Monday had arrived, the day we were going to drive down to Wedgeport and finally get out on the ocean. Originally the plan was for all three of us to spend two days on Cpt. Lucien LeBlanc's boat the John Harold, to film him, his crew, and as many of the other 1688 boats in the same waters as we would be as we could. However we soon learned, after our first call of the day to Lucien, that There was only room for one extra on his fishing boat. this meant we had to nominate one of us to go, while the other two shot b-roll for the same two days. We nominated Brad, not a tough decision, as he is the Director, but also not hard because we'd heard many, many tales of how bad seasickness on the Atlantic can get, and I for one, was not down for that.
It wasn't all bad news because as we were soon to discover, there would be some amazing scenery waiting for Mike and I once we got down there, but more on that in a bit.
As for the morning, Brad and I headed into Halifax once again, this time to pickup a Lav Mic, that we'd convinced a local production company (Pink Dog Productions) to let us borrow for a couple days. It took a while to find, but we did eventually. It was nice to meet some fellow media folks with some similar interests (Pink Dog works primarily with not for profit organizations), and the extra mic is a huge bonus.
By the time all that was done it was another hour after we got back before we left for Wedgeport, there was a lot of gear to pack up and Brad had to make sure he was stocked up on every motion sickness remedy he could find in the drug store. the drive ahead was to take around 4 hours, and as Brad was feeling a bit drowsy from the motion sickness patch on his neck, I was to be the driver. Normally that'd be fine, but the drive from Sackville to Wedgeport is pretty much a straight shot on the highway, there's no need to even turn until you reach Wedgeport, and it was dark out, a perfect recipe for a very drowsy Matt Brisby at the wheel. I was fighting the urge to just close my eyes pretty hard, eventually I had to make the others entertain me and keep me engaged in conversation. That seemed to do the trick. By the time we reached the warf Lucien had directed us too, it was about 8 o'clock, and night had fully fallen.
It seems to be an accidental tradition on this journey, that we always arrive in the best parts of the world at night.
Lucien met us at the entrance to the warf (after we'd accidentally driven into about 3 private driveways, and yards, thinking they were the warf) and we quickly loaded our gear onto the small motor boat that would take us to the LeBlanc family private warf and "camp" on a place called Big Tuscant Island. The ride was cold, dark, wet and about 15 minutes long, with waves of salt water pounding us as Lucien piloted our craft to a location unknown to his passengers. Every time a really big wave hit us, we were all sprayed with salt water, (a tast that I still have on my lips after showering just moments ago!). We couldn't see much as the high winds had pushed a lot of cloud cover over the Islands surrounding us, blocking out, for the most part, the glorious full moon that would occasionally peek through the clouds as if to remind us of it's own presence.
Then we pulled into the harbour area (for lack of a better term), which was made up of over a dozen private warfs, sticking out into the low evening tide like small wooden cliffs, each one with one or more 30-40 foot fishing boat, packed to the gunnels with around 400 baited lobster traps, moored to them. We'd heard about how full the boats would be, but these boats exceded our visual expectations. There was not a single square foot of space on the deck of any boat that was not occupied by a trap, excuse me, a stack of traps, usually between 4 and 6 traps high! Ropes were tied all around, weaving in every direction over the traps and the boat itself like the vines on the side of X-mansion (or Wayne Manor if you prefer). The warfs themselves were attached to two separate Islands that ran about 500 meters apart from each other for about a 1 and a half kilometer stretch. At the time it felt like a dark wet street of boats.
As we drove along this stretch in Lucien's motorboat, he pointed out his boat to us, the boat his father had bought in 1981, the John Harold. It was on the smaller side of the boats docked, but not the smallest by far, probably about 32 feet long, this proud old, white vessel was packed just like the others, but with one difference; one of the bunks below deck bunks was going to be filled with some 23 year old from Ontario, who'd never been on a boat before, trying to work a camera and probably puke his guts out at the same time.
Lucien docked us next to the John Harold and we climbed up the retractable ramp (has to be to deal with the massive tides) until we were finally on the warf itself. Once up there I got a much better view of my surroundings. Each one of the warfs I'd seen on my ride in (with the exception of one) was connected in some for or another to a small cottage, or "camp" where the fishermen could eat, sleep and prepare to go out on the water. None of the camps were large, the largest probably being the size of a greyhound bus, but each one has running water (though not drinkable), Heat (via wood stoves) and electricity. These camps are usually "staffed" with a cook in each of them, usually a relative (most of the time female) during the days in the season when the fishermen are due to come back. After a rough two days at sea, with little to no sleep, and mediocre at best sustenance, the last thing any fishermen wants is to have to try to cook a meal (also I'd say most of them can't cook very well at the best of times).
These cooks and the camps they reside in on, not only the Tuscant Islands, but many other islands in the area, play a vital role in the livelihoods of the fishermen who have access to them. It saves most captains and their crew a lot of time to have their own warf about an hour away from the nearest major port. It makes them closer to their fishing grounds than most of their competitors. They also get a head start on dumping day because they're already so far out.
It's also really, really cool.
Lucien took us from the warf into his camp, telling us to be careful not to wake his crew, as they had worked extremely hard that day and would all be getting up at 5 am to get a head start on what would be an extremely hard haul and they obviously needed all the rest they could get. Lucien himself needed rest, he told us as we entered that, "I hope you won't think I'm tired but I'm tired as all hell, so I'll be going to bed, like, now." We certainly didn't begrudge him of that. How could you? The man's been working like the dickens for a week straight, and he's about to work even harder! Go for it Lucien, sleep all you can. The inside of the camp was tight, it had a mud room as you entered, filled with the coats and waterproof, winterized, very used bodysuits of the crewmen, and the water heater. There was also a small bathroom, with a tiny shower, a decent sized kitchen, a small living room (Complete with crystal clear satellite TV! Don't ask me how that works, my phone stopped having reception hours before) as well as a flight of steep stairs that lead up to a room full of bunks and a cook's bedroom on the bottom floor.
Once inside we were introduced to the John Harold's cook. None other than Lucien's father, former captain of the aforementioned seafaring vessel, Kevin LeBlanc. Kevin is a great guy to be around. He and his family have been around fishing boats their entire lives, and have been involved in not only fishing on them but also building and repairing boats, the warfs they dock at and the camps they call their own. Kevin is a man full of stories, like Carl, but much more wholesome, Kevin spun yarns of the days when his father and grandfather and brothers all fished from the island we were standing on, which even in the dark looked majestic. We talked with Kevin long after Lucien had gone to bed, and even after Kevin had gone to his room to sleep, we stayed up helping brad come up with ideas for shot to get on the boat, in between bouts of hurling, obviously. Then at around 9:30 we snuck up stairs to bed. I found a top bunk right next to the stairs and as I was lying there listening to the wind roaring around this tiny little cottage I thought about how wild it was that I was where I was, how far this journey had taken me, and how glad I was that I wasn't the one going on a fishing boat for 48 hours.
* * *
The next morning I awoke to the sound and smell of cooking bacon wafting up the stairs mixed with the ever-present aroma of salt water and fish. It definitely wasn't the light that woke me, it was still dark, because I was up slightly early at quarter to five. I mean, only early relative to the crew, Kevin had been up since 4 and Mike had gotten up at 2 to film the moon and the boats sitting ready in the warfs. But soon enough Brad and Lucien's crew were up and mowing down the awesome breakfast of bacon, scrambled eggs, fish cakes (fried mash potato, onions and haddok in pan fried pucks the size of an english muffin), orange juice, fresh coffee (a highlight of any morning), OJ and buttered english muffins. It was awesome. I ate it this morning, and I want to eat in again right now.
Once we ate, Dumping day began.
At twenty to six we joined the crew as they headed down to the warf to prep the boat as much as they could so that they could be one of the fist ones out of the gate at 6 am, the time at which you are permitted to leave your warf, (any earlier and you could face hefty fines). Mike was manning his camera while I scouted the area for different shots and helped brad get his gear onto the boat. It was very cold, I again was thankfully I was not going on the boat, because after 5 minutes after being outside, it became painfully obvious to me that thin cloth sneakers were not ideal oceaneering footwear. however the rest of me was kept warm as I had several layers on, as well as gloves a hat and a scarf I found in the car.
Then came the moment when we said our goodbyes to Brad as he stepped onto the boat the final time, he looked excited, but excited in the way that, he's trying to burry his nerves in excitement. We wished him well, told him to stay safe and headed to the furthest warf toward the open ocean and set up our camera. The stuff we got was hauntingly beautiful, the full moon was shining a bright yellow, having shaken the clouds that had been strangling it mere hours before, and the wind had died down to almost nothing leaving the water inside the cove glassy and flat, disturbed only by the boats that powered their way through it, laden heavy with empty Lobster pots. We watched all the boats go out from the harbour, we could even see the lights of the boats leaving from Pubnico, and Wedgeport in the distance. I was struck by how big of an operation it was, 1688 plus boats all heading out to the same water, all at once, all in the dark, with edgy, motivated crew members and their livelihoods on the line.
All to drag some bug off the ocean floor.
After we watched the boats leave, we took some time to offload the footage we just shot, whilst setting up the camera to get a time-lapse shot of the sunrise that broke cleanly over the treetops of a far off point of Big Tuscant Island. Inside, Kevin told us many more stories and factoids and we decided to put it all on camera, and interviewed him about his life, his son's profession and this weird red invertebrate that has spawned entire industries.
As the sun came up and daylight kissed the land around us it became abundantly clear just how beautiful the place we were standing was. The sea stretched out infront of us, wild and untamed, smashing into the rock that was the Island we were on. The grass was long, windswept and soft as moss. The only sound to be heard out there is the wind and the sea. It's a loud silence that makes you stop in your tracks and marvel at your surroundings. It was so different than anywhere I've ever been in my life before. I could have stayed there for years.
Kevin was going to be our ride to the mainland again, but just like Carl and PJ before him, before he let us go, he had some things to show us. We were more than glad to see them. First was a trip across the gap between warfs to meet Kevin's neighbour, Vincent, an 81 year old who had literally been born in a light house on an island, and his wife of 63 years, Pauline, who was cooking for their son his crew, a captain like Lucien and his crew. Vincent was funny and Pauline was lovely and offered us delicious cookies.
After those two Kevin took us in the motorboat (aptly named the Ho-bo Go-Go) around all the neighboring islands, they all had awesome names like Mud Island, Strawberry Island, Sheep Island, and each one had a history behind them, some had been old fishing spots, others had been Native burial sites, one even had a church on it. Just a church. Must be quite the commute on sunday mornings.
He pointed out light houses and shanties and shacks and warfs he'd help build. He then took us to the other cottage that His family owned, also very small, this one lacked both power and running water, but it had a view that I can't even hope to try to describe. It was probably the prettiest thing I've ever seen.
Once we got to the mainland Kevin took us around in his truck showing us his family's homes, the boat building plant that he and his brothers had owned until very recently as well as his own home and the immense shed he'd built himself (he was keen on showing us all the amazing things he'd built) which housed the biggest collection of hand restored axes and hammers I've ever seen, a hobby he'd picked up after he stopped fishing in 1999 and passed his boat on to, first another captain for a few years, but then his son in 2007. Each tool was not only restored to it's full former glory, but each was engraved with an individual carving, or burning. It was really cool and I wish I took pictures of it.
Finally we parted ways with Kevin and began the long road back to Lower Sackville, stopping along the way to get b-roll of Digby and Bedford.
It's been a long day and a lot happened, tomorrow we'll be doing more shooting as well as picking brad up from the warf in Wedgeport at 8, hopefully he's still in one piece.
Ah, it feels good to shoot again.
-Matt
P.S. Kevin reminds me of an Acadian version of my dad... who's built more boats.
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