off the Map
Monday, 12 July 2010
The ferry pulls into François after a rocky ride rolling on the sea. A low-ceiling fog cuts off the granite tops of this fjord that reaches deep into dark water. Several streams tumble from the clouds and waterfalls flow thick from fat raindrops that make perfect circles around the ferry. Susan, from the other end of a B&B telephone call, greets us at the wharf and leads us to a “fine ol’ spread” in her house with a hilltop view of the other 108 people content with their François lives.
We arrived here last night; some 300 years after the French initially settled this region. The Southern coast of Newfoundland is only accessible by ferry boats that pass by every couple of days. Not connected by any road, being here feels like falling off the map, like I am forgotten by modern society in one of the most remote and isolated places on the planet. Susan’s husband, Paul, is a fast-talking fisherman who garbles his words in a musical Newfoundland accent, repeatedly reminding me of the local pronunciation of French town names down here (François is France-way, Rencontre East is Roun-counter East, Petit Forte is Petty Fort, Baie d’Espoir is Bay Da Speer, Grand Bruit is Gran Brit, a recently resettled community). He makes friendly conversation with us as we’re chowing down on home-cooked goodness, the food settling my stomach set strange from the rolling sea. Paul and Susan have three kids: two working as military officers and one married to a military officer – approximately 10% of the village is serving in the Canadian Forces, which I guess is a guaranteed ticked out of here. But just the same, this place survives, no bigger or smaller than before.
We shower and take a look into the outside world via satellite television. In the kitchen, the underwater sound of metal on porcelain, submerged glasses thumping against the bottom of the sink, trails of dripping water from a cleaning cloth that dives to swirl around squeaking plates, resurfacing in suds washed away by a steady flow from the tap. Spain and Netherlands challenge one another in even skill, depending on lucky chances, a few seconds that would relieve millions holding their breath. Susan breathes regularly in preparing Paul’s lunch that is 31 years in the making. Paul snores loudly after 8pm and stops at 3am to head out on the water. I yawn and continue watching for Spain to score, I already know the outcome: Spain-1, Netherlands-0 in the second extended play. Millions stop holding their breath and millions of “Champion” banners end up in a Dutch landfill.
The sound of voices chewing on their words coming from the kitchen implies morning; a day closer to the promise of quicker movement along the coast, to more favourable weather for camping, to choices and options not weighted so heavily on a limited ferry schedule. We fill ourselves and head out for the day, taking pictures, exploring the nooks and crannies, sizing up wharves, climbing hills, chatting with passers-by, hypothesizing existence in this little, isolated town…all before lunch. After lunch when we head out, chats turn into conversations. This is when I realize that my father is the best person to have with me on this coast, even if his camping complaints don't quit. From many years working on the highway, he essentially knows everyone in Newfoundland, or at least can make a connection. He can chat about anything, can tell the same story again and again with enthusiasm, has a way of speaking that invites trust, can easily summon the perfectly fitting fact or piece of natural knowledge at any moment, will pay for things from time to time, is selfless, genuine, kind-hearted, sincere, good-humoured and considerate.
We talked to Sam Fudge, the store clerk, a sailor from St. John’s, a man with the last name Durnford, all for a considerable amount of time. In a small town like this, the things one can see is limited. You have to look inside the people you encounter, otherwise you’ll be staring into a television for company. I would rather watch the emotion in a set of eyes, look for teeth behind a smile, listen for virtue in the voice of a storyteller. With these qualities in mind, one could be as content as any of the 108 souls in this community.