Tales from St Anthony Part II -- A shed-load of history

Juniper lumber under pressure.

"Why did you stop building boats Ray," I ask the self professed lifelong bachelor and boat builder.

We are standing in an old shed perched on a black rocky shale ridge that straddles St Anthony Harbour and while it’s presumptuous to suggest he was married to the sea, saying this Newfoundlander knows a thing or two about boats is anything but.

He takes a second or two to dissect the Australian accent before he responds

“I stopped needing ‘em,” he says peering at me through tinted glasses spectacles.

In part he’s joking but at the same he's not. It’s true, he no longer fishes so he no longer needs a boat.

"How many have you built," I continue.

"Oh," he drawls, looking around the shed, “you know? A few,” he concludes with a broad smile that suggests one of two things.

Either he’s built so many boats he’s forgotten the real number or as I like to believe, Ray is the kind of man who never bothered counting.

And when you think about it, why would you?

It’s like a hairdresser counting how many perms they have done, a journalist tallying how many words they have written or a librarian knowing just how many books they have read.

Who knows how many Ray’s “a few” really is but standing beside him, a hand the size of a grapple hook resting on the skeletal beginnings of a boat he is overseeing construction of, you get that feeling he knows a thing or two.

He traces the timber grain with a finger when he talks about the benefits of juniper lumber, when he espouses theories developed over decades on boat stability he wraps one of those large hands around the timber and grips hard.

There is talk of different techniques, of steaming the timber or carving the ribs, the complexities of construction are intriguing and if given the chance I excitedly tell Ray that I would love to help out on boat number two.

He shrugs and says it's got nothing to do with him now.

The tools he uses and has passed down others are relics that in most cases would only be handled by white-gloved museum curators but not these ones. No these tools are sharpened every day.

One such tool, name unknown, is a plane of sorts gripped on either side and pulled along the timber.

It's history is long but one story is that Ray used to sharpen it each morning then to test it was sharp enough would walk out back and shave several slices off a frozen seal and cook rashes before starting work.

Ray's story is amazing, he is a book, a living breathing book and to be standing in this shed talking timber, fishing and dog sledding (he used to drive dog teams) you get that feeling of the special people in St Anthony.

You may be asking why we are inside his shed on a Friday at 10pm.

Our host, Emma’s new boss Aaron is building his second boat – a low profile speedboat.

We passed Aaron’s first, The Spiteful Lady (named such for no apparent reason), a few kilometers up the road.

Beers in hand, we trudged the water line to a Lego-coloured vessel dry docked outside a friend’s house.

Hundreds of man hours had gone into building it and it wasn’t quite done however once the paint job is finished and the mast attached, it should be right to go by summer, Aaron says.

We continued up the way to the shed and to a bone warming fire followed by tales of the region as recounted by Aaron, a fiddle-playing Nova Scotian wordsmith, character and quite the story teller.

Several days later he spun a yarn that gives you an idea of the type of people are around this region. True or not, it’s still a great story.

An old fisherman is strolling away from the harbor with two lobsters in his hand; a Fisheries officer allegedly jumps from his car hoping to startle the fisherman who he clearly thinks is poaching lobster out of season and without a licence.

"Got ya red handed," he allegedly said, "poaching."

"Poaching," the fisherman fired back, "what are you talking about, I’m just taking my pets for a walk."

"Pets," the officer asked.

"Yep I do it every day. I take them down to the water, throw them in and when they are done and I want to go home I call their names and they come back and we go home."

"I’ve got to see this," the fisheries officer said and urged the old timer to show him so the pair walk back down to the water and the lobsters are hurled into the blue water.

"Go on," the fisheries officer said, "call the lobsters back.

"What lobsters," the old timer said and walked away.

Folklore is strong in these parts which leads me to think I am going to love this place.