Large Fierce Mammal

Click on this aerial photograph to enlarge it and then locate “Little Herman Island” at the bottom center. Note the point of land projecting toward a dock on the larger “Hermans Island”. Count two more docks down along the larger island’s south shore — the second one is our embarkation and return point. Now locate “Covey Island”, and most importantly “Meisner’s Cove”, the scene of our persistent drama.

There’s an old joke that goes:

Q — “What do you tell a man with two black eyes?”

A — “Nothing. He’s already been told twice.”

There are some who might say that after what happened on my last trip, what you’re about to read should have come as no surprise.

As aforesaid, I first set foot on Covey Island in the Spring of 1975. Today I shall begin the chronicle of events for my last visit, in the Summer of 1996. A trip notable from the outset in that it was to be the shortest ever planned — a mere overnighter spanning Saturday to Sunday — and included the largest party. Ten souls, consisting of four women and six men; four married couples and two bachelors. It would be the demands of family, children, careers, and the complications of divorces that would make this the last Covey Island expedition mounted by the Olde Guard — those three of us who had been there together on that spring day in 1975, and on every following eventful day chronicled above, awake or not — that brought further adventures to a halt. Perish the thought that it may have had anything to do with anyone taking what follows personally.

On that Saturday morning in 1996, a spirited wind was coming out of the northeast as the Mi-Pet-Val II steamed headlong into it on her way from the Baker Family dock on Herman’s Island to the shelter of Meisner’s Cove. Forecasts predicted a sunny day, wind continuing out of the northeast through the day and all night with a chance of rain overnight, and a likelihood of showers the following day. Nothing to dampen our spirits or alter plans.

We were towing the trusty old rowing boat that figured so prominently in our last episode, and had served us well for two decades of runs to and from shore while the ‘Val was moored in the cove. With the predicted northeast overnight wind however, and the fibreglass hull of the ‘Val II being more accepting of beaching than her wooden predecessor, our stout captain planned landfall for high tide, and to anchor her to the shore at wading distance to be out of the wind. This meant she would be high and dry at low tide, and so unable to evacuate any member of the party in the event of a medical emergency at an inconvenient point in the tidal cycle, but this reality had been discussed and accepted under the umbrella of compensatory measures.

You see, the Goode Mrs. Baker, of whom I have previously spoken, was a Registered Nurse of no small experience and skill while I was both the Director of Emergency Measures for the Municipality of the District of Lunenburg, and in command of the Emergency Operations Centre that ran dispatch operations for five fire districts and two police jurisdictions. Beyond my own skills and knowledge, this meant that I was in possession of a battery powered base radio capable of making direct contact with my 24/7 operations centre as well as ambulance dispatch, any provincial fire agency, the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, and the Department of Natural Resources. The ‘Val II was also fitted with a marine VHF radio for routine and emergency Coast Guard communications, and adding to that our stock of medical supplies, we felt no qualms about being beached between tides. In extremis, there was also the trusty rowboat, soon resting safely on the beach well above the high tide mark, if push came to shove.

Landfall and camp setup were uneventful and sheltered from the worst of the wind by being in the lee of the cove’s north arm. As soon as I was feet dry, I deployed and turned on my radio which had been fully charged as of the morning of our embarkation, and did a radio check with my Duty Dispatcher. That being successful, I turned the radio off, stowed it, and set to work.

Tents were erected, equipment and supplies brought ashore, field kitchen and campfire established, and a wonderful day spent exploring the island through the eyes of some members of the party who had never been there before, or heard any of its history.

It was while I was preparing the fire for the traditional first night Steaks and Lobster that I noticed Michael, intrepid captain of the ‘Val II, back in the boat, sitting on her stern, looking down and obviously swearing, as we say, a blue streak. Curious, I walked over to ask what he was doing and learned that her battery was dead. I don’t recall if I ever knew what he was doing that disclosed this but, after hearing the news, I ran a few tests and performed a few remedial actions of my own to confirm it. Dead as a nit. No battery meant no starting the engine and no use of the marine VHF radio.

“No worries,” I said as I hopped back to the sand, “I’ll call in and get my people to call your Father for a fresh battery delivery.”

“No! No! Don’t do that now!” Michael cried, “Do it tomorrow. I don’t want him all worked up tonight. You know how he is!”

I have to admit, I did. While I had known all of the Baker family from my childhood, I also knew Michael’s Father Gilbert, AKA Gibby, professionally in his capacity as Chief of Police for the Town Of Lunenburg through my own capacity as designer, operator, chief cook and bottle washer of the dispatch centre that handled his department’s communications.

As I walked back toward the fire, the bullshit shedding part of my brain kept reminding me that I was in possession of what was now the only working means of radio communicating with the outside world existing on the island. I did go so far as to go to my tent, turn on my radio and key up the local provincial repeater to satisfy myself of operability, and then turned it off. I then returned to the fire, resigned to the granting of Michael’s request as those of us entrusted with chef duties hove to in our labours.

Day turned to dusk, and thence to night; Steaks and Lobsters long since cooked and devoured, the ladies abandoned the fireside revelry in favour of the tents when the start of light rainfall a little after midnight gave us all a gentle hint. The remainder — all the males — erected some shelter, donned wet weather gear, poured another dram, and stoked the fire to wait out arrival of the high tide so we could ensconce the ‘Val II in her overnight perch before turning in ourselves. Satisfied that she was as well secured as she could be with her anchor line pulled taught across the beach, her anchor well lodged by one tine in the sand, the other lodged behind three large logs and a half-dozen barely movable boulders, we retired ourselves.

It was almost two hours later when I woke to the sound of large raindrops hitting the tent and strong, steady wind in the trees … and something else that might have been the tail end of a dream. Sheltered by a wooded hill, the tents were in no danger of collapsing, but when I noticed that Michael’s sleeping bag was empty, I got up to look outside upon a scene not unlike a peek behind the shower curtain of Hell.

In the short time we’d been in bed, the wind had changed from the northeast around to the east so it was now blasting with unforecast fury straight across the island’s central pond, across the beach, and out over Meisner’s Cove. With it came wind driven gobbets of rain, and what they lacked in volume of fire they made up for in sheer size. Anyone exposed to them wouldn’t take long to get wet.

There was enough moon coming through fast moving rents in the overcast for me to see the white, high prowed hull of the now fully afloat Mi-Pet-Val II bucking like a wild thing in the cove, still attached to the beach by her anchor which was clearly nowhere near where it used to be. And then I saw Michael, dressed in nothing but his white briefs, sitting on the beach with both heels leaving drag marks in the coarse sand as he clung tenaciously to the upper tine of the anchor that projected upwards between his legs like the rampant pecker of doom. Behind him I could see the long, dark furrow the lower tine had ploughed on its way to the cove after the anchor shed its ballast with a hearty, “Fuck you and your logs and boulders!” As I watched, the ‘Val II bucked and Michael’s feet were in the water.

I turned my head back into the tent long enough to yell, “Michael needs help on the beach! Get up!” and then I was in headlong barefoot flight in one of those seemingly interminable runs that you know in your heart will get you where you’re going a day late and a dollar short.

My Chariots of Fire run down the beach took only seconds, but everything else seemed to be going twice as fast as me. I had barely cleared the tent door when a brief lull in the wind released enough tension in the line for Michael to stand up, get his shoulder under it, pull down and lean into a hopeful plod upwind. I skidded to a stop next to him just as the wind found its voice again, yanked the line tight and brought him to one knee. As I seized the rope myself I was heartened by seeing that all but one of the tent’s denizens had followed me with such haste that the first arrived seconds behind me, and the rest within seconds of each other. For his own part, Michael never gave up, but I could see from his face he was ready to drop from exhaustion and relief.

What woke me was most likely Michael’s cry of dismay when, awakened by the rain and wind, he went outside to relieve himself and saw what was happening. He kept calling for help after that, but every sound he made was either drowned out by background noise or blown out across the cove, away from all hearing.

We successfully reined in the ‘Val, resecured her, and posted a rotating two man watch on her for the rest of the night. Poor Michael was absolved of watch duties and banished to the tent to get some sleep, only to be admonished as he entered nearly naked, sand caked, and soaking wet, by the missing specimen who had slept through it all. What passed between them then I cannot say but that it resulted in a rapid exodus from the tent by the erstwhile slugabed followed by missiles that turned out to be a shirt, a windbreaker, and a pair of boots launched one at a time, one of which delivered a wakeup call. Michael was always a kind Man who would never dream of sending anyone off to stand watch inadequately equipped to meet the elements.

By sunrise, I had used my campfire skills to get a warming, drying fire blazing and coffee distributed among the saviours of the ‘Val II as the first of the distaff emerged to inquire why we were all up so early. The wind had dropped and returned to the northeast before resuming its fury. Now in the lee of the north arm of the cove, the ‘Val II lay untouched, and the tide having run out, she was high and dry anyway, permitting a thorough inspection of her hull. A tough young thing, our mount may have been spooked, but had sustained no damage beyond a few scuffs.

I looked at the now resurrected Michael, inhaled the last of my third cup of coffee, and said, “We need a battery. I’ll call it in.”

This time he offered no word of protest.

So back in the tent, I uncased my radio, deployed its antenna, and listened to the sharp click of its power switch as I turned it on. No power light met my eye, nor any squelch when the transmit key was pressed. The only means of off-island radio contact also had a dead battery.

The battery was a large block that attached to the bottom of the radio with two clasps similar to those that latch down the lid of a suitcase. I unlatched it and inspected the points where it connected to the radio itself. They were bright and undamaged, but using the blade of my Swiss Army Knife I cleaned them anyway before reassembling the rig. Still no joy.

Enter “Plan B”.

The Erma SG 67 “signal pen”, as its name suggests, is a compact device about the size and shape of a standard Sharpie marker, designed to fire an assortment of signal projectiles. These are plastic cylinders about an inch in diameter and an inch-and-a-half to two inches in length, depending on the nature of the projectile to be fired. Cartridges screw into the business end of the launcher “pen” which can then be fired by drawing back and releasing the spring driven striker by means of a thumb operated stud, and cartridges are red, white, or green flares that are launched on a ballistic trajectory by a blank .22 rimfire cartridge molded into the base and that burn brightest as they coast through the apogee of their arc, or “crack” cartridges (known now as “bear bangers”) which launch a rocket powered projectile that spirals out a couple hundred feet before exploding with a thunderous bang and a puff of white smoke. I was equipped with two pens, six red flares, and six crack cartridges, so I loaded one with a red flare, the other with a crack cartridge, and dropped a couple spares of each in a pocket before heading back to the beach to address the shipwrecked throng.