The August Gale

The Island of Newfoundland has seen it’s share of storms, gales, and hurricanes, many of which have brought tragedy to the heroic men and women who live by the sea and make a living by plying their trade amid the mighty roars of the Atlantic ocean. The storms often come up suddenly and in the days before radio communication, even many experienced mariners would find themselves in dire straights. One such storm occurred just four years before I was born and I grew up hearing stories of what was referred to as “the August Gale” which had claimed the lives of Forty men, including four brothers from the small community into which I was destined to be born in October of 1939.

The date was August 24, 1935 and the fishing had been good all day. Towards evening however, it became clear to the more seasoned fishermen that a storm was brewing and some worried it would be a bad one. Many however, especially the younger men were reluctant to leave the fishing grounds while there was still daylight and the fish were plentiful. The following day was Sunday and the men were hoping to spend it at home with their families. As the winds began to rise rapidly, the skippers ordered their men to get their gear out of the water and head for the nearest port. A few minutes can often mean the difference between life and death at such times and the more experienced crews signalled to other nearby boats that they were leaving at once. As darkness approached and the gale bore down the thought on every mind was to reach a safe harbour.

All through that evening and into the early hours of Sunday morning, the winds continued to rise before peaking at more than 100 miles per hour. As Sunday morning slowly turned into afternoon and evening, the winds showed no signs of abating. Some who had reached sheltered harbours early had no idea of the tragedy being played out just a few miles away. The details of what really happened and why some of the boats waited just a little too long before leaving will never be known, but some of those who did make it told tales of valiant affords to save others, and of finally having to leave to the oceans awful wrath comrades, friends, and in some cases fathers and sons.

Sunrise on Monday the 26th saw a relatively calm sea with nature showing no evidence of yesterday’s fury. As the day wore on however, anxious wives and mothers looked seaward, their eyes scanning the horizon for some sign of their loved ones. Those who had managed to survive the awful pillage hurried home to the waiting arms of weeping loved ones, some bearing stories of sights that would forever inhabit their dreams and bring indescribable nightmares. By nightfall, it appeared clear that many would not be returning, though a few were to even yet have their hopes realized. The oil lamps remained lit in many a home that night as friends gathered to comfort the widows, orphans and grieving mothers of loved ones who would never again cut firewood for the kitchen stove or bring home seabirds for their Sunday dinner. Few bodies would ever be found and acceptance be a long time in coming. Life however, must go on and even those who had witnessed the tragedy would themselves have no choice but to return to their boats, wondering no doubt, if the next storm would see them join their comrades at the ocean’s floor as is often the legacy of “those who go down to the sea in ships”.