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Lost at Sea
8/17/03
Blaine Parks
I was
moved by the sea today. It was a powerful emotional experience, one that
snuck up on my conscience so quickly that I was surprised by its effect.
In fact, it shook the foundations of my love for the sea. For today, as I
attended the Annual Seafood Festival and Fisherman's Reunion in Lunenburg,
Nova Scotia, I heard my given name - Harry Parks - read aloud as one of
the hundreds of local fisherman lost at sea over the years. It was like
being present at my own wake. I was speechless.
Just the
day before, as we sailed from the LaHave River to Lunenburg, we were
reminded how quickly the pleasures of the sea, and of sailing, can turn to
tragedy when the Halifax Coast Guard issued an emergency notice for an
overturned sailboat with two people in the water - the very cold waters of
Nova Scotia. Plotting the coordinates of the overturned vessel, Janet and
I realized that we were only two miles from their position. We were the
closest boat and, by the rules of the sea, we were required to respond.
Hauling
our sheets and bringing Charbonneau's bow a little closer to the wind, we
cut through the three-foot chop at more than seven knots. Janet reviewed
the charts for the cove where the people were reported to have overturned
their small boat. It became immediately obvious that we'd only be able to
sail partially into the cove, where Janet would take over command of
Charbonneau while I took the dinghy in the rest of the way. There were too
many shoals and rocks to bring Charbonneau all the way in. The last thing
we needed was to become part of the problem by holing, or sinking, our own
boat in the rescue attempt. Luckily, it never came to that. The people
found their way to shore safely and the emergency was called off before
our arrival. With an overdose of adrenaline coursing through our veins, we
slackened our sails and returned to our course for Lunenburg.
Friends
had told us about the annual festival in Lunenburg, full of food, music,
and maritime tradition. It is a festival that celebrates the fishermen and
their seafaring
traditions. As we rounded the seawall guarded by an ancient lighthouse,
the hills of Lunenburg came alive with color. The homes and shops, which
climb neatly up the steep hills, are painted in bright hues of blue,
yellow, and red. I've seen no other place like it. Our arriving was made
even sweeter because we entered under full sail, following the last of
many schooners - also under full sail - as they crossed the finish line in
the annual schooner race. You could tell that this was a place rich with
seafaring history, from the rustic fishing boats at the town's large
commercial wharfs to the tall ships flying their colors at the docks. We
felt at home, sailors among other sailors.
The
anchorage was filled with boats, mostly sailboats, flying flags from
around the world. There were many Canadian flags, which you would expect.
But there were also flags from the United States, Germany, and England
flying from the flagstaffs of the yachts moored here. Regardless of our
origins or languages, we all understood the sea and had come to celebrate
its rich heritage and pay homage to those who had gone to sea before us;
people like the Harry Parks from Lunenburg who was lost at sea in 1953.
So, what
was it about this festival that moved me? Certainly, hearing my own name
read among the ones that Mother Ocean had kept from coming home was
unnerving. But that quickly passed. It wasn't the dead that I cried for
that day; it was the living. Because outside and under a carnival-type
tent on this particular Sunday sat several hundred people, hundreds more
crowded around the tent's edges, listening to a church service
administered by a collection of leaders from different faiths - putting
their differences aside and all standing united to help heal a town's deep
wounds. As I listened to the service, I wondered how it would feel to be
sitting in this congregation with all the seats filled around me, knowing
there were so many empty spaces that would never be filled again - the
places once taken by those who never returned home.
It was
after the clergy offered the closing prayers and when I thought the lump
in my throat might actually subside that I felt my knees buckle. Arriving
late to the service, Janet and I didn't have a program to follow. A moment
of silence followed the religious service and then began the reading of
the names of those lost in just the years ending in the number three.
These names weren't the names of strangers to this crowd; they were
husbands, grandfathers, fathers, brothers, and uncles. When each name was
read aloud, a new group of people could be seen hugging each other - more
like holding each other up - as they relived the loss of someone close to
them. This went on for fifteen long minutes, long enough that my heart
pleaded for it to stop. By the reading of the last name, we were all
leaning on each other for support. But, it didn't end there.
Next came
the wreath presentation ceremony. Another clergy stepped to the podium and
began reading more names, the names of people who would be presenting
wreaths in honor of the lost fishermen. It began with the usual government
officials and moved down the list to local community leaders. As each name
was read, the people stood from the congregation and marched out of the
rear of the tent to collect their wreath for presentation aboard a local
fishing boat. Then, after all the 'official' wreath-bearers names were
read came those of the families who wished to place a wreath. The
announcements went something like this, "A wreath to be placed in
honor of Harry Parks, lost in 1953. Presented by his wife, Janet, and
carried by his grandson…"
Standing at the back of the tent, I
witnessed some of the strongest human emotions I'd ever seen. I don't know
how these families did it. I don't think I could have risen from my chair.
And yet these families, holding each other with their heads held high,
rose from the crowd and filed past us on their way to collect a wreath.
What finally broke me was when a young man, around the age of five, took
his mother's hand and exited the tent. He was to present a wreath in honor
of his father and grandfather, both lost at sea. I was wiping tears with
both hands at this point. It just wasn't fair for this young man to have
so much grief this early in his life. Scarier was the thought that he'd
continue the tradition and grow up to be a fisherman just like his daddy.
The
wreaths were presented to the crew of the T.K. Pierce, a fishing vessel
from the local Lunenburg fleet. Each wreath was tied to the railing,
surrounding the boat in flowers by the time the last wreath was attached.
After all the wreaths were presented, the clergy took to a podium once
again. It was time to bless the fleet.
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A young Nova Scotia boy
presents a wreath in honor of his father and grandfather.
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Officials look on at the
wreath ceremony
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The T.K. Pierce with the
wreaths surrounding the railings.
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Each boat proceeded out of the harbor, passing by
the bulkhead where the crowds had gathered, as the clergy blessed their
boat and wished them safe passage. The T.K. Pierce was the last to leave.
As she untied her lines and motored past the clergy for her own blessing,
I realized what they were going to do. They were taking the wreaths to
sea, where they would be set afloat in memory of their comrades who had
been lost in those very waters. And like their comrades, those wreaths
would sink into the ocean's depths and never find their way back to shore.
A cold shiver ran the length of my spine.
After the
ceremonies, I went back to the local fisherman's monument for a closer
look. I'd walked by it just the day before, noticing it was there, but not
really taking the time to read the names. This time I read the names, I
touched the names, and I looked back at the families still gathered on the
docks grieving for the people whose names were immortalized upon those
granite blocks. In that one moment, I grieved with them. Yes, I was
definitely moved by the sea today. But tomorrow, for reasons that defy
rational reasoning, I'll go back to the sea again. It was probably the
same with the fishermen whose names are etched in this monument. I wonder
if they would have felt the same if they had seen the pain on a young
five-year-old boy's face. I just don't know.
The Fisherman's Tribute
Memorial |
A young lady -- a Sea
Scout -- takes a break at the Fisherman's Tribute after presenting
a wreath aboard the T.K. Pierce. |
My given name, Harry
Parks, etched into the granite. |
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