Some Day the Sun Will Shine and Have Not Will Be No More (13 page)

“She’s still under hire, Ben,” I exclaimed. “If you want to try it, I’m with
you all the way.”

“Well, look at that, Joe,” George said. “Ben’s got him converted! Ben must be
like that preacher up in Roddickton last Sunday. They say he saved more than
twenty; they got up dancing and going off in tongues.”

“I’m not saved,” I responded, “but I am staying with Ben.”

“That’s it, then. Let’s alternate outside, half an hour each time,” Ben
said.

“I’ll go first,” I interjected, “and you guys can yarn awhile. I’ll sniff out
the wind on the path to the point. Give me an extra beer and a
flashlight.”

It was around 1: 30 a.m., perhaps two or three below zero. The night was dark,
but as you looked to the harbour it lightened up with the ice close to Joe’s
stage. I took the path for half a mile until I came to a little rise so I could
detect if there was any wind. There wasn’t a draft. I headed back to
Joe’s.

As I entered the kitchen, the boys were in a big discussion on the
fishery.

“No wind, boys,” I said. “Who’s next?”

“I’ll take the next turn,” Joe said and put on his jacket. As Joe headed for
the door, he turned to me. “Mr. Peckford, I know you’re not with the fishery,
but you’re a government man. We were just talking about the fishery. We want you
to give a message to those fellers in St. John’s and up in Canada. The
foreigners are taking our fish—we can see them out there on a clear night—you
can’t catch a fish twice, and that new gillnet, well, there’s the ruination for
sure.”

“Yes, I’ve heard a lot about those two issues since I have been on the French
Shore, and I also heard it last year when I was in southern Labrador. Boys, it
doesn’t seem to me that anyone’s listening. But I will pass it along
nevertheless. I know it’s a big issue, but a lot of people
want
to ignore it, and I don’t know if those people up in Ottawa understand. They
don’t live near the ocean.”

Joe proceeded out the door on to his shift and George, Ben, and I continued our
discussion on the fishery and the logging business. And so with the beer and
some food and lively conversation, the shifts to check the wind continued as the
morning slipped by.

It seemed almost too still outside, a sure sign that a new wind was coming.
Soon enough, around five o’clock, George rushed back from his watch. “She’s
veering round, Ben my son. I dare say it has already picked up on the
point.”

Ben scravelled for his jacket and boots. I did the same. We were out on the
trail with a few beers in our pockets and an extra gaff from Joe while shouting
back our thanks to the boys.

We broke into a run as we sensed that time might not be on our side. Ben was in
the lead and I was some ways back; both of us were trying to keep from hitting
each other with the gaffs. A scrawny old stump tripped me up, and down I went.
One of the beer cracked open in my pocket. I picked myself up and sprinted hard
to catch up with Ben.

He shouted back, “Are you there?”

“Yeah, I’m coming,” I cried.

That last half-mile seemed like going around the world. George’s words to
Ben—
you’re crazy
—kept humming in my ears. We left Croque and got into
trouble, and now we were leaving Crouse? Suddenly, we broke clear on the
landwash. The sky was starting to lighten.

“The ice is starting to move already,” Ben gasped as he rushed down to the
edge of the ice and water, slipping and stumbling on the rocks and using the
gaff to right himself. He looked around and I was almost falling on him. Here we
were again, looking squarely at one another, not inches apart.

“We can do it, Ben,” I shouted with brash determination, looking straight into
his eyes.

The
Jennifer Dawn
was a little farther out from where we had left her,
but not a lot, so we had a real chance. She seemed like she was waiting for us;
she was calling us now!

“You’re damn right,” exclaimed Ben. “We got to reach her,
that’s it! She is waiting for us, no time to lose.”

He stopped and looked at me. “How did you get wet? The water is dripping from
your coat.”

“That’s beer. I fell back there, broke one of the bottles in my pocket.”

“Well, get the glass out before we get on the ice,” Ben ordered with some
impatience.

I hurriedly got the glass out.

“The ice is not as tight as last night,” Ben commented, “so we’ll have to copy
real careful and stay close in case one of us gets into trouble. Use that gaff
carefully—let’s go.”

Onto the ice we went, copying from pan to pan in as straight a line to the boat
as we could go. The pans were fairly large and we could copy to one, pause, get
a good footing, and move to the next.

“Not so fast! You’re not copying in the harbour or walking on Water Street now,” Ben howled at me.

Slowly, we got closer to the boat. Each minute felt like an hour. The wind was
picking up, blowing westerly from the land, but still not very strong.

“The last hundred yards is the hardest,” Ben said as he turned to me on one of
the larger pans. “I don’t think we’ll be able to be together on the pans closer
to the boat. They’re smaller—some of the larger ones have broken up.”

Ben went ahead on one of the first smaller pans. They were no more than three
or four feet across. Ben stepped off one. I waited for the pan to right itself
from Ben’s weight, then stepped on it.

Very gingerly we got to within a few feet of the boat; Ben reached his gaff to
the gunnels, hauled himself broadside, and shimmied up to the deck of the boat.
“I told you I would be back. I heard you calling to me!” Ben said to his
boat.

I had only a couple of pans to go. “Ben,” I shouted, “talk to me.”

“Yes, boy, yes boy, sorry, I got carried away.”

In that split second looking up on deck for Ben, I slipped. Flailing in the icy
water between the pans, I held up my gaff for Ben to reach.
Quick as a flash, he grabbed it and plucked me up over the side of the boat. I
collapsed like a sack of flour on the deck.

“Blessed Lord, we made it,” shouted Ben at the top of his voice. “We saved
her, we saved her—hallelujah!”

I struggled to my feet. We hugged and danced in the frigid air.

“You go to the fo’c’sle and start the fire. Change your clothes and get warm.
I’ll start the engine,” Ben instructed.

And so we moved, slowly, the ice slid by us out to sea—I, up on the bow with my
gaff steering away the floes, taking instructions from Ben shouting from the
door of the wheelhouse.

As we went around Fox Head, the wind was getting stronger, the ice now looser
and of little real danger.

“I think we’ve taken enough risks,” shouted Ben. “We’ll go into Conche until
the wind goes down again.”

We glided up to the government wharf—it was Sunday around 8: 00 a.m. The bells
of the local church were ringing for early mass.

“We’re not Catholic, but I think we should go and give thanks,” said Ben.
“It’s been a tough eighteen hours. I figure the Fella upstairs must have been on
our side. What do you say?”

“Good idea.”

“Under every stone lurks a politician.”

— Aristophanes

IN 1966, I GRADUATED
from Memorial
University. During that spring I was busy investigating possible teaching
positions in the province. Given my experiences as a temporary social worker I
was amenable to going to almost any place, at least for a few years. I remember
that there was a vacancy in Bonavista and I applied and was offered a position.
At the same time I was approached by Roger Simmons, the principal of a new high
school in Springdale called Grant Collegiate. I was offered a job teaching
English, which was my preference. Given that I was getting to teach my subject
and that the new school seemed progressive, I accepted the offer.

Springdale was a bustling town in 1966, what with three small operating copper
mines in the area and it being the service centre for several nearby
communities. There was a highly motivated staff at the school and this made for
a lively and creative experience. I suppose the highlight was when Eric Abbott
(I think Roger Simmons, the principal, being of the Salvation Army persuasion,
like Eric, assisted in capturing him), a well-known Newfoundland music teacher,
was attracted to the school. This bubbly, eccentric, lovable guy proceeded to
establish a school band, which excelled in a few short years and became
something of a provincial phenomenon.

It became obvious that advancement in the school system would be difficult.
Those who came before me were well-ensconced in the administrative positions,
and being still relatively young they
had many years left, and
short of some unlikely tragedy or gross misdemeanour, few vacancies for
advancement were likely.

It was during this time that my interest in politics arose as I listened to
Premier Smallwood announcing the formation of an organized Liberal Party that
would be democratic and to which he would look for advice and counsel. The party
would be—like all things Smallwoodian—a great new movement in democracy,
establishing associations in each provincial electoral district in the province.
Of course, this was really not brought on by some “road to Damascus” conversion
on Smallwood’s part, but more by a growing new younger group that he was
attracting to the party, personified by two lawyers: John Crosbie and Clyde
Wells. And so a new party emerged.

The local district association was to be formed for Green Bay, the district in
which Springdale was located, and Mr. Smallwood himself would be attending, as
would John Crosbie, who was now seen as vying for the leadership of the new
party. On the afternoon of the event, I suddenly decided that I would attend the
organizational meeting, and furthermore, run for president of the new
entity.

Don’t ask me how this all came about, because I don’t know. I was immediately
seized with this, and I was intent on following it to the end. I hurriedly
composed a short biography and had it copied on the school’s copying machine. At
the door of the hall where the event was taking place, I stood at the appointed
hour distributing my biography and introducing myself. Of course, I was met with
great surprise since it had already been decided, sort of, that the long-serving
Smallwood contact in the area would be the new president and that others already
associated with Smallwood would fill in the other positions on the executive. So
you might say I threw a bit of a monkey wrench into the “planned” gathering. Mr.
Smallwood and Mr. Crosbie arrived and, finally, after some confusion by the
organizers, the meeting was called to order.

Sitting near the back, I realized that my urgent business was to get someone to
nominate me for president. A sudden shiver went through my body as I realized
that in this sham of a meeting, getting someone to nominate me might not be that
easy. Why hadn’t I thought of this
before the meeting? Anyway, I
hurriedly whispered to a person in front of me, “Will you nominate me for
president?” To my surprise the answer was yes. I do not remember who that person
was. With the meeting’s pleasantries out of the way, nominations were called for
the position of president. And, of course, right on cue a person rose in their
place and nominated the Smallwood crony. The chair was about to close
nominations when I whispered desperately to my agreed nominator to stand and
nominate me. Quickly to his feet, he made the nomination. There were no other
nominations, and nominations were duly closed.

Knowing that my competitor was not a good speaker and that his last name began
with “C,” I quickly rose to my feet and made a motion. “Be it resolved that the
two persons nominated for president address the gathering and that this be done
in alphabetical order.” There was some mild shuffling of feet and some grumbling
could be heard. I proceeded to address the motion saying that I thought since
Mr. Smallwood was championing a democratic party, as he had said in his
announcement, I was sure he would endorse, in this first meeting to establish a
district association in Green Bay, an open forum for the candidates for
president to lay out their credentials and plans. Well, the chair was a little
taken back, but there did not seem to be any real opposition. The question was
called and passed.

My competitor addressed the gathering, citing his long association with Mr.
Smallwood and his residency in the district and that he thought he could do the
job.

I took my turn and stressed the importance of having young people involved,
that this was the future and I knew that this is what the premier wanted, since
he spoke of a new and vibrant party. I then spoke of my knowledge of the
province, having worked for several summers in Labrador, northeast and
northwest, as well as southern Newfoundland. I think I went on a little too
long. After the initial few nervous moments, I was enjoying it.

I had no sooner taken my seat when Mr. Smallwood rose in his place. He had
sensed the meeting getting away from its planned outcome. He stressed how youth
could be frivolous and immature,
that we needed experience and
maturity, and so on. In other words, he made it clear what he expected to occur
once the so-called free vote was taken.

I almost did it—I was beaten 54 to 50. Now here was a real taste of
politics!

Smallwood was quick to his feet after the vote was announced, and proposed that
someone should immediately nominate me for the vice-president position. I was
nominated and won by acclamation, along with the other positions on the
executive. I never did discover who the planned nominee for vice-president was
supposed to be.

Of course, the whole thing was just a Smallwood exercise to give the appearance
of an organized democratic party, when in reality he was organizing for the
eventual Leadership Convention against John Crosbie. He could then claim his
democratic bona fides.

Of course, it was not long before the leadership of the new party became the
central feature of politics in the province, and, finally, Smallwood announced a
Leadership Convention for the fall of 1969. John Crosbie was, of course, the
major opposition to Smallwood, even though, early on, Smallwood had implied that
he was stepping down, a pledge that few people believed. He said he changed his
mind because he was afraid the party would fall in “the wrong hands.” A contest
between the new up-and-comer and the only living father, Smallwood,
ensued.

In early 1969, Crosbie contacted me as he was organizing his leadership
campaign and seeking to get people on his organizing team. I was teaching at the
time, and after a number of trips to St. John’s I finalized a deal with Crosbie,
whereby I would come to work for the campaign as soon as school finished in June
and work until the convention in October. There was one hitch: What was I to do
if Crosbie lost? I would have relinquished my teaching job and would be out of
work. On a verbal promise from Crosbie, I would be paid for the rest of the year
the same monthly remuneration as if I was teaching, that being the same income I
would get during the campaign plus expenses and a car. My job was to organize
Crosbie supporters in the districts from Baie Verte to Clarenville, to try to
get as many people to
the nominating meetings as possible so
that we could elect delegates who would vote for Crosbie at the
convention.

Although John and his leadership team had some idea of the Smallwood strength,
I do not think they realized the depth of that strength—how Smallwood, in
electing a new grassroots party, had ensured that the vast majority of district
executives, who are automatic delegates to the convention, were his supporters.
They did not realize that in rural Newfoundland, generally, Smallwood support
was still very strong and he could get his old cronies in many communities to
organize to have the right people elected at all the delegate election meetings.
And, of course, that is exactly what happened. Travelling around the area, it
was difficult to mobilize a group to campaign openly for Crosbie. Even those
people who had written Crosbie expressing their support for his leadership bid
proved to be reluctant to do anything more. Essentially, most people were
afraid. Such people would be ostracized in their community since, almost without
exception, the leaders in the community were pro-Smallwood. To be anything else
at that time was suicidal. There was no public tendering act and the government
highway services were completely partisan, as were taxi licenses, beer outlet
licenses, and the list goes on.

The other problem that people today do not realize is that at that time John
Crosbie was a terrible public speaker. I know this is hard to believe for those
who have seen Crosbie speak in the House of Commons or at other political
events. But this is all a learned art, if you will. I remember when the
leadership organizers brought in mainland speech people to help Crosbie hone up
his speaking prowess. One of the big problems we organizers had was getting
Crosbie to be more passionate and emotional when we had him attend various
rallies. His family history was one of businessmen and not orators.

I remember well a particular Crosbie meeting we had organized for Glovertown.
We were pretty sure we would get out a couple hundred people. But it was
essential that Crosbie be seen as personal and articulate. Many had already
known of his lack of warmth since some had met him when he was minister of
Municipal Affairs and
minister of Health. He had this habit of
closing his eyes when he spoke!

It was necessary for the organizers to try to get him roused up before the
speech. That afternoon we all met at Caleb Acreman’s house. Knowing the Crosbie
family’s love for rum, we ensured that a number of full dark rum bottles were
available and that Crosbie had a few good swigs before the meeting. Well, lo and
behold, he was animated and the crowd loved it. Unfortunately, this was not
replicated that often in the campaign, so this one promising event was not a
prelude to the rest of the campaign. The Botwood region was one area where
Crosbie was strong mainly due to courageous citizens and the brave support of a
small businessman, Ben Elliot, and his wife, Jean, who was a local town
councillor and teacher.

Of course, Smallwood easily won the convention. However, it was at a cost. He
had first talked of stepping down and the convention would choose a new leader,
only to change his mind. He had helped to get a whole new generation of young
people involved in politics, which later became instrumental in the PC victory
and defeat of Smallwood only three years later. I thoroughly enjoyed my time
visiting the many communities and meeting new people interested in the politics
of our province.

We all went away and licked our wounds the first few days following the
convention. A week or so later, I returned to St. John’s to see John Crosbie and
determine what he wanted me to do for him for the next several months. His
campaign had an office on New Gower Street, and that is where I was to see
him.

I was in for a shock. John had no recollection of our talk in which he had
promised to continue my compensation until June of the next year if I stayed
with him until the convention. I had arranged, therefore, for someone else to
take my teaching position for the year.

I was devastated. I could hardly speak. I just looked at him. And then,
suddenly, I became angry. I told him that I found this forgetfulness was not a
characteristic of his, rather he had an excellent memory and that I had
arranged, on his promise, to have someone take my teaching position for the year
and that I had no intention of breaking
my agreement with that
teacher. I said he had to keep his word. I was recently married and needed an
income. Furthermore, if this promise was not kept, I would have no recourse but
to make it public.

He was taken back with the ferocity of my reaction and seemed visibly uneasy.
He backed away from his earlier position and indicated he would have to see what
he could do. Though somewhat relieved, I reiterated my point that it was
absolutely necessary for him to keep his promise, no ifs, ands, or buts.

It was a couple of days before things were arranged; I was to be paid out of
the Crosbie Empire. And so I worked out of the New Gower Street office assisting
Crosbie and his Liberal Reform Group, the loose association of Crosbie (as
chair), Clyde Wells, and Bonne Bay MHA Gerry Murden. Most of my time was spent
keeping in contact with the many Crosbie supporters around the province, and
from time to time doing research for his work in the House of Assembly.