Saludos del Sur

Warm greetings from Delcahue, Isla Chiloe, Chile. I decided to venture down to Chile, because this country has an immense coastline, because fishing is very important to its economy, and because I’d never been south of the equator. I’m now sitting at 45 degrees south. It really is summer down here when it´s winter “up there”.

I didn’t many any binding plans as to where I’d go once I arrived in Chile. The basic plan was to ask as many people as posible as to which region of the country had significant comercial fishing this time of year. Once I’d gotten enough responses, I made a decision, moved to the area recommended and repeated the process. In this manner I’ve continued heading south to a small town of Dalcahue, by way of the town of Castro, Isla Chiloe, the small city of Puerto Montt, and the capital of Santiago.

For those interested I’ll include a brief mention of observations I´ve made as I passed through these various towns. The hot item in Santiago this Christmas, it seems, are dancing plastic ponies and robotic, cartwheeling stuffed-animal dogs. Puerto Montt is rich with hand-knit shawls, sweater, and socks. Isla Chiloe is full of amazing little hawks, which also somehow also resemble pigeons, almost too common but endowed with the ability to move in ways which never get dull to obseve. I’m temporarily calling these pigeonhawks unitl I learn their true name. Castro, amazingly enough, has buildings bragging more of a color spectrum than Newfoundland. Delcahue has shellfish everywhere you turn- in its art, crushed shells lining its streets, on restaurant plates. Clams, mussels and oysters are being cultivated just offshore, markets offer lukewarm shellfish to anyone brave enough to dare. And all parts of Chile are well endowed with breasts. I don´t intend for this to be inappropriate or sexual or funny, and no I haven´t been looking any more than at the shells or pigeonhawks. I believe it´s just a fact here in Chile- an honest observation- not to be taken any farther than that. Delcahue also has lots of small fishing boats, so I'm excited to see what's going on on the water in these parts.

Rusty scallop boats and shiny lobster trucks

DIGBY, NOVA SCOTIA
Targeted fish: scallop, lobster, herring, dogfish
Methods of fishing: side dragger (trawl), onshore and offshore traps
Footwear: Dunlop, Viking, and Baffin rubber boots
Favorite local saying: “They’re all a-gone uphill.” (fishing north in the Bay of Fundy); “So you ain’t a Bluenoser?”
Local food: fried scallops
Drink of choice: Alexander Keith’s IPA or red
Local entertainment: Hard telling. Judging by stickers on fishermens’ trucks, watching NASCAR racing.
Select Local Fishing Boats: Chief Charles Paul, Marianne Louise II, Greyhound, Maybe 99, Royal Fundy, Secret Sea, Artemis, Thundercat, Surchin IV, Elva G, Undaunted, Chief William Saulis, Fundy Retreiver

While waiting for a Brazilian visa application to bump its way through the Brazilian-American beaureacratic pinball machine, and since the constant wind hitting the southern Newfoundland continued to keep the boats at bay, I decided to spend a few days exploring the fishing scene in Nova Scota. The province has an interesting way of controlling fishng effort for lobster, while still keeping fresh “bugs” heading to market. A rotating schedule ensures that some part of the province is open at any particular date. After glancing at the chart of openings, I pointed my sails towards Digby, which lies on Nova Scotia´s west coast.

Digby, it turns out, is a beautiful town founded (in the conceited Anglo-American sense) by Loyalists who were booted from New England around the time of Paul Revere. If a person was ever inclined to buy a authentic five-bedroom Victorian-style house with an expansive yard and ocean view to match, this may be the only place to get the wntire package for less than Sarah Palin’s October wardrobe.

More than its lobster, Digby’s true claim to fame is its scallop fleet, which was once the largest of its kind in the world. A glance at the town’s boardwalk shows that tourism now plays a big role in the local economy, but just behind the flashy signs lies a struggling region. Somehow, though, Digby seems to be struggling in an amazingly elegant way.

The scallop fleet is comprised of side draggers, meaning that they drag their trawl off one side of the boat (usually the starboard it seems) rather than astern. To me, side dragging isn’t an intuitive thing for a boat to do. It seems to be asking for trouble. In my perspective, it also ensures an awkward-looking, asymmetrical boat. This is of course all irrelevant when the scallops are plentiful and the price is high.

These days, the scallop population is in a rut (fishermen maintain that scallops have always had huge natural oscillations in regional populations), and the state of the fishery is evidenced by the impressive amount of rust visible on the draggers. Shortly after inquiring, I was offered the chance to take a fill in job on one of the draggers. A great chance to really see the fishery. If I wanted to go, the boat was leaving at two in the morning (that night), and coming back after a week or so.

A blend of tides, temperment, and testosterone make late night departures common in the fisheries. This didn´t worry me a bit. The volume of rust covering the deck of the boat did. I decided to pass up the opportunity.

In my pass through Digby, I witnessed two other fisheries- targeting lobster and dogfish- and these may well exhibit the range of profitability in the world of fisheries. Roughly a dozen lobster boats steamed to and from the Digby docks. The boats were incredible hulks of modern design, half as wide abeam as they were long. Sternless 50 foot boats that stretch 25 foot abeam seemed like their decks were made for pickup basketball, not marine travel. I’m more accustomed to the smaller and much more sleek and unassuming Maine lobster boats. A small efficient boat like those built for Maine’s craggy coast just wouldn’t cut it in a fishery which offers huge rewards for being able to set 400 traps in one trip. There certainly were lots of big, new trucks near where these lobster boats tie up.

A few miles out of town, half-way down a long, thin peninsula known as Digby Neck, I ran into an 50 year old deckhand stripping rusty hooks from old groundline, spilling out of a cracked plastic bucket. He explained to me that he longlined for dogfish in the Bay of Fundy. Sometimes the sharks were “uphill” (up the bay), sometimes the were “downhill”, but the price was always the same- 11 cents per pound. Not really enough to pay for gas and lunch. Pick one or the other. Once in a while you lucked out and caught a halibut for dinner, he said. I immediately felt spoiled, but perhaps I shouldn´t have. Digby is yet another place where people fish for more than just a way to pay the bills. What else would you do, and where else could be better?

Three parts to the puzzle

In trying to piece together the internal tickings of at least one fishery here in Newfoundland, it seems like three factors come into play, and have a huge influence on all island fishermen and a noticeable effect on entire rural communities. Although unrelated, I throw all three together here. Keep in mind that I’m attempting to showcase the perspective of island fishermen I’ve spoken with and so in turn my information may be biased, slightly incorrect, and is certainly under-researched. It is, however, the reality for the fishermen I’ve met.

The Moratorium
In 1992, after conceding that the Grand Banks groundfish stock was showing unmistakable signs of a complete collapse, the Canadian government (FAO) closed Newfoundland waters to all fishing which targeted groundfish. Foreign vessels still fished waters, while even subsistence fishing was prohibited. Communities which had been created around cod fishing were abruptly altered. Unemployment and alcoholism rates rose, and people began leaving the small towns for St. John’s or headed off-island. I’m told that the moratorium effectively killed the nearshore fishing fleet. The midsized fleet quickly diversified to target other fish, and the existing non-cod fishermen (say, lobstermen) were suddenly competing against a crowd.

Today, 16 years after the moratorium, the event is still a bitter subject on the docks, causing widespread head shaking and cynicism, and many fishing grounds are still closed. Although some have pointed out that the value of upstart fisheries (mainly crab and shrimp) since the initial moratorium exceeds the highest value ever attained in the peak of the Grand Bank cod fishery, fishermen are quick to point towards a common sight in many of the outport towns- the rotting skeletons of small fishing boats. Clearly, the internal structuring of the island’s fisheries was significantly altered, and fewer nearshore boats survived.

Employment Insurance
Known locally as pogey, EI is the Canadian parallel to collecting unemployment in the US. This social program, for better or worse, plays a significant role in the dynamics of Newfoundland fishing communities. The design is interesting in that a person can collect from EI only if he/she has a work history from that year, and increased wages earned while working qualify a person for higher EI benefits. This is intended to help seasonal workers, such as fishermen, make it through the offseason.

Fishermen are entitled to two claims per year, for as long as six months per claim. I’m told that some fishermen are strategic about their work: they fish for an intense period in the spring, collect EI for the summer, fish for another spell in the fall, and return to their pogey for the winter. As far as I could tell, there is no stigma attached to collecting EI. A few younger fisherman had their own nickname for the program- unenjoyment insurance- and spoke of how dull winter life was in the outports, with no work to make the time pass by. Nothing to do but spend money, drink, and get into trouble, they told me. Work was more fun than this.

Out of curiosity, I wandered into an employment assistance office one day, and began asking a friendly lady who worked there about the specifics of their EI program. She told me unabashedly, but in a quiet voice, “Everybody around here collects in the winter, and then goes and works on top of it. I mean everybody. I even used to collect and then work part-time here in the office. It’s just part of life, how we get by. But don’t tell my boss, I’m not sure if she does that.” In Newfoundland, it seems that pogey is in bed with fishing, and that seems to be fine.

Tar Sands of Alberta
Newfoundland has a population of 450,000 people or so, and is losing a trickle of people every year. In recent years, a major draw out of Newfoundland has been the lure of quick money working in the oil fields/tar sands of Alberta. Who cares, eh? Well, young males from the island outports are the main group heading out west, and this is the demographic that in years past would make up the bulk of up-and-coming fishermen.

By enticing a particular slice of rural Newfoundland off-island, petro-based work in Alberta has a indirect, but significant, effect on Newfoundland fishing communities. Young fathers are away from home for much of the year, or young families decide to emigrate west. Reliable deckhands are hard to come by, and so turnover on the boats is high, accidents are more likely, and skippers’ jobs are more stressful. In some families the fishing baton isn’t relayed to the next generation. Perhaps this in an inevitable transition, but the effect is apparent and has come up a bunch in conversations around town.

Just one perspective on three issues facing Newfoundland outports. Perhaps this spoils the simple, romantic image that some have about commercial fishing. Perhaps it should.