Images from a Cruise North to Labrador
Jim Hawkins and Ellie Adams

Fluky winds marked our passage across the face of Notre Dame Bay as we departed for a 200 nautical mile run past the tip of the Northern Peninsula of Newfoundland Island en route to Labrador in our Baba 30, Meta Fog. We had intended this first day to slip around Cape St. John and drop anchor in Round Harbor. But a squally cold rain chilled us, followed by an instant blotto fog that blinded us, and a strong tidal current that almost stopped us dead in the water, events that led us to give up and head for nearby La Scie harbor only to find ourselves dodging bergy bits and growlers for the first time ever on the way in. That was our introduction to our third season in Far Atlantic Canada.

It may seem odd that this miserable day is one of the images of our cruise that we cherish, but we do. Everything here is outsized, if not always extreme, never merely average. It is a land of outrageous contrasts. This day told us we were bound for a climactic finale to our time here.

In our first season, we had visited several fjords on the south shore of Newfoundland Island. Now we found ourselves in yet another fjord here on the Northern Peninsula. Fourche Fjord is one of those now defunct outports, still accessible only by water that once housed a community of the fishing families who inhabited this coast for centuries. All of the original dwellings and docks were in ruins, but a handful of newly constructed and well maintained summer cottages peppered the shore. The ominous rock garden was still here, however, glowering at us from the head of the harbor. We devised an imaginary line between a white house on one side of the harbor and a green one on the other side as a marker for anchoring, dropped the hook in 40 feet, and held our breath. With 250 feet of chain and rode down, we held firm all night, blown hither and thither by modest downdrafts twisting in all directions as they fell from the surrounding heights.

A lovely sail brought us to Crouse Harbor where strong katabatic gusts lashed us at anchor, fortunately always blowing us more or less away from the beach. Lasting only a minute or two before stopping as suddenly as they began, they forced our anchor deep into the thick mud bottom. After a couple of hours we felt comfortable heading for shore. We hiked most of two days here including a stroll to Conch Harbor where, at a local bar, we drank a beer sitting on a deck that hung right out over the ocean. We were surrounded by high cliffs covered with rock, dark green pines and light green hardwoods. The sky and the water were an intense blue. A million dollar location anywhere else!

The huge Curtis Hospital and the Grenfell Mission history center dominate views of the harbor in St. Anthony, the last community of any size we would see for weeks. The Grenfell Mission and the resulting hospital were established by famed physician Sir Wilfred Grenfell in the 19th century at a time when few medical facilities of any kind were available to the far flung fishing communities. The hospital rotunda houses murals depicting the history. Frankly, we were touched by the story and quite overwhelmed by the exquisite artwork in which it was told, so much so that we studied the murals for hours unable to tear ourselves away.

The crossing from Quirpon Harbor to Labrador was hard work. The seas were huge; waves coming at us from all directions due to clashing wind and currents. We had too much wind and too much fog. We were making sail changes all day, always clipped on with safety harnesses. Even sitting at the tiller was hard as the boat bucked like a wild horse. Ellie muttered about how much she hates this. Then, suddenly, the golden glow of the sun flooded the scene revealing Belle Isle herself, thrusting her hugeness above us, evanescent through layers of feathery fog--an ethereal sight which changed the whole day. Shortly thereafter, our friends on Deep Powder surprisingly emerged out of the same fog; we were no longer alone. If this were not enough, we sighted a fin whale, right next to the boat! At 60 feet it is the second largest mammal in the world. It surfaced three times; we could see, hear and smell the spout and then it was gone. Using our satellite phone, we called teenage grandson, Colton, to describe it all. His response was perfect: "Holy Crap!"

Fleeing from days of fog bound frustration in Burin on the south coast of Newfoundland Island during the first season of our cruise, we had driven to Trinity in a rented car where we attended their famous passion play that drew us into the historical life and culture of the families who fished here for centuries. Now we landed in Battle Harbor, Labrador, a restoration of one such community, where in times past hundreds of sailing schooners brought their cod to process and sell. Tied to the same wharf, we once again were immersed in the life and history of this modest yet amazing people. The ongoing preservation has been spearheaded by a handful of former fishermen idled by the cod moratorium. Their passionate view is that only a physical site would keep the spirit of a 500 year old culture alive. For us, the preserved site morphed into a phantom theater filled with the emotional apparitions of the Trinity passion play as we moved among the structures and absorbed the lectures presented by the staff.

Best of all, we had the extraordinary luck to witness a part of the culture that has hardly diminished at all: the kitchen party. Several "Newfie" fishermen heading north on their annual salmon hunt offered to break out their instruments for a performance of traditional music. The training ship Bowdoin, with its dozen students, was also at the wharf this day. So that evening when the crowd began to gather for the music, the students also appeared carrying their own instruments. Clearly, they intended to be included, and their music would not be quite so "traditional." At first they hung around the edges, but during a lull, a couple marched up and presented a duet. The crowd paid little attention. Still, tentatively but persistently, they pushed to be more included. It seemed that neither the older fishermen players nor the students quite knew what to do with each other. Tension hung in the air.

Then, the leader of the fishermen's group called the most "pushy" guitar player from the student group into the circle. After a brief chat they started into an instrumental piece. In the beginning, they played a few repetitions of the tune at a leisurely pace. Soon, however, the fisherman increased the tempo, and then again and again, to a fever pitch. It was like dueling guitars, fun yet a little threatening. The youngster was keeping pace, but smiled out at the crowd, knowing he was being tested. When it seemed like the piece would never end, they brought it to a crashing climax. The crowd roared. The boy and the man laughed and shook hands. The kids were in! And for the rest of the night, they played together, and separately, old and new music, each group teaching the other new licks.

Sailing north, frequently only a few boat lengths from cliffs that drop straight down into the sea, we were almost continuously exposed to the raw beauty of this land. With few exceptions, we anchored alone surrounded only by the austere nature of this sub-arctic landscape. Eagle Cove is a totally enclosed pool maybe a quarter mile across. We entered through a fjord-like slit in the rock. The described anchorage is in the northeast corner near a rocky ledge. Spotted around the ledge were buoys which we later learned marked whelk traps. However, for us they served to outline the limits of the ledge thus making picking a spot to anchor easier.

When we first put the anchor down, it did not grab. We thought we might be on rock, but it did finally catch. We did not quite get the spot right as we had not counted on dragging. So we upped anchor and pulled up concrete-like mud chock full of shells and gravel. Lowering the anchor a second time, we knew we would have a quiet night confident that it was down well. A long walk on the barrens above the harbor yielded vistas of the ocean and other anchorages nearby. The walk was utterly delightful until the breeze died so that it no longer deterred the no-see-ums. Despite the fact that we had bug nets over our heads and were swathed in bug juice, they filtered through the net making us totally miserable until we got back out on the water.

Every day we saw icebergs or dodged bergy bits, but at Penney Harbor we hit the jackpot. Four massive ice bergs were grounded out near the harbor entrance. Before entering the harbor, we consulted the chart to make sure we could find a way out of the harbor if one of them moved enough to block the main entrance. Satisfied that there were alternate outlets, we relaxed. We rowed our dinghy to a low spot and took a leisurely hike on the barrens.

Well after midnight, we were awakened by a deep groaning sound, different from anything we had ever heard. At first, we could not figure what could be making such a mournful sound. As best we could determine the wailing was coming from the sea beyond the barrier island. Then, we realized, it came from the icebergs! There is something unfathomable about them in broad daylight. The groaning in the night only added to the wonder. Sculptures always project something beyond the visual, so the urge to touch, to feel the thing, becomes almost irresistible. We felt that same attraction to the bergs. As wind, waves, and warmth carve away at the ice, each one transforms itself into a unique, slowly evolving abstract form. They shimmer sensuously in bright sun as floods of melt-water cascade across the surface. The sparkle only adds to the sense of movement and action. Perhaps the mournful groaning is because they no longer float free and their icy glory is fast ebbing.

Black Tickle is a multiethnic community on the Isle of Ponds. The bay itself is quite open, but a well protected basin is tucked in behind substantial and well maintained breakwaters. As the fishing was done for the season, we tied up right next to the fish plant. The manager could not have been more accommodating allowing us to use the showers and laundry facilities, and re-freeze our gallon water jugs which we use to cool our fridge. The stream of visitors to the dock was continuous. Everyone chatted with us. Significantly, even the teenagers of the community came down. They told us about the bakeapple harvest. Bakeapples are small fruits that look like tiny apples. They grow wild on all of the islands, but most of the commercial crop is harvested here. The fruit is processed into a high value added jam. The harvest is a family event and 8-10 days of hard work can net a family many thousands of dollars. One teenager said she hoped to make enough to buy her first snowmobile. Several residents invited us to stay another week, join the harvest, and make some money!

On one of our walks, we came to a muddy swale that blocked our path back to the road. A young woman and her two kids were walking on the other side. The kids showed us the dry path across. She invited us to her house for tea. Her husband was away fishing somewhere on the Grand Banks. An hour passed and just as we were about to leave she grabbed a plastic bag and tossed in some crab legs from her freezer. Such generosity followed us everywhere. In this case, we were able to reciprocate. We had been carrying on deck a canvas folding chair that we almost never used. So the next day we delivered it to her. She opened it and plunked right down into it with a wide grin of appreciation!

Here, a hundred miles up the Labrador coast, we had time to reflect on our cruise so far. This year as in prior years, we were awed by the natural beauty: the cliffs that drop straight into the sea, the subarctic flora and the ponds of the barrens, the fjords and lonely anchorages, the statuesque icebergs, and the whales. Oh, the whales! But equally engaging were the lives of the people, above all the fishing culture and the wharf life. We were always less interested in toting up distances sailed and more focused on absorbing as much as we could of the common life of whatever communities we entered. We come away impressed with the contemporary continuity of the historical narrative. And more than a little warmed by how much we were permitted to share the vibrancy of the living culture. Because we came in a small boat, perhaps they felt that we could appreciate their life with the sea.

We had been here for three seasons, the boat remaining each winter on the hard. We had planned to sail well north of Black Tickle, but we realized now that to do so would mean wintering over again. After three wonderful summers, we were anxious to start sailing for home. Also, there would still be the difficult west coast of Newfoundland to traverse with its southwest winds and swells which have totally flummoxed bigger boats with bigger crews than ours. We did not get as far north as we had intended, yet the experience for us came to feel complete. Three and half weeks and nearly 500 miles later, we tied up in Port aux Basques, our landfall three seasons before, grateful for our time here and with a deep sense of satisfaction; a cruise, nay, an adventure, well done.