Fresh Air At Skinners Pond

(Please click on the title for a reading aloud by the author.)

On the North Cape of Prince Edward Island, Canada there’s a small fishing village called Skinners Pond. I camped there for a few days among the dunes while on a road trip through the Maritime Provinces. Late summer was giving way to fall.

Getting back to my campsite after a day of hiking the shore – beaches free of any human development for as far as the eye can see and strewn with seaweed the locals call “moss” – it became apparent I didn’t have much of anything to eat. Tignish, the nearest town large enough that might (or might not) have a grocery store was eleven miles away and the day had been too relaxing, the place too beautiful to break the spell by getting in the car.

On the far side of the harbor was a small refrigeration plant serving the local fishing fleet. I decided to walk over and find out if anyone would sell me some fish. As I approached, it was plain to see the place was not set up to receive customers. Men were intent on operating cranes and forklifts, hoisting large square plastic tubs of fish from boats and hustling them into the building. The fellow I said hello to looked surprised, but was friendly and directed me to the boss who I’d find in the building. Inside, the place was cold and wet, and smelled of the sea and of fish. It was earthy and real. I found the fellow in charge. He was built like a brick, had a ruddy complexion and wore high black rubber boots, and bright yellow waterproof bib overalls.

“Could I buy some fish?” I asked.

“No.” He said as he started moving toward a passageway hung with strips of heavy clear plastic and gestured for me to come along. He was light on his feet. I followed him into a refrigerated room – now it was seriously cold – the plastic tubs were stacked four and five high. One sat alone on the floor. It had no top and was full of all sorts of fish. “But we’ll give ya whatever ya want.” He said.

“I really would like to pay.” I said. No one was getting rich here.

“We don’t sell fish.” By this point he had a large flounder by the tail. “Do ya like flounder?”

“Yes.” I said.

“How many would ya like?”

“Two.”

He put two more in the bag and handed it to me. “Have yourself a good dinner.” I thanked him, shook his callused vice of a hand and was on my way. Simple acts of kindness are the best. This would be a feast.

Back at the campsite I found my sheath knife and set to cleaning the fish. My mother had taught me how to do this. Her childhood was spent in rural New Hampshire on a farm in the years following the Great Depression. She knew how to hunt and fish, and clean game and taught me well. Standing at the wooden picnic table on the dunes I filleted the fish, while all around me the wind rustled and hissed through the grasses. At least for the moment this was the center of life, the fresh air, the salt smells, the sound of the surf on the beach, and here before me a generous bounty from the sea.

Smoke and sparks rose into the sky. The fish sizzled and sputtered in a pan of hot butter over the open fire, quickly turning opaque almond white. To sit at the table, to eat this meal, the fish sweet and rich with a grind of pepper, and a piece of bread and a cucumber and a cold beer, it was one of the most satisfying I’ve known. Low sunlight swept across the sea and dunes, dark was on the way.

After cleaning up and taking a good long look at my surroundings, I got into the tent and for a little while read by the light of the candle lantern. Nodding off, I blew out the candle and felt good and warm and safe. Listening to the sounds, feeling the tent flap, sleep came easily, a deep quiet dreamlessness.

Gordon Bunker

Photo: Vic Brincat