now that erosion is eroded
It took the sea a thousand years, a thousand years to trace
The granite features of this cliff in crag and scarp and base
It took the sea an hour one night, an hour of storm to place
The sculpture of these granite seams upon a widow's face
("Erosion", E.J. Pratt, 1931)
when we were small choristers we learned this poem and we spoke it in unison at the old united church in my hometown. we were taught what it meant - that both the cliffs and the woman were worn down by the wind and the waves and wildness of the sea, but that for the mountains many thousands of years were required. the woman transformed into a widow in mere hours of her husband being at sea during a storm. we diligently spoke the words as 8, 9, 10, 11 year-olds, moving the people in the audience as we spoke in these angel-like tones - high-pitched, sweet, innocent, naive - completely unaware of why these words were special. it's hard to understand that sort of darkness without a tangible holding point.
i was 12 before that poem had any concrete meaning for me, and i could not believe it. i decided it was a part of my sleeping world. the words of the ocean swallowing up a man, father, husband, friend, son washed over my ears as i was in some dazed out state on the couch after a big dinner on a stormy thanksgiving. when i woke up i wouldn't accept it was true - not because i knew the man personally and so it brought me agony, but because my father did, because his daughter was in my school. eventually the difference set in and the next time i saw his daughter the second verse of "erosion" was solidified for me. i could never be that chorister again, as we had spoken those words to give hope to people, to reassure people that innocence and beauty still exists somewhere outside of their world. but it no longer existed now for us. so we could only be liars and posers and fakers saying those words in our sing-song voices.
perhaps this is our plight of being born on the water; of having the opportunity to grow up unencumbered by the rush of a city so big you can't run into a friend in a strange, unexpected place; of being able to jump off of wharves and grow up just adoring the ocean, desiring so much to exploit the ocean and all he had to offer forever. perhaps this is just our plight. i can't believe that though. i can't abide by a world where our only opportunities yield the untimely, tragic, unjustifiable loss of breath.
on tuesday night this week, the search for five missing fisherman from clam point, nova scotia, was called off. hearts broke at the first mention they were missing, then more when the search was called off, and then finally mine shattered into a million pieces when i read what the uncle of one of the crewmembers had to say about it all: Those boys never should have been out there to start with. ...It's because of the quotas (see: 'Those boys never should have been out there', The Chronicle Herald: February 20, 2013, online: http://thechronicleherald.ca/novascotia/732304-those-boys-never-should-have-been-out-there).
at present, the dollar value of halibut is excellent on the east coast. for all the quote left over, you lose that same amount of fish on it. i've spent my life around men and women who live off the ocean, live off their own resources - this glowing dollar value represents a lot: eating better meals, the kids' college fund, your daughter having pretty sunday school dress. the sky's the limits on what a dollar can buy you when you don't have a lot of them. why is a system that forces us to leave the comfort of the shore for the terrors of a stormy sea in place? why can't the end of a quota roll-over to next season or be sold back by the fishermen if it's not filled? has nobody noticed that the only fishermen who die at sea are those who ought not to be out there?
people can die every day in a myriad of ways - not looking both ways before crossing the road, not checking your blindspot before changing lanes, living to the ripe old age of 99 and falling off into a dreamy sleep for forever - so i do understand that death can find us in all manner of places. however, the fact that such a system exists where young, beautiful, hard-working people go out onto the cold (i mean furiously, unforgivingly, heartbreakingly cold) atlantic ocean chasing a dollar that they otherwise lose...well, i think there's something menacing about that. that's poor policy. policy developed from a level so far removed from any breadth of understanding that it ought never have become regulations in the first place.
i was recently chatting with a friend about this writing project of mine and he told me he didn't believe it was actually me writing because of the entry "in respect of the ocean" - it had a dark undertone that simply wasn't me, he said. and i suppose it's true, the rest of this stuff is all meant to be light, playful, cheerful, verbose, and both prosaic and poetic all at the same time. but that ocean, he forces this part of myself to rise and be the dominant half. he is a giver and he is a taker. i believe i am perpetually enraged that we further empower him with fishing rules and regulations that force mothers, fathers, sons, daughters, lovers, people you meant to tell you were sorry, or that you loved them, or that you forgave them, or...anything, anyone...all of these people fall to his mercy with a push from us on the shore. we've given the sea the power he doesn't need. i wonder how hard he laughs at us. as if he couldn't do it all on his own, we hang our own out to dry, watch them ladle themselves into boats that might as well be made of paper and go out into his greedy hands.
rest easy boys. Just tell me old shipmates, I'm taking a trip mates, I'll see you someday in Fiddler's Green.
The granite features of this cliff in crag and scarp and base
It took the sea an hour one night, an hour of storm to place
The sculpture of these granite seams upon a widow's face
("Erosion", E.J. Pratt, 1931)
when we were small choristers we learned this poem and we spoke it in unison at the old united church in my hometown. we were taught what it meant - that both the cliffs and the woman were worn down by the wind and the waves and wildness of the sea, but that for the mountains many thousands of years were required. the woman transformed into a widow in mere hours of her husband being at sea during a storm. we diligently spoke the words as 8, 9, 10, 11 year-olds, moving the people in the audience as we spoke in these angel-like tones - high-pitched, sweet, innocent, naive - completely unaware of why these words were special. it's hard to understand that sort of darkness without a tangible holding point.
i was 12 before that poem had any concrete meaning for me, and i could not believe it. i decided it was a part of my sleeping world. the words of the ocean swallowing up a man, father, husband, friend, son washed over my ears as i was in some dazed out state on the couch after a big dinner on a stormy thanksgiving. when i woke up i wouldn't accept it was true - not because i knew the man personally and so it brought me agony, but because my father did, because his daughter was in my school. eventually the difference set in and the next time i saw his daughter the second verse of "erosion" was solidified for me. i could never be that chorister again, as we had spoken those words to give hope to people, to reassure people that innocence and beauty still exists somewhere outside of their world. but it no longer existed now for us. so we could only be liars and posers and fakers saying those words in our sing-song voices.
perhaps this is our plight of being born on the water; of having the opportunity to grow up unencumbered by the rush of a city so big you can't run into a friend in a strange, unexpected place; of being able to jump off of wharves and grow up just adoring the ocean, desiring so much to exploit the ocean and all he had to offer forever. perhaps this is just our plight. i can't believe that though. i can't abide by a world where our only opportunities yield the untimely, tragic, unjustifiable loss of breath.
on tuesday night this week, the search for five missing fisherman from clam point, nova scotia, was called off. hearts broke at the first mention they were missing, then more when the search was called off, and then finally mine shattered into a million pieces when i read what the uncle of one of the crewmembers had to say about it all: Those boys never should have been out there to start with. ...It's because of the quotas (see: 'Those boys never should have been out there', The Chronicle Herald: February 20, 2013, online: http://thechronicleherald.ca/novascotia/732304-those-boys-never-should-have-been-out-there).
at present, the dollar value of halibut is excellent on the east coast. for all the quote left over, you lose that same amount of fish on it. i've spent my life around men and women who live off the ocean, live off their own resources - this glowing dollar value represents a lot: eating better meals, the kids' college fund, your daughter having pretty sunday school dress. the sky's the limits on what a dollar can buy you when you don't have a lot of them. why is a system that forces us to leave the comfort of the shore for the terrors of a stormy sea in place? why can't the end of a quota roll-over to next season or be sold back by the fishermen if it's not filled? has nobody noticed that the only fishermen who die at sea are those who ought not to be out there?
people can die every day in a myriad of ways - not looking both ways before crossing the road, not checking your blindspot before changing lanes, living to the ripe old age of 99 and falling off into a dreamy sleep for forever - so i do understand that death can find us in all manner of places. however, the fact that such a system exists where young, beautiful, hard-working people go out onto the cold (i mean furiously, unforgivingly, heartbreakingly cold) atlantic ocean chasing a dollar that they otherwise lose...well, i think there's something menacing about that. that's poor policy. policy developed from a level so far removed from any breadth of understanding that it ought never have become regulations in the first place.
i was recently chatting with a friend about this writing project of mine and he told me he didn't believe it was actually me writing because of the entry "in respect of the ocean" - it had a dark undertone that simply wasn't me, he said. and i suppose it's true, the rest of this stuff is all meant to be light, playful, cheerful, verbose, and both prosaic and poetic all at the same time. but that ocean, he forces this part of myself to rise and be the dominant half. he is a giver and he is a taker. i believe i am perpetually enraged that we further empower him with fishing rules and regulations that force mothers, fathers, sons, daughters, lovers, people you meant to tell you were sorry, or that you loved them, or that you forgave them, or...anything, anyone...all of these people fall to his mercy with a push from us on the shore. we've given the sea the power he doesn't need. i wonder how hard he laughs at us. as if he couldn't do it all on his own, we hang our own out to dry, watch them ladle themselves into boats that might as well be made of paper and go out into his greedy hands.
rest easy boys. Just tell me old shipmates, I'm taking a trip mates, I'll see you someday in Fiddler's Green.
posted by emily at 2:07 PM
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