Extreme Frontiers: Racing Across Canada from Newfoundland to the Rockies (3 page)

Many maritime laws were changed after 1912 – we all know about the
Titanic
’s lifeboats and how there wasn’t enough space for everyone – but just as importantly, the rules about telegraph operators
changed as well. At eleven p.m. on the night of the sinking, the operator on a nearby ship, the
Californian
, signed off and went to bed. That ship was in sight of the
Titanic
just after she went down; if there had been another operator to take his place, help would have reached the stricken vessel
much sooner.

The graves at Fairview are spread out in an arc that represents the side of the ship, with a gap at the front before the first
headstone, which is of an unknown child whose body was never claimed. Every year since the disaster, a wreath has been laid
at his stone; finally, in 2007, he was identified from a DNA sample as a boy from Wiltshire who had been travelling third
class. His name was Sidney Goodwin.

The following morning we woke early. At 3.30 a.m., I was sitting at a table in the hotel in Little River where we’d stayed
the night, tucking into my cornflakes and coffee. The night before, we’d bumped into a family who had fished local waters
for lobster for generations. They told us we could come along with them if we wanted, only we’d have to be up early. I’ve
never been lobster-potting before and it seemed like a good idea. At least it did until the alarm went off and I had to crawl
out of my warm bed at an hour that was ungodly even by my standards. They leave the dock early to avoid the wind, because
apparently it’s calmer in the wee small hours. The one saving grace of the whole affair was that if we did manage to bring
in some lobster, then lunch really was going to be something.

Down at the wharf, we waited in the darkness for the crew to show up. Four o’clock in the morning and the sea was indeed very
calm, very beautiful in the stillness. Finally a couple of guys arrived and took us down to where their boat was tied up in
its own little bay. The
Briton Cove Bounty
, built in New South Wales, Australia, was not very big, but she looked gorgeous as the sun began to drift against the horizon.

The skipper was Merril McInnes, a grey-haired guy with glasses and a baseball hat who had been fishing these waters all his
life. In the season they fish six days a week and have Sundays
off, so they’d missed yesterday, and instead of a couple of hundred pots to bring up, there were over four hundred. Hearing
that, I felt like some crewman from
Deadliest Catch
.

I was itching to get out there, but we were waiting on Merril’s two daughters, who were running very late. The bait was loaded,
we were ready to cast off, but still we had to wait. Merril reckoned they had a good excuse, though: his eldest girl had just
had her first child, and the baby had been crying when Merril left the house. When they finally arrived and we got the boat
away from the dock, I have to say I was really quite excited. As the sun came up, we got a good look at the harbour – bordered
by boulders, it cut a swathe through a purple sea.

Sitting in the wheelhouse, Merril told me about how the lobster industry had started in this area. Back in the day, when the
province was only just settled, a Presbyterian minister decreed that every family should have fishing rights to a section
of the water extending to two hundred acres. That equates to about twelve hundred feet of water for each family, and it was
an ingenious way of making sure that each fisherman had a decent shot at making a living. It also ensured that they had to
take care of their patch and not overfish it, or there would be nothing there for future generations. When Merril finally
retires, his daughters will carry on, which will make five generations of the McInnes family fishing their piece of the bay.

Arriving at the first buoy, we threw the hook, catching the line and hauling it up to flip over the hydraulic block. Up came
the pots, some with lobster and some without. The little ones were tossed back, but those big enough to keep were banded,
their claws closed with rubber bands, before they went into the tank. While the girls and I sorted the catch, the pots were
rebaited and went straight back to the bottom. And so it went
on, pot after pot after pot, Boorman doing battle with lobsters determined to snip off his fingers.

The season only lasts nine weeks, but from what the girls were telling me, it makes them enough money for the entire year.
The really choice lobsters – the big ones with decent-sized claws – are tagged with a code so that any restaurant or shop selling
live ones can trace them back to the McInnes family.

Working with the girls was great fun – they were a really sassy pair who knew the lobster business every bit as well as their
dad – but four hundred and thirteen is a lot of lobster pots, and when we were finally done, eight hours later, I was absolutely
knackered. Once the last pot was back in the sea, I hosed down the deck and swept the debris over the side. I have to tell
you, though, when we started steaming back and I was leaning against the rail with the wake kicking up, I didn’t regret my
day’s hard labour. This is the kind of back-breaking work that Nova Scotia families have been doing for generations, and though
I’m not sure I could do it, it is a wonderful way to keep a family together, and with so many of them involved, it gives the
entire community a tremendous sense of continuity. On top of that, it only lasts a couple of months, after which they have
the rest of the year to play.

Back on shore, it was time to eat some of what we’d caught, so with a little help from one of the best chefs in the Arctic,
I dressed the lobster and carried them out to the hungry crew.

We hit the road once more, heading on our bikes for the ferry that would take us across the water to the smallest of Canada’s
ten provinces, Prince Edward Island. After a hard day’s fishing, it was good to be able to doss around on a BMW for a while,
weaving in and out of the traffic, sliding the back wheel in the rain and doing pirouettes standing on the seat. I’m particularly
keen on side-saddle these days, one hand on the throttle, legs crossed, enjoying a good cigar. There’s something about the
GS1200 that just fits me – it’s a touring bike that’s comfortable enough for the long run and yet still so much fun.

On the crossing over it was cold, the sky leaden, the sea the colour of slate. But we were on the move and we’d had a little
tarmac under the wheels and there is nothing to beat that. Our destination was Charlottetown, which was where the whole idea
of Canada actually started. I was up for a bit of history; a major part of what we were trying to do here was to get under
the skin of the place, and I admit I didn’t really know much about it.

When we docked on Prince Edward Island, the heavy trucks rolled off first – the massive Macks and Kenworths, the kind of thing
I’d driven in Australia on
By Any Means
. I had to pop a wheelie, of course; I mean, this was a new province and the bikes had to be christened properly, and that
meant on the back wheel. The road was quite delicious, as my old mate Alain de Cadenet would say; a two-lane blacktop, it
slithered through the countryside along a series of undulating hills with thick woodland on either side. I really wished the
weather would pick up, though – this was summer, after all, and there had been no sign of the sun whatsoever.

Gradually the landscape began to open out, the trees replaced by grassland and ploughed fields, and soon we were in Charlottetown.
It was really pretty, with pristine clapboard buildings and a sense of cleanliness that you don’t get in many cities. We pulled
up outside Government House and were met by Catherine, a wonderfully fun lady with glasses and white
hair who described herself not as a local historian, but rather as a heritage activist. That sounded much funkier, and I liked
her immediately. She told us that back in 1864, this was where officials from what was then referred to as Upper and Lower
Canada had gathered to discuss whether the separate provinces should join together. At that time the whole place was ruled
from London and there was no such thing as ‘Canada’ as we know it today. Once the initial get-together was over, the various
delegates met again in Quebec the following month, and in 1866 they were in London to agree all the documents. In early 1867,
the whole thing was signed, sealed and delivered.

I’d got my history wrong, of course. Catherine told me that Charlottetown isn’t the birthplace of Canada as I’d thought, but
the birthplace of ‘confederation’. That cleared up, we went inside the beautiful building. Catherine took me to a long room
at the end of a lengthy corridor and there before us was the very table where the fathers of confederation had thrashed out
the details of their agreement. On the wall there was a painting of men in frock coats with long sideburns and serious faces.
It hadn’t all been work, though; Catherine reckoned they’d had a lot of champagne to help them come to the right decision.

Strangely enough – given that the conference took place on Prince Edward Island and the rest of Canada signed up to confederation
in 1867 – Prince Edward Island itself was determined not to join, and only succumbed to the pressure in 1873. Initially the
people didn’t see much point in a confederation – the place was humming, shipbuilding was a major industry and the trade routes
were good, particularly with England.

‘We set up the whole thing,’ Catherine told me, ‘then stood back with our arms folded for six years before we signed up.’

In another room she showed me an 1864 photograph taken on the steps of Government House, explaining that the vision had been
‘Sir John A’s’ originally. I must have looked puzzled, because she quickly added that she was talking about Sir John A. Macdonald,
the first prime minister of the new confederation. She told me plenty about the fathers of confederation, but she also told
me that their wives played a really important role in trying to create an aura of congeniality. It all seemed so civilised,
and Catherine explained that the islanders were still known for their friendliness towards visitors. It was true; we’d had
nothing but fantastic hospitality ever since we landed.

I really liked Catherine; she was so vibrant and enthusiastic about everything. Definitely an activist. We had to say goodbye,
though, and made our way downtown to Lot 30, a fine-dining restaurant owned by a guy called Gordon. I knew I must have found
the right place when I spotted the Triumph Speed Triple he’d told me he rode.

Making our way inside, we cut through the kitchens and asked the chefs if Gordon was around. He came in from the front of
house – a cool dude wearing jeans, biking boots and a leather waistcoat, with a bandanna tied around his head. The plan was
to hook up with his mate John, another restaurateur who used to work at the oyster beds. I love shellfish, did I ever mention
that? I’d already eaten lobster and today we’d be shucking oysters, so as far as I was concerned, life couldn’t get much better.

We rode down to Carr’s Wharfside Market, where John met us. He had long hair and was wearing a beanie hat, and his restaurant
was a seafood place, of course. He showed us the oyster packing plant and explained that the shellfish were kept
offshore, with the market harvesting only what they were going to ship right away.

The place was incredible; it smelled just like the ocean, with crates of oysters being soaked in a constant stream of water.
According to John, it was all about the water; the best oysters are kept in the best water, and the water off Prince Edward
Island is second to none. It’s a labour-intensive business, mind you, running that kind of seafood market. There is little
or no machinery; all the work is done by hand, because oysters have to be nurtured.

They’re brought ashore in a raw state by the fishermen, and once they’re at Carr’s, they’re sorted, dipped in lime, then returned
to the water in what are called private beds. Over the next fourteen days they’re regularly handled and tested to make sure
they’re of the highest quality. Apparently there are two types of oyster, standard and choice. The choice one is smaller and
fuller in the shell, and according to John, a little easier to shuck. John introduced us to Philip, whose job it is to grade
the oysters, and he told me the work is so intensive he even dreams about shellfish at night.

Hopping into a dinghy, we headed out to the private beds. (Now might be a good time to remind you that I actually hate boats;
I’m not good at sea. And yet I’d done nothing but hop from one boat to another ever since I got here.) These beds, dotted
all around the bay, are where they re-lay the oysters. Philip used a pair of massive tongs that looked like two garden rakes
stuck together to bite into the seabed and bring up the catch he had re-laid a few days before. Now I could see just how tough
a job this is. There’s money to be made, of course, but only if you can sell your oysters, and that all depends on the quality.
I had a go with the tongs. I could feel the shells through the mud with the prongs,
but getting them up in any number was another matter altogether. I know I was born to eat oysters, I’m just not sure I was
born to catch them, you know what I mean? Compared with catching lobsters even, this seemed like seriously hard graft, and
after just two attempts my arms were killing me.

I asked Gordon what he thought was the best way to eat oysters, given that he was an expert.

‘Naked,’ he said. ‘Right out of the water and shucked from the shell, with maybe a squeeze of lemon juice.’

‘Naked,’ I repeated, laughing. ‘For a minute there I thought you meant
I
should be naked.’

‘Naked with your lady maybe,’ he said. ‘Yeah, you could do that. Get a little bit of zing going, huh?’

‘Yeah, well. You know what they say about oysters.’

He was right, of course. Straight from the shell was best, although I have been known to sprinkle the odd one with a hint
of Tabasco. While we were joking, Philip brought up the mother of all oysters – way bigger than the choice ones he had re-laid.
It was enormous, and when Gordon got his knife out and shucked the shell, the meat inside was big and fleshy, oily like an
egg white.