TOUCHED BY THE ROCK

I am the stranger, the alien, and the foreigner.  I have no roots, no heritage here in this land; this mountainous land that has risen out of the North Atlantic, carpeted with wild flowers and unending green trees.  And every harbor has its village and every village has its tales.  Tales by which you can trace a rich history and a rich culture that can make you smile and also make you cry.

I, an only child, have had the good fortune of an inheritance of a Newfoundland wife with ten siblings who became my in-laws.  Thus, I now can wrap an arm around my “bro” and hug my sister.  Best of all I can listen to the tales, listen to the songs, and feel the poetry of this magical and mystical land.  And if I were to recount any story, I would choose one with some sardonic twist, such as the tale of what happened to my wife’s father many years ago.

The Triumph of Guile

The stories about the rum smugglers with their fast boats, of their escapades, are well known, but little is told of the men who work their jobs with the ferry and now and then bring back a little contraband. And even less is said of the passengers.  Such is the case for a rider called Joe. A tall rangy man, he plied the ferry that sailed to St. Pierre and Miquelon, two islands that belong to France and lie just off the southern coast of the Rock.  Many a man would bring back more than his allotted share of rum into Newfoundland, and most often a turn of the head or the wink of an eye would assure a safe passage for these illicit bottles.

But that arrangement changed drastically one day.  I think that the “higher ups” of the company must have said something to the captain, who in turn said something to the men who worked the vessel and also to the travelers.  He even went one step further, and that was to search the gear and boxes of all who boarded the ship.  It wasn’t long before Joe came to the vessel toting a large-sized box upon his shoulder.

“What do you have in the box?” asked the captain.

“Nothin’,” Joe replied as he tried to push past the officer.

“Hold on now. I want to see what’s in that box.”

“Ain’t nothin’ but me cat.”

“Now I ain’t believin’ that.  Just you open that box.”

“If I was to do that, sure me cat will run away and I’ll never be able to explain that to the missus.”

“I don’t care about that.  I’m tellin’ you to open that box.”

“All right. I’ll open it, but if me cat escapes, I’ll be blamin’ you and I will want to go back ashore to find him.”

“Aye me son, and if that cat does get away I’ll let you go after ’im.”

With that, Joe opened the box.  The straggly orange striped cat jumped out, landed on the deck and stopped long enough to adjust its eyes to the light before running around the deck followed by two big men.  The cat would never have left if those two behemoths hadn’t been yelling, “Here kitty, kitty,” and chased it about, creating a ruckus. Dodging between the legs of the men, the cat leapt off the ship and was last seen running down the wharf.

“Now see what you done.  You let me cat escape.  I told you that would happen and you didn’t believe me.  I just got to get me cat ’cause me wife will never forgive me.”

“Lard Jesus, me son, I’m really sorry about that.  Now you go after that mangy cat, but be back within the hour ‘cause you know we’ll be castin’ off.”

Joe went off with that big empty box upon his shoulder, looking for the nearest liquor emporium to fill it up with bottles of rum. His mission was accomplished in short order. Next, he made sure not to return too early. He took his time looking in shop windows, stopped for a quaff of beer and returned to the ship just minutes before the ferry cast off.  The captain, who was waiting impatiently, spied his man and yelled for him to hurry.

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