This First Person column is written by Lindsey Harrington, a Nova Scotian with roots in Newfoundland. For more information about the CBC’s First Person stories, please see the FAQ.
After 32 years, the northern cod moratorium is officially over. The federal government is allowing a small increase to 18,000 tonnes of catch, calling it a historic return of the fishery. While the new limit is nowhere near the catch of 250,000 tonnes allowed before the moratorium, it feels like the end of an era — one that many Newfoundlanders say has come too soon.
My dad was among those who lost their jobs in the industry in the biggest layoff in Canada in 1992. Since I was only six at the time, I didn’t realize the magnitude of what was happening, but things started to feel different in our home. Stiff like jeans dried on the clothesline. Tight like mom’s voice after a long day.
My memories of the time feel as sharp as fishhooks, although in all likelihood, they’re like slippery fish. They grow in size and detail with each retelling — like the fish that got away on a weekend trip.
In one memory, I recall my two siblings, my mother and I were crammed onto the bench seat of our faded black Chevy truck, on our way home from Sobeys. I was in the middle, unable to stick my hand out to feel the breeze. Instead, I picked at the threadbare burgundy upholstery. Our truck had rust spots that Dad had spray-painted with leftover orange paint. I had never seen cars like this on TV, but there were lots of them in Marystown.
We had bought less than usual at the shop, and Mom had spent extra time picking up cans, studying the prices and putting them back down. We got Count Chocula and No Name orange juice concentrate, but no apples or Wagon Wheels. Even with the government TAGS program to support laid-off workers and Mom’s new minimum-wage job in caregiving, we couldn’t get everything we wanted.
The upbeat piano and twangy guitar of Achy Breaky Heart faded out and the radio’s news break began.
“For at least the next two years, Newfoundland will lose a way of life. It’s a moratorium on fishing for northern cod. A ban that will affect about 20,000 people and gut the backbone of the Atlantic fishery…”
Mom jammed down on the button, shutting the radio off. I didn’t understand why she hated the moratorium so much when it meant that Dad was home for a change. Before, he would be gone for weeks at a time on the draggers. He’d come home for a weekend to snare rabbits and cut wood, and then he’d be gone again. The moratorium meant I got to crawl into bed with him most mornings, under the nubby orange blanket with silky trim, and cuddle into his big chest of curly hair that smelled of Old Spice. He’d smirk under his thick mustache when I giggled because it tickled. Why was he so tired though, when he didn’t even work anymore?
Mom and Dad spent more time in the room with their door closed but I could barely hear their concerned mumbles over our cartoons. One day, they came out and muted Looney Tunes. Bugs Bunny was sticking his chest out and chewing on his carrot, probably saying something mean and funny to Elmer Fudd. I looked around them at the screen.
“Your dad isn’t going to be home as much anymore. He’s going to school. In St. John’s.”
Bugs Bunny silently stuck his half-eaten carrot in the opening of Elmer’s gun. When Elmer pulled the trigger, it exploded back onto him.
“I didn’t know dads went to school.”
“He’s going to learn how to work on a different kind of boat, now that he can’t fish.”
Dad settled heavily onto the couch and changed the channel to a boxing match. We scattered like ants when their nest gets stepped on, knowing better than to argue.
Bugs probably won anyway. He always won.
We remained on TAGS for years until Dad finished school and landed a job on an oil tanker.
At first, people in our circles had fiercely wanted the cod fishery back. But gradually, anger gave way to acceptance and people reinvented themselves. Now, those who are still in the industry are expressing concern and caution about foreign trawlers dragging our ocean floors again.
Fish harvesters set up shop on the harbourfront in St. John’s on Wednesday. But instead of selling their catch they gave it away for free. The federal government announced an expansion of the commercial cod fishery last month, and harvesters are worried foreign draggers will decimate the cod stock, which has been slowly regrowing since the cod moratorium was implemented in 1992.
My father has retired and will never fish commercially again. Whether the moratorium remains or is lifted, a generation was robbed of their way of life and a country-turned-province will never be the same. Nor will I — in part because of the economic turmoil the moratorium caused, jobs are scarce in Newfoundland. I eventually felt forced to resettle on the mainland.
I went home for a visit last month, just before the announcement, and Dad and I looked at a second-hand boat he was considering buying from a widow.
“It’s a fair price. I wouldn’t be selling her if…” She doesn’t need to finish the sentence.
Dad studied the motor and kicked the trailer tires.
“It’s a good deal, no doubt about it.”
Dad lifted his ball cap and wiped at the sweat accumulating beneath the brim. The widow’s husband would have been about his age. “I’ll think about it, but I wager I’m too old to manage her on my own.”
He limped back towards his truck, and I followed behind, my heart anchored by the weight of it all. Dad is unable to do what he was meant to do, even now in retirement. He’s no longer that barrel-chested black-mustached young man who was forced out of work and back to school. Nor is he the middle-aged marine engineer, crisscrossing the world with tankers full of oil.
Yet a bobber of hope buoys my line. Just as he found his way after the moratorium, he can still find purpose in this, his third act — and so can Newfoundland. I’ll cheer them both on from my found home of Nova Scotia.
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