snugly applied, it will not
slip down the post. Anyone who has found himself at full tide,
after a hard day’s fishing, with his painter fast to a stake
four or five feet below high-water mark, will be inspired to
learn this knot.”
THE ASHLEY BOOK OF KNOTS
HE DODGED through the rattle of lift trucks and winches on Wharf Road. Boats varnished with rain. Down along he saw the black coastal ferry with its red rails taking on cars, and the Labrador hospital ship. At the government dock orange flank of the Search and Rescue cutter. A dragger coming in to the fish plant.
Wharf Road was paved with worn, blue stone carried as ballast from some distant place. A marine stink of oil, fish and dirty water. Beyond the dives and bars a few provisioners. In one window he noticed an immense pyramid of packaged dates of the kind Nutbeem liked— Desert Jujubes —red camels, shooting stars on the label.
The harbormaster’s office was at the top of a gritty wooden stair.
¯
[79] Diddy Shovel, the harbormaster, watched Quoyle’s yellow slicker emerge from the station wagon, watched him drop his notepad on the wet cobbles. Sized him up as strong and clumsy. Shovel had been renowned once for his great physical strength. When he was twenty he started a curious brotherhood called “The Finger Club.” The seven members were all men who could suspend themselves from a beam in Eddy Blunt’s cellar by a single little finger. Powerful men in those days. As he grew older, he complemented, then replaced, his physical strength with a stentorian voice. Was now the only living member of the Finger Club. His thoughts often stopped at that point.
In a minute Quoyle opened the door, looked through the windows twelve feet high, a glass wall into the drizzled slant of harbor, the public docks and piers in the foreground, and beyond, the sullen bay rubbed with thumbs of fog.
A squeaking sound. Wooden swivel chair spun and the terrible face of the harbormaster aimed at Quoyle.
“You ought to see it in a storm, the great clouds rolling off the shoulders of the mountains. Or the sunset like a flock of birds on fire. ‘Tis the most outrageous set of windows in Newfoundland.” A voice as deep as a shout in a cave.
“I believe that,” said Quoyle. Dripping on the floor. Found the coat hook in the corner.
Diddy Shovel’s skin was like asphalt, fissured and cracked, thickened by a lifetime of weather, the scurf of age. Stubble worked through the craquelured surface. His eyelids collapsed in protective folds at the outer corners. Bristled eyebrows; enlarged pores gave the nose a sandy appearance. Jacket split at the shoulder seams.
“I’m Quoyle. New at the Gammy Bird . Come to get the shipping news. I’d appreciate suggestions. About the shipping news. Or anything else.”
Harbormaster cleared his throat. Man Imitates Alligator, thought Quoyle. Got up and limped behind the counter. The cool high light from the windows fell on a painting the size of a bed [80] sheet. A ship roared down a wave, and in the trough of the wave, broadside, a smaller boat, already lost. Men ran along the decks, their mouths open in shrieks.
The harbormaster pulled up a loose-leaf notebook, riffled the pages with his thumb, then handed the book to Quoyle. ARRIVALS on the cover; a sense of money gain and loss, cargoes, distance traveled, the smell of the tropics.
Followed Quoyle’s gaze.
“Fine picture! That’s the Queen Mary running down her escort, the Curacoa . Back in 1942. Twenty miles off the Irish coast in clear sunlight and crystal visibility. The Queen , eighty-one thousand ton, converted from passenger liner to troopship, and the cruiser a mere forty-five hundred. Cut her in half like a boiled carrot.”
Quoyle wrote until his hand cramped and he discovered he had taken down the names of ships that had called weeks ago.
“How can I tell if ships are still here?”
The harbormaster pulled up another book. Plywood cover, the word DEPARTURES
slip down the post. Anyone who has found himself at full tide,
after a hard day’s fishing, with his painter fast to a stake
four or five feet below high-water mark, will be inspired to
learn this knot.”
THE ASHLEY BOOK OF KNOTS
HE DODGED through the rattle of lift trucks and winches on Wharf Road. Boats varnished with rain. Down along he saw the black coastal ferry with its red rails taking on cars, and the Labrador hospital ship. At the government dock orange flank of the Search and Rescue cutter. A dragger coming in to the fish plant.
Wharf Road was paved with worn, blue stone carried as ballast from some distant place. A marine stink of oil, fish and dirty water. Beyond the dives and bars a few provisioners. In one window he noticed an immense pyramid of packaged dates of the kind Nutbeem liked— Desert Jujubes —red camels, shooting stars on the label.
The harbormaster’s office was at the top of a gritty wooden stair.
¯
[79] Diddy Shovel, the harbormaster, watched Quoyle’s yellow slicker emerge from the station wagon, watched him drop his notepad on the wet cobbles. Sized him up as strong and clumsy. Shovel had been renowned once for his great physical strength. When he was twenty he started a curious brotherhood called “The Finger Club.” The seven members were all men who could suspend themselves from a beam in Eddy Blunt’s cellar by a single little finger. Powerful men in those days. As he grew older, he complemented, then replaced, his physical strength with a stentorian voice. Was now the only living member of the Finger Club. His thoughts often stopped at that point.
In a minute Quoyle opened the door, looked through the windows twelve feet high, a glass wall into the drizzled slant of harbor, the public docks and piers in the foreground, and beyond, the sullen bay rubbed with thumbs of fog.
A squeaking sound. Wooden swivel chair spun and the terrible face of the harbormaster aimed at Quoyle.
“You ought to see it in a storm, the great clouds rolling off the shoulders of the mountains. Or the sunset like a flock of birds on fire. ‘Tis the most outrageous set of windows in Newfoundland.” A voice as deep as a shout in a cave.
“I believe that,” said Quoyle. Dripping on the floor. Found the coat hook in the corner.
Diddy Shovel’s skin was like asphalt, fissured and cracked, thickened by a lifetime of weather, the scurf of age. Stubble worked through the craquelured surface. His eyelids collapsed in protective folds at the outer corners. Bristled eyebrows; enlarged pores gave the nose a sandy appearance. Jacket split at the shoulder seams.
“I’m Quoyle. New at the Gammy Bird . Come to get the shipping news. I’d appreciate suggestions. About the shipping news. Or anything else.”
Harbormaster cleared his throat. Man Imitates Alligator, thought Quoyle. Got up and limped behind the counter. The cool high light from the windows fell on a painting the size of a bed [80] sheet. A ship roared down a wave, and in the trough of the wave, broadside, a smaller boat, already lost. Men ran along the decks, their mouths open in shrieks.
The harbormaster pulled up a loose-leaf notebook, riffled the pages with his thumb, then handed the book to Quoyle. ARRIVALS on the cover; a sense of money gain and loss, cargoes, distance traveled, the smell of the tropics.
Followed Quoyle’s gaze.
“Fine picture! That’s the Queen Mary running down her escort, the Curacoa . Back in 1942. Twenty miles off the Irish coast in clear sunlight and crystal visibility. The Queen , eighty-one thousand ton, converted from passenger liner to troopship, and the cruiser a mere forty-five hundred. Cut her in half like a boiled carrot.”
Quoyle wrote until his hand cramped and he discovered he had taken down the names of ships that had called weeks ago.
“How can I tell if ships are still here?”
The harbormaster pulled up another book. Plywood cover, the word DEPARTURES
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