the crew would attend social events in the town. The Catholic Parish was about two miles from the town. They would put on card games of 45s and make a social evening with the ladies of the church supplying the sandwiches and cookies.
I had never played cards and my friend Margaret Murphy, whose father owned a local grocery store, asked me to go to the card game. She dealt me a couple of hands to show me how to play, so I agreed to go.

The weather became quite mild all day and that evening it started freezing rain – at 6 o’clock everything was sheer ice, and wet. Margaret had her father’s old Chevrolet to take the Captain and Engineer to the card game.

So they were at the store sitting around the old stove talking to Margaret’s father when we stopped the car at what was supposed to be the sidewalk. There was a hill going up to the store from the sidewalk that had an incline of about six feet. It was sheer ice. I went down before I could stand up. Then Margaret went down. It ended up we crawled up that incline on our hands and knees. I opened the door and left it open for Margaret as she crawled up. This took some time with me waiting with the door open for Margaret. There was a conversation going on between the Captain and the Engineer as they walked to the car. The Captain was telling the Engineer he spoke French very well for a Scotsman. “The only thing I noticed is that you roll your ‘r’s’.” As he said this he slipped and landed on his bottom and slid down to the car.

Marg piped up, “Anyone would roll on their ‘r’s’ tonight. You can’t stand up.” We tried not laugh as the Captain picked himself up. Marg’s father took the ashes from the stove and threw them over the little hill so they could get back to the car. I am sure Marg could only drive about five miles an hour and we were a little late.
We got to the hall and everyone was waiting to fill the last open table. We hurried to the table and everyone would ask why we were late and why we were laughing. When we told them, they howled laughing, too. In 45s, when you win at one table you go to the next. So every table heard the story and laughed heartily.

The priest, Father Doyle, was not amused, as this was a card game, not a

Circus. There were players that were card shark players that had nothing else on their minds but o win and there were the players that went for pleasure to help with the church funds. Finally Father Doyle asked one of his parishioners what was so funny. He was told the story and he laughed so much he had to go back in the kitchen to straighten himself out.
The game was over and prizes handed out. Everyone started the lunch; it was then more of a circus. Father Doyle said that it was not in good taste for some people at the game to be laughing so heartily when others didn’t know what the laughing was about.
Finally Captain O’Hearn stood up and explained it to everyone and the Chief Engineer stood up and said, “I am so happy that I rolled on my r’s as it made a very entertaining evening for all.”

THE NEW SANDALS by Celia LeDrew (nee)Shaw

Mother digging clams.(coal pier in bg) 

Mother went to Glace Bay on the train shopping and bought me a new pair of summer sandals, leather smooth outside, rough inside, a T- strap with a buckle, had little punched out patterns on the front. I was so proud of those sandals as we had to wear laced-up high leather shoes that my father half-soled for so much there wasn’t much left of the shoes for the soles to hang on to.
A beautiful summer day every one of the kids going to the beach, Mother instructed me under no conditions was I to get those sandals wet, as the leather would shrink and get hard and I wouldn’t be able to wear them. She stressed that from the time I put them on and walked around feeling I had the best pair of shoes in the world.

I was outside our front door when some friends were going swimming and I joined them. I found it so hard to get the sandals unbuckled, everyone was in the water swimming while I was still struggling to undo the buckles.
When I cam back from swimming, it took twice as long to get those sandals back on my feet and buckle them all the girls had left. There was one person left who had a little girl with her. Her name was Bessie. She had lost her leg when she was quite young and used one crutch. This lady was our telephone ope4rator and just everybody in our town knew her and loved her. The little girl was a neighbor’s child, Annie.
The little girl wandered over to a bank where the sea had washed rounded stones. The tide had come in early, rushing in the fresh water brook that had a wooden bridge over it. I had to cross the bridge to come when I saw a little bird flapping around the edge of the rushing water. I went back on the opposite side of the stream to see what it was. When the lady with the crutch hollered across the fast flowing stream that Annie fell in the water. She tried to walk on those rocks – it was impossible. I was in tears. “Go get her, “ calling my name, several times. Crying her heart out. I told her I couldn’t undo the buckles on my sandals to go get her. Beside said, “Never mind the damn sandals, get Annie.” So I went into the rushing water past my waist, the rushing water almost took me for a ride too. I hugged the shore, keeping an eye on Annie and when I finally reached her, she grabbed me so hard she pulled me under, However, we got out and when I pulled Annie in, Bessie had finally walked the bank, and sat on the rocks holding little Annie and cried her eyes out. How lucky she was that I was there when everyone had gone home. So I told Bessie I knew I was going to be punished as my Mother told me not to get my new sandals wet. “Oh, never mind, dear, they’ll all dry out. Annie would have drowned if you weren’t there!”
That was fine until I got home. Mother took one look at my wet sandals. I tried to explain but she wouldn’t listen. “I told you not to get them wet, and you have to listen to what I tell you – right upstairs to your room and stay there ‘till your father comes home.” I would call downstairs and say, “Mom, can I tell you what happened?” She answered, “I don’t want to hear anything you have to say.” I was left in my room, no supper, and it started to get dark when Papa came upstairs. I tried to tell him why the sandals were wet. “You didn’t listen to your mother, so you’re being punished.” Papa went down stairs, brought me up a lamp, a plate with one sausage and a potato with peeling on. I asked, “Is that all I’m getting for supper?” He said, “Yes. If it was up to your mother, you wouldn’t get that.” That was Saturday afternoon.
On Monday, Annie’s uncle was passing our house. He came to Mother and told what a God’s blessing it was for me to have saved Annie’s life. Mother came in the house, shocked. We were in school. Papa came home for lunch and she told him the story was around town like a newsletter. Both parents sat down after our meal, and said they were sorry and would make it up to me. I didn’t get new sandals but Papa oiled them and stretched them on the ‘last’. I wore them ‘till they wore out.
I was treated like a queen for about three weeks. I could do no wrong. Mom was not going to listen to anything I had to say, as the Big Words were “don’t get those sandals wet.”…

PET SEAGULL BIDDY by Celia LeDrew (nee)Shaw

When I was eight years old I found a young seagull on the beach not far from our house. It couldn’t have been hatched for very long, but it had legs, and could it run. It took me about half an hour to catch it. There were no adult birds around after petting it for a while no mother came to get it. I took it home. A big argument started. Mom said, “You are not keeping that gull in the house.” After a few sad stories, Mom said, “Keep it in a cardboard box overnight and let it go tomorrow.”
It was such a soft, fluffy little creature it didn’t take long for the gull to latch on to me. I was always petting it and feeding it. The next day another fuss was made about keeping the gull for a pet. I was allowed to keep it in the barn. I would take it outdoors and it would follow me everywhere. If I sat down it would get quite close and sit down, too. It looked as if I was going to be able to keep it. I wanted to give it a name so I called her “Biddy.”
My father warned me that they grow very rapidly and would have to have live fish so it could go back to the wilds. My brother and I knew we could catch lots of perch down by the wharf. We would take a pail, fill it with water and very carefully took the hooks out of the fish’s mouths so they would live. When we caught a half pail full we ran home and dumped them into a large tin washtub. The water was too deep and she was slow learning to swim. We would take a fish out and hold it in our hands for her. She would eat everyone.
By the time she was about six months old my brother and I felt she should learn to fly. We tried all the silly things. At first, it didn’t help so my brother got a ladder and put it up against the barn, took Biddy up with us and we held her over and fly to the ground, not very gracefully – her landing was very bad. We kept it up a little each day until she finally took off – she would fly around short trips and come to the washtub and squat until she had her fresh fish.
About 9 a.m. one morning she took off and I called and called. She didn’t come back. I was feeling very sad imagining all the things that could happen to her. At lunch, my father came home, when one of the pilots who Papa used to take out in the pilot boat to bring the big ships into the harbour, came to tell him about Biddy.
This pilot and his wife had one of the tidiest clean properties in town. It had a verandah right across the front of their house and somehow Biddy got in and couldn’t find her way, and she plopped all over the lady’s clean verandah. This is why the pilot was talking to my father. Then the order came, “Go get that gull off the verandah and take a pail and scrubbing brush and wash that verandah ‘till it pleases the owner.” I finally got it washed and cleaned, then rinsed it with water from her well, but she insisted that I dry it before I leave. It seems I almost spent the whole day cleaning after Biddy.
Biddy started to fly out with the adult seagulls. She was still in grey and brown feathers. If I called her she would come in to eat and go back. Finally, when the mating season came Biddy left for good. Every time I saw a Grey gull close I would think it was Biddy and call her but she didn’t come back.
It was lonely after having Biddy. I missed her so much but always checked every gull for years. It takes a long time for the feathers to turn white.
Biddy gave me many happy hours as I had my very own pet.

Deer Meat and Hungry People by Celia LeDrew (nee)Shaw

By Celia Shaw LeDrew

Deer season in Cape Breton Island during the Depression was one of the big events of the year. Everyone would be talking about it.
Weeks before the season opened I used to beg my father to take me with him as I loved to see the trees, birds, squirrels, partridges, pheasants- I was fascinated by everything that moved in the woods. My father always refused.
When I was 16 my father bought me a single shot, Colt 22 rifle. My father trained me with the gun to shoot the seabirds that came in the harbour quite close to our house and barn which were built on a breakwater. He taught me with old light bulbs we would get from the Marine Repair shop next door. They would bob up and down in the water with the waves, so he felt this was the best way to teach me. He said I should be able to shoot a few ducks when he was at work and our Labrador dog would fetch them in from the sea.
I had to shoot with a direct hit on three out of five bulbs. At first, it wasn’t easy but after three or four times I shocked him by getting five out of five.
I loved tramping through the woods that could be so silent until an animal or a bird would make a move. You must stand very quiet and still to make sure what you were shooting at. Silence is golden when you’re out hunting for food.
It was after the duck episode that I really wanted to go deer hunting but my father insisted it be not for girls. He said, “Never try to shoot a deer with a single shot 22 rifles, and don’t even try! And remember, there’s no such thing as an empty gun, even if it is empty!” We sure had to treat it as loaded.
The day the season opened my father took his 45 Winchester repeater and went off for a deer. He was gone only six or seven hours when he came home with his prize. All we kids could think of was a good hot dinner in the winter and we all seemed to be very happy about my father getting the deer so early in the season.
It didn’t take my father too long to prepare the meat for Mother to put in preserve jars and when the meat was prepared to her specifications out came the Mason jars, the big boiling pot to cook the meat. She would put in one row of meat in the jars and one row of bay leaves until the jars were full and added water. Then the jars were put in the big pot and boiled till the meat was cooked. Usually we had enough meat to do us for the winter but those who never went hunting or never owned a gun came to our back yard where my father was cutting the deer, everyone asking for a piece of the meat. No one was refused, but Mother was giving my father heck because she didn’t have enough preserved for the winter as he gave so much away.
My father told my youngest brother to get a license and asked him if he would try to get another deer to please my Mother. My brother took two days to get a deer and brought it home where every cut had to be perfect.
As he was cutting the meat, there had to be thirty or forty adults with a pot or pan or new paper saying, “I hope you have a piece for me.” I don’t think my brother ever looked up to see who he was giving the meat to. Most of the deer was given to other hungry people. Everybody shared food when plentiful, but he realized that he did not have very much left for my Mother.
There was lots of talk about giving away most of the deer. Finally, my father said to my brother to take me up to the business office and get me a license (one deer one license.) This was my big chance. My father had taught me and trusted me with the gun and it was O.K. to go look for another deer. They were very plentiful that year, and this was the last day of the open season. My father gave me his 45
Winchester repeater.
My brother took me through the swamp. Brush and woods so thick I thought I’d never get out of it. When we came across a small clearing, there were deer everywhere. My brother said, “Aim for the shoulder.” One shot and it dropped right on the ground. My brother said, “Get right over there and put another shot in the head “ (he had to point out where), “and kill it outright. Not a bad shot for a first time.” Then the worst thing that could happen.
My brother put his hand in his back pocket and pulled out the hunting knife and said, “Now go slit its throat, and bleed the animal.” I went around the deer in a few circles but fell to the ground in a faint.. I don’t know how long I was there. My brother kept looking after the deer but stopped once in a while and with his hands scooped up some dirty swamp water and threw it on my face. When I came to my clothes were wet with swamp water, and mud all over me. Everyone in town ribbed me for years about always wanting to go deer hunting.
I never went deer hunting again and have never killed a deer since. It was only for food, which meant so much to all of us in the depression in our town.
Many seasons afterward the people that got some of the meat would always make sure when they saw me ask if I would be going deer hunting this fall. Never! Never! Never! Once was enough to live down.
When mother prepared the deer meat, every piece of fat or sinew had to be cut off. The meat was soaked in salt water overnight, then parboiled in baking soda, to take the game taste off the meat, then into the oven to roast. She always saved bacon fat to baste the meat so it wouldn’t be too dry. The same treatment was given to the sea birds to take away the fishy taste of the fowl. The birds were always roasted with bread dressing. We had much to be thankful for as the Depression was more of a case of survival and we were all made aware of it, and we were all in the same boat.
My parents were always teaching us to make things out of nothing. Mother was an excellent sewer and we wore hand-me-overs and hand me downs but Mother would make them to fit us kids so that we weren’t too poorly dressed. We never had new clothes for years. Mother would card wool and spin the yarn and we always had sweaters for the winter. She would dye the wool Royal Blue and Cardinal Red and the sweaters would always turn out to be red with blue trim or blue with red trim.

10 Point Buck
My father went deer hunting the next year. He was way back in the bush probably 5 miles from the road when he brought down the biggest deer he had ever shot. It was a ten point buck and he was very pleased.
He no sooner started to clean it when an American hunter came on the scene and offered him a hundred dollars for the deer. Papa said no thanks although it was very tempting. A hundred dollars went a long way in the thirties. But the pride of getting such a big deer won out and he had to cut it up into 3 pieces and make three trips to the road to take it home. All his life he would tell this story and finish it by saying. That deer was tough you couldn't stick your fork in the gravy.