Roxanne Bouchard - We Were the Salt of the Sea

‘Right, a-a-a-and he ended up getting r-r-r-royally screwed over!’

‘Do you know what the Gaspésiennes were, love? Heee… Great big boats the federal government supplied to the fishermen. They leased them boats so they’d buy them down the line, you see, but fishing only raked in peanuts, so as soon as the government caught on, they took their boats away! No compensation, nothing. Two years of fishing down the drain! Heee…’

‘1960, that was when they pulled the plug. They lost everything. The Gaspésiennes ended up rotting in museum car parks.’

The red-haired waitress offloaded the eggs, poured the coffee, smiled and walked away. The men, plaid shirts, jeans, work boots and all, planted ravenous forks into their omelettes.

‘But fishing pays better today, doesn’t it?’

‘Heee… It pays for paying’s sake, but the sea’s empty!’

‘Climate change?’

‘Y-y-y-you know, there are plenty of theories, b-b-b-but that can’t help.’

‘It’s all the clam dredgers’ fault! Heee… They tear up the seabed. Marine deforestation, they call it. That’s why the sea’s empty. Heee… They’ve torn it all up!’

Father Leblanc picked up the conversation. ‘Global warming, dredging, government meddling… Those are the fisherman’s three evils!’

The plates were soon emptied.

‘And don’t get me started on the kind of crab fishing they make us do now… heee… They’re telling us to throw the females back in the water and only keep the males. That’s all well and good, but when there are no males left, the females aren’t going to make baby crabs all on their own, are they? Heee… And even then, the wharves are in a hell of a state. Have you seen the wharf?’

‘W-w-w-we’ve got so much to complain about, w-w-w-we’re going to have to g-g-g-go on unemployment this winter!’

‘Heee… We can’t work all year long and complain as well, can we, love?’

Gradually, I was starting to feel at home, like these were my people. ‘So that’s why you fish, to have something to complain about?’

‘We fish because we’re fishermen. Heee… I’ve done this all my life! I’m not going to start mowing lawns now, am I?’

‘In truth, telling old fishing tales is much more exciting than a day mowing lawns, isn’t it, Cyrille?’

‘Well, Father Leblanc, I’m not expecting much more out of the summer. Heee… The age I’m at, if I didn’t have any memories, I’d just be a poor old man.’

‘Christ in a chalice! Memories or tall tales, Cyrille?’

The old fisherman shrugged his shoulders. The red-haired waitress swept by, carried off the plates.

‘We’re fishermen and we tell tales about the past. Heee… if we can’t stretch out our fish a bit, we might as well die of boredom and keep our gobs shut forever!’

Victor nodded approvingly. One last swig of coffee. Cyrille glanced at his watch and gathered his net, his fish and his memory, ready to leave. Vital looked unhappy.

‘Don’t you tell fishing stories, Vital?’

I said it as light-heartedly as an early-summer day goes by. To my great surprise, he whirled right around. We had just stood up to leave, and now he was so close to me I could sense the cracks forming in his tough shell.

‘No. Not about fishing or anything else. Christ in a chalice, I just shoulder my daily burden, that’s what I do. I don’t want to tell any stories.’

I raised my head and his eyes pinned me to the door frame.

‘And I don’t want to hear none from anyone else, either.’

For a second I thought he was onto me, so I left some money on the table and made a quick exit. Outside, the conversation had taken another tack and I momentarily forgot about the incident. The curate started off towards the rectory, then turned around questioningly.

‘Are you going to pull up your traps tomorrow?’ he asked.

‘S-s-s-suppose we’ll have to.’

Vital sidled over too, visibly softened by the sea air and silky murmur of the shore.

‘Tomorrow or the day after.’

‘The fishing’s all finished?’ I asked.

‘I-i-i-in three weeks’ time, there’s going to be the c-c-c-crab. G-g-g-good ones to eat.’

‘Heee… That’s another kind of trap.’

‘And what are you going to do in the meantime?’

‘Christ in a chalice, nothing!’

We burst out laughing. It struck me how handsome a man he was. Feet planted firmly, knees holding strong beneath his worn jeans, he stood anchored to the ground, roots stretching down to the earth’s core.

With a wave of his hand, Father Leblanc bid us farewell and went on his way.

Cyrille turned to me again. ‘Heee… You know, love, if you’ve nothing to do and you want to learn about the beauty of the sunrise over the sea, you can come aboard. Heee… Tomorrow, we’re going to start bringing up the traps. We’re going to set off a bit later than usual, Gérard and me. There’s room for you if you like.’

‘I thought you never took tourists on board, Cyrille.’

‘Heee… Never.’

‘Why me, then?’

‘It’s not the same, I’m the one inviting you!’

‘I’m not sure—’

‘Cyrille is r-r-r-right. If you w-w-w-want to get to know the sea, you should go aboard. His boat’s really s-s-s-stable.’

‘Only thing is you might get a bit wet, but it’s nothing to be scared of. Heee… And I’m going to be there too!’

The group went their separate ways towards their pickup trucks. I followed Cyrille.

‘I’d like to go to sea, but—’

‘Heee… Tomorrow, we’re going to pull up a third of the traps, so we’re going to set off about half past five. Just show up with your boots and your woolly hat, and we’ll get you aboard. Heee…’

He climbed into his truck, started the engine.

‘Let me think about it, alright?’

‘Half past five, on the wharf.’

A quick wave, a little cloud of dust, and there I was, alone on the shore.

‘Let me tell you, mam’zelle Catherine, you having yourself a nice holiday, then?’

The head whatever of the bistro stood peeling carrots, sporting his classy cook’s helper apron and a silly hat with a hairnet.

‘That’s right, Renaud. Cyrille’s even invited me to go fishing with him tomorrow.’

‘Good idea! What a good idea! You going to go?’

Peeler in hand, he whacked the carrots so hard, the orange shavings spurted everywhere like a volcano erupting.

‘I haven’t made up my mind yet.’

‘Go. You should do it before the season’s over! And let me tell you, you should count yourself lucky to be invited aboard by Cyrille Bernard, because he’s not one to have tourists on board! Once in a blue moon he invites people aboard, he does. You’re going to love it – the boat, the swell, the lobsters… and the sunrise! The sunrise here’s much, much prettier than over there in Bonaventure!’

‘You sound keen, Renaud! Want to come? I can ask Cyrille if you like.’

He raised the murder weapon and started waving it around excitably. ‘Oh, no, mam’zelle Catherine, not me!’

‘Why not?’

A piece of carrot landed on his silly hat. He carried on oblivious, concentrating.

‘Oh, no, I don’t want to go! Let me tell you one thing, it’s far too dangerous! Out here people end up drowning left, right and centre. You set off fishing all in a good mood, then the wind picks up and you get seasick, the boat starts rocking about and you don’t know where to hold on, then it all goes belly up! Glug, glug, glug and you’re drowning! There’s even statistics about it, if you want to know how many. You wouldn’t believe it, but there are more folks who die drowning than on the roads! And when folks who’ve drowned wash up, they’re not a pretty sight, let me tell you. All puffed up and bluer than blue, they are.’