Every Canadian knows how important the cod fishery is to the history and culture of Newfoundland. It was cod that brought Europeans here in the 16th century, where they set up summer settlements, fished and salted as much cod as they could carry, and then returned home at the end of the season. Eventually, some pioneering souls stayed here year round, their lives defined by two things: cod fishing, and the need to survive until the next cod fishing season. Political structures shifted, and politicians came and went, but the cod fishery remained. Until 1992.
So when Les received a text from one of our new acquaintances asking if we wanted to go cod fishing the next day, of course, we said yes!
I had no idea what to expect, other than that we would be in a boat for a period of time. I had heard about the recreational fishery, which allows anyone in Newfoundland (resident or non-resident) to fish for personal consumption without a license for 39 days in total, spread out over summer weekends. There are quotas – no more than 5 fish per person per day, and a maximum of 15 fish per boat per day. So I knew the rules. But what that fishing actually looked like was a mystery to me.
When we got to the wharf, I was relieved that the boat had a screened in area at the front to protect from wind, and a toilet located below. There were six of us on the boat – our hosts Tony and Jackie, and Tony’s sister Pat and husband Greg, all Newfoundlanders with lots of experience fishing for cod. They were wonderful companions – fun to be with, and very tolerant of my total lack of wherewithal, which I tried not to bring undue attention to. I also didn’t bring up my history of veganism and longstanding dislike of fishing as a recreational activity. That would have been impolite at best, in the face of such generous hospitality. And besides, I was keen to experience an activity that gets to the heart of what it means to be a Newfoundlander. When in Rome …
So yes, I caught a cod! And here it is. It’s big!
In this picture, it is still alive, unable to breathe, and about to have its throat cut (by someone else). It then joined its brethren in the plastic tub seen below, where it slowly died. We caught seven in total, everyone catching at least one.
So how does one catch a cod? We set out from Port Blandford and headed out through Clode Sound towards the open ocean. We travelled about 50 kms to our final and most successful fishing destination, but stopped along the way to drop a line in a few places where success had been previously had. Cod live on the ocean floor, and like rocky areas with hiding places – Les calls it “structure”. We mostly fished in areas that were from 60 to 160 feet deep, but Clode Sound is over 400 feet deep in places.
There’s not much finesse in cod fishing. You find a likely spot, and you drop a weighted line with a large lure over the side of the boat. When the line stops unreeling, you’ve hit bottom, and then you reel it in about five or six feet. Every few seconds you jig the line, which basically means to quickly pull it up with a movement of the wrist and forearm. This just sets the lure in motion, making it more likely for the cod to see it. And then you wait. But you don’t wait too long, because if there are cod present, they bite pretty fast. When you think you’ve got a bite, you start to reel it in. You can tell it’s a cod because they struggle mightily, but you are stronger.
The old way of cod fishing was called hand jigging – no rod or reel, just a spool of fishing line and your hands. We saw a couple of women doing this in a nearby boat. Our neighbour Kay, who grew up in a small fishing town, says she prefers hand jigging; you have better control.
And that’s about it. It’s not hard, so long as you are with people who know what they are doing. We shared two rods amongst us, and there were hearty congratulations whenever a fish was caught. Here is Les with his cod.
The hardest part of the whole trip was figuring out how to use the toilet. I was given instructions that included flushing and pumping, but needed additional help after the fact. I didn’t realize that the bowl contents are pumped right out into the water, and so I made the mistake of putting my toilet paper in the bowl. After the next person used the toilet, we all saw something white in the water, and I asked excitedly “Is it squid?” Well, no, it wasn’t. Our host was extremely kind, saying that the paper must have been stuck in the pipe. I was quietly mortified.
We were given three fish to bring home – more than what we caught. Les cleaned and filleted them, and we had one last night. We fried it in butter, with a seasoning of paprika, salt and pepper. Simple and delicious!
I had a great time, and I do feel like I have had a formative Newfoundland experience. I still wrestle with the ethics of it, but that is my private struggle, not to be inflicted on the people around me. Here, the bounty of the ocean is not just an abstract notion; it is a way of life and central to Newfoundland culture.
Some of you may be wondering what happened in 1992. That’s when the federal government placed a moratorium on cod fishing in Newfoundland due to depleted stocks. Overnight, 30,000 fishermen were out of work. I remember watching this on the news in Ontario and it seemed so distant. Now, it is only distant timewise; I meet people whose families were directly impacted. Despite government retraining programs, the majority of fishermen simply changed the focus of their efforts towards shellfish. But overall, income decreased and reliance on government funding increased. Now, many men who would have been employed in the cod fishery leave Newfoundland altogether to work in mining or oil production in other provinces for months at a time.
The recreational cod fishery in which I participated is a way of ensuring that Newfoundlanders can continue to harvest the bounty of the ocean on an individual level, if not commercially. It connects people to their heritage, and is eagerly embraced by all. I feel honoured to have participated in it.
So cool. You are really embracing everything Newfoundland has to offer. And you are gracious in keeping your personal struggles to yourself -…until a local finds this blog, that is! 🙂
It’s good to know there’s still cod in them there waters! I often wondered what “jigging” meant — thanks for your explanation. In Sept. 1901 my grandfather, 22, en route from Halifax to Harrington Harbour for a year as a student minister, jigged for cod. He wrote: “It was my first experience on a ship that carried salt codfish. Off the north coast of Cape Breton, the vessel was becalmed. I jigged some cod, of which the cook made some tasty chowder. I thought that it was going to be a pleasant trip. But that night a violent storm set in, and the water came into the aft cabin, where I bunked. The bilge water became restless. I became sick. At first I was scared that I would die, then that I wanted to die, and last that I would not die. Stirred up bilge water has a horrible smell.”
I love your grandfather’s account of fearing death, wanting death, and then fearing that death wouldn’t come. Having been seasick, albeit in much better conditions, I get it!
I loved reading your blog about the experience of cod fishing. My favourite line (and there were so many) was “is it squid’?! What a cool experience, and to have so many Newfoundlanders offer their expertise to you! Looking forward to reading about your next experience.
It was totally cool! People have been very generous. Thanks for your kind words!