Roxanne Bouchard: We Were the Salt of the Sea

‘Well look at that, will you! Christ in a chalice, they’re only going to get stuck again! That’s the first boat coming through… Jeez… are they going to make it?’

The café basked in an almost-too-bright light as splinters of sun danced in the east on the falling tide.

‘Talk about cutting it fine! And the other one’s nowhere near back yet!’

I love men. Their presence. Their sheer manliness. It pains me sometimes to see how generously and tenderly some of them love their wives.

‘Christ in a chalice, they’ve got a nerve, that lot! Suppose they can afford to, with their boats paid for by the government and all!’

‘N-n-not really, th-th-they pull their weight too—’

‘If you say so… You on holiday, then?’

The fisherman turned towards me so suddenly, he caught me offguard. I’d been staring at him, and I must have crossed the line into effrontery without realising it. Those oh-so-blue eyes of his were so quick to bore into me, I lost my balance and had to hang onto the table to stay on my feet.

‘Yes.’

‘Not much happening, eh?’

‘Er… No.’

‘Well, things do happen, but not like in the city. Things at sea. In the summer, the men live off the season… the good weather, you know.’

Tanned, boxy hands.

‘And in the winter?’

‘In the winter? They live on hope. Fishing’s a hell of a game. See, there’s just four boats here. Mine, Cyrille’s and them Indian boats. One of theirs is still out. They’re always late, that lot.’

‘Where are they from?’

‘From the reserve. Gesgapegiag. They put their boats in here because their fishing spot’s not far away. You know, if the government came and dredged the channel, there’d be a lot more boats! Christ in a chalice, they don’t though, they just let it all go! Put a nice wharf in here and just watch the fishermen and tourists come rolling in. And it’d be a hell of a lot better for business at the café too!’

‘Why do the Indigenous fishermen come in so late?’

‘That’s the way they are. They go to bed late, they get up late then they miss the tide! You take your life into your own hands, coming in here at low tide. But what do you want me to say? They never time the tide right. Always the same story. They bring the boat into the harbour mouth, one of them goes up front to guide the captain through the channel, but it’s too shallow. So the captain gives it some throttle to get over the sandbar, but they end up high and dry. Hey, what did I say? The second one’s on its way in! Christ in a chalice! They’re going to get stuck!’

‘Aren’t you going to help them?’

‘Ah! If you want to get your feet wet, mademoiselle, be my guest. But that water’s too cold for me. They’ll figure it out.’

‘They’re u-u-used to it,’ the other fisherman chimed in.

‘If not, they’ll just have to wait till the tide comes back in. Or they’ll tow her in. What did I say? By the skin of their teeth every time! That Jérémie’s not even breaking a sweat.’

Standing at the bow of the second boat was a tall, strapping giant of a young man who looked like he was carved out of solid wood, like an old-fashioned mast. He was casually holding a lasso of mooring rope in his left hand.

‘What’s your name, then?’

Early sixties. At least. If not older.

‘Catherine Day.’

‘I’m Vital Bujold. My boat’s Ma Belle . This here’s Victor Ferlatte, my deckhand. You on holiday for a while then, Catherine?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘You going to visit Percé?’

‘I’m not sure I feel like doing the tourist thing, but I’m worried I might find the time a bit long—’

The men burst out laughing, as if I’d just slipped down a step in high heels.

‘Christ in a chalice, that’s all there bloody is in the Gaspé – long time!’

‘Is it really that boring?’

‘Boring, no. It’s just different. The Gaspé is the kind of place where time stands still and things never change. If you’re going to stick around in Caplan, you’re going to have to learn how to sit still!’

He pushed his plate away slowly, knife and fork together, napkin on the side, and leaned his forearms on the table. The waitress breezed over, refilled their coffees, cleared the rest and walked away. Victor stared out at the Indigenous fishermen, apparently without seeing them. The giant jumped onto the wharf, tied his moorings and started chatting and joking with the crew of the neighbouring boat. Suddenly, the hubbub of the café seeped away into the cracks between the floorboards, and I felt something wash over me.

‘Funny bunch, them tourists. They come here on holiday and spend half their time looking at their watches and yelling at the waitress when it takes more than ten minutes to get served…’

‘W-w-when it rains, they get mad at us l-l-locals, like it’s our f-f-fault!’

‘Tourists pass right through here. They phone up, book a room, roll in at the end of the day, visit the church, look for agates on the beach, have dinner at the bistro, and then they go to bed. Then the next day, they get up, have their breakfast and rush right back off again. What’s all the hurry?’

Victor shook his head in sympathy for all the tourists just passing through.

‘Christ in a chalice! Can you wrap your head around that, Victor?’

Vital hammered his gaze into mine again like an iron bar. ‘If you’re looking for adventure, you’d be better off in Disneyland. There’s nothing to write home about here. Nothing but the sea. We’re living at a standstill. We’ve even stopped dreaming. Sometimes all we want is for time to stop catching up with us. Most tourists just can’t wrap their heads around that, so they move on.’

‘W-w-we wouldn’t hold it against you if you wanted to l-l-leave.’

‘And what if I stay?’

‘You got time to lose?’

‘I’ve got nothing to gain or lose.’

‘Well stay a while before you go, then. Hang around. On the wharf, at the beach. You’ll see.’

I had my eye on the tall, Indigenous fisherman.

‘What’s going to happen, then?’

‘Christ in a chalice! Nothing! That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. When you look out to sea, you don’t need anything else to happen!’

‘Y-y-you could pick up some agates. L-l-lots of them to find along the shore.’

‘Okay, then, that’s what I’ll do. Nothing, I mean.’

The men stood up. ‘Right, we’re off to sell our lobster. We’ll leave you to it with the natives. You can even go over and talk to him, if you like.’

Maybe I blushed. He leaned in towards me for a moment. ‘Him over there – Jérémie – you wouldn’t believe how strong he is, Christ in a chalice! Strong folk, them Indians, I’ll give them that. Right then, love… see you around!’

They walked out. I kept on looking at the tall, Indigenous fisherman. Jérémie.

Nothing’s going to happen , I thought.

Later that day, down from the sky came a frigid, spitting drizzle that would have soaked you to the skin with an October-like chill. I curled up in an armchair at the auberge and opened a coffee-table book about sailing that was lying around. Bad idea. Soon I was up to my eyes in the blues and sinking fast.

The sun was just starting to dry it all up again at the end of the afternoon when I headed over to Renaud’s.

I found him polishing kitchen implements. Three big, new butcher’s knives.

‘So, you want to go to Percé, then?’

‘Not necessarily. I was just wondering what you thought about the place.’

‘Ah, you’re getting itchy feet, I see!’