weight didnât matter, only numbers did.
Some five hours later they rowed back to the schooner. The dories had left the Laura Claire like the spokes of a wheel, going outward away from her and each other. Now they returned in balletic fashion.
Richard wondered how one doryâs lines could get entangled in another with a system like this. He knew this happened, but he couldnât see how. He was afraid to ask, though. Besides, he didnât really care; he was feeling unwell again. He was cold, and his stomach refused to settle down. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed blood trickled down his fatherâs right hand, but the older man ignored it and rowed as if his life depended on it.
Richard and Steve used pitchforks to unload the slimy, silvery cod from the dory onto the schooner. It was hard work. In the four fish crates they cut, throated and headed the fish, working as rapidly as they could. On the splitting tables, they quickly removed the backbones using square-topped knives with curved blades. In the two fish tubs they washed the dressed fish. Still hurrying all the while, they loaded it into the holds to be salted.
They threw gurry into the gurry kids, the large wooden pounds theyâd built back in Burin, on deck.
âYou canât dump gurry on the fishing grounds,â Steve said curtly to Richard, his hands bloody as he flung fish guts to the container. âItâd be bad for the water and the fish.â Richard nodded, grateful whenever his father spoke to him like he was just one of the men, but still feeling queasy.
Finally the Captain joined them in their work. He stood over the liver butt into which the men threw dozens, then hundreds, of cod livers of all sizes. Richard watched Captain Brinton take a fryer, a stove-like contraption with a grate and a fan-shaped funnel, and put it through a square hole in the top of the first butt. He heated the fryer with dry kindling and soft coal at first. Then he added hard coal after a while. When the oil was rendered out of the cod livers, the Skipper removed the fryer and placed it in the next butt to begin the process over again. There were four altogether.
âSo thatâs how they make that rotten stuff,â Richard said to himself. He could taste the horrible oil in his mouth, remembering his motherâs insistence that all her children swallow it every day in winter. The memory made his stomach begin flipping and flopping again.
When all their fish was finally salted, Steve jumped back into his dory and Richard followed him. Again they rowed out to the fishing grounds, again not saying a word, and again they fished and returned to the Laura Claire , where they gutted and salted their fish. They did this twice more that first day.
That night Richard was so exhausted even his stomach pains and spinning head could not keep him awake. For the first time since leaving Burin, he slept soundly.
Chapter Eleven
O ne day was like the next in the Banks fishery. The menâs hours became an endless round of rowing, baiting hooks, letting out trawl, hauling trawl, unhooking fish, counting fish, pitching fish onto the schooner, heading them, gutting them, tossing their livers and guts, throwing them into the hold, salting them, rowing, fishing. The only variation came from their meals, which the cook tried his best to make satisfying, and the dreams that filled their few hours of sleep each night. Through it all, Richard tried his best to ignore the queasiness that never left him and sometimes threatened to overwhelm him.
By the fourth day of fishing Richard was throwing up uncontrollably. He hadnât eaten much the whole trip because of his sickness, so before long he vomited green bile, which cut his throat with its bitterness. Then convulsive dry heaves overtook him. His eyes were bloodshot from the fruitless effort of throwing up. Tiny pinpricks of red appeared on his pale cheeks, put there by the force of his retching. As
Some five hours later they rowed back to the schooner. The dories had left the Laura Claire like the spokes of a wheel, going outward away from her and each other. Now they returned in balletic fashion.
Richard wondered how one doryâs lines could get entangled in another with a system like this. He knew this happened, but he couldnât see how. He was afraid to ask, though. Besides, he didnât really care; he was feeling unwell again. He was cold, and his stomach refused to settle down. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed blood trickled down his fatherâs right hand, but the older man ignored it and rowed as if his life depended on it.
Richard and Steve used pitchforks to unload the slimy, silvery cod from the dory onto the schooner. It was hard work. In the four fish crates they cut, throated and headed the fish, working as rapidly as they could. On the splitting tables, they quickly removed the backbones using square-topped knives with curved blades. In the two fish tubs they washed the dressed fish. Still hurrying all the while, they loaded it into the holds to be salted.
They threw gurry into the gurry kids, the large wooden pounds theyâd built back in Burin, on deck.
âYou canât dump gurry on the fishing grounds,â Steve said curtly to Richard, his hands bloody as he flung fish guts to the container. âItâd be bad for the water and the fish.â Richard nodded, grateful whenever his father spoke to him like he was just one of the men, but still feeling queasy.
Finally the Captain joined them in their work. He stood over the liver butt into which the men threw dozens, then hundreds, of cod livers of all sizes. Richard watched Captain Brinton take a fryer, a stove-like contraption with a grate and a fan-shaped funnel, and put it through a square hole in the top of the first butt. He heated the fryer with dry kindling and soft coal at first. Then he added hard coal after a while. When the oil was rendered out of the cod livers, the Skipper removed the fryer and placed it in the next butt to begin the process over again. There were four altogether.
âSo thatâs how they make that rotten stuff,â Richard said to himself. He could taste the horrible oil in his mouth, remembering his motherâs insistence that all her children swallow it every day in winter. The memory made his stomach begin flipping and flopping again.
When all their fish was finally salted, Steve jumped back into his dory and Richard followed him. Again they rowed out to the fishing grounds, again not saying a word, and again they fished and returned to the Laura Claire , where they gutted and salted their fish. They did this twice more that first day.
That night Richard was so exhausted even his stomach pains and spinning head could not keep him awake. For the first time since leaving Burin, he slept soundly.
Chapter Eleven
O ne day was like the next in the Banks fishery. The menâs hours became an endless round of rowing, baiting hooks, letting out trawl, hauling trawl, unhooking fish, counting fish, pitching fish onto the schooner, heading them, gutting them, tossing their livers and guts, throwing them into the hold, salting them, rowing, fishing. The only variation came from their meals, which the cook tried his best to make satisfying, and the dreams that filled their few hours of sleep each night. Through it all, Richard tried his best to ignore the queasiness that never left him and sometimes threatened to overwhelm him.
By the fourth day of fishing Richard was throwing up uncontrollably. He hadnât eaten much the whole trip because of his sickness, so before long he vomited green bile, which cut his throat with its bitterness. Then convulsive dry heaves overtook him. His eyes were bloodshot from the fruitless effort of throwing up. Tiny pinpricks of red appeared on his pale cheeks, put there by the force of his retching. As
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