(p) © 2003 Timberhead Music
Fishing was all around us here; we had a richness of it. Many of my friends (including my brother) have spent some part of their lives in a local fishery. I've seen some friends walk out of one fishery at forty looking for saner work and some grow old in another, saying that, over the years, they've "done pretty good." So many stories.
I've seen one fishery after another on two oceans go under, mostly in the name of greed, and there's no need of that. When we lose a fishery, we lose an independent way of life, of living, There's shame in that, for all of us.
And the boats go then, of course. The low, kindly handhaulers with their quiet, converted Chevy engines go first, then the double-ended seineboats and the dories, then the rugged little seiners that would find other work in other seasons. And now the long, graceful sardine-carriers with their schooner lines are leaving us, one by one. You'll hear some of their names in one of these pieces. Each name is a book of people, of stories.
So these songs, from Ireland, the Carolinas, Brazil, Colombia and the Pacific Northwest should give you some different perspectives of a way of life.
Note:
My singing often diverges from the original versions; we have printed the original when we could. ~ Gordon
To Jack and Belvea MacDonalad, Isle au Haut, who gave more that the world could ever haul away. Thank you.
Recorder, engineered and mastered by Bruce Boege, Limin Music, Northport, Maine.
Mixed by Bruce Boege, Gordon Bok, and Anne Dodson.
Produced by Gordon Bok and Anne Dodson.
Carvings by Gordon Bok.
Photographs by Chris Pinchbeck.
Programming by Carol Rohl.
Graphic design by Ken Gross.
January Men and Then Some:
Gordon Bok, Tony Bok, Will Brown, David Dodson, Ken Gross, Jamie Huntsberger, Cindy Kallet, Bob Richardson, Carol Rohl, Forrest Sherman
Quasimodal Chorus:
Marie Weferling, Lynn Travis-Stancioff, Holly Torsey, Matt Szostak, Susan Shaw, Carol Rohl, Bob Richardson, John Pincince, Cindy Kallet, Jamie Huntsberger, Mary Ann Hensel, Ken Gross, Carney Doucette, Anne Dodson, Will Brown, Mimi Bornstein-Doble, Tony Bok, Mary Bok, Gordon Bok
Carol Rohl – harp
© 1965 Gordon Bok, BMI
One of my early songs (that I didn't throw back). I forget what inspired it, but it's still fun to look at the world you think you know through others' eyes.
Gordon - laud
"Blue and green, cold and dark, seaweed growing high
Hills a hundred fathom deep where the dead men lie
Dogfish eyes and mackerel's eyes and they hunger after me
Net or weir, I don't care, catch me if you can."
Where do you go, little boat, tar and timber, plank and sail?
"I go to green bays, lift them under me
Cold, gray, combing seas come to bury me
Rocky jaws and stony claws and they hunger after me
Harbors cold, deep and bold, wish that I could see."
What do you see, fisherman, poor old sailor, blood and bone?
"Mackerel skies, mares' tails, reef and furl and steer
Poor haul and hungry days, rotten line and gear
Snow-wind and winter gales and oh, they hunger after me
Net or weir, I don't care, catch you if I can."
Where do you go, little herring, what do you see, tail and fin?
"Blue and green, cold and dark, seaweed growing high
Hills a hundred fathom deep where the fisherman lie
Dogfish eyes and mackerel's eyes and oh, they hunger after me
Net or weir, I don't care, catch me if you can."
New last verse: (sung on the album Other Eyes)
Where have you gone, little herring, what have you seen, tail and fin?
"Cold and black, dead and dark, homeland torn away
Draggers staving everywhere, drug my garden dry
Pair-trawl, midwinter-trawl; God they hunger after me
Tore my home to hell and gone, there's no more place for me."
©1997 Mary Garvey
Mary grew up on the Columbia River between Washington and Oregon and knew the (primarily salmon) fisheries along its lower reaches. A huge body of water comes down a broad estuary near Astoria, creating one of the most dangerous river-mouth bars in the world. She says "This is just a fisherman put-putting down the river in a small boat on a day when the weather is very beautiful and the river is very blue. I remember as a child in Astoria seeing these massive quantities of fish going up conveyor belts from the ships and almost being spat out. The bit about rowing all night from Willapa Bay is straight out of a comment in a newspaper story… some woman said her grandfather had done that. Sturdy people in these parts… still are; but the Finns were legendary."
January Men and Then Some
Gordon – Spanish guitar
Forrest Sherman – tin whistle
It's not very far to Astoria's Bar
But a very long journey it can be
It can start at the mouth of the mighty blue river
But the River still shines and shimmers in the light
When they rowed all night and fished in the morning
And lived in Willapa Bay
When the tide is rough so very, very rough
So rough that you cannot stand
It drives the little fish right into the nets
And boats right into the sand
In the wind and the rain, the labor and the pain
We know what the fishing here is worth
It's worth more than gold when they suck 'em from the hold
It's worth all the treasures of the earth
© 1995 Mary Garvey
Mary said "I wrote [this song]when I went back to Peter's River a few years ago. I had worked on a whale research study there some years ago through the University of Newfoundland, and wanted to see it again. This was after the collapse of the cod fishery in Newfoundland, and fishermen couldn't even go out and catch a few fish for their families."
She added "The bit about shooting their boats is true. A really bad storm came up while I was there, and the men did go and shoot their boats to sink them so they would survive the storm." I dare you to try this at home… GB
Mary Garvey is a Pacific Northwest songwriter with more than 50 songs to her credit. She currently resides in Washington State.
Gordon – 12-string guitar
Not a boat in Peter's River or in all St. Mary's Bay
The fishermen in rubber boots are staying home today
Hanging out the laundry, hang out in the store
And the Little Boats of Newfoundland are idle on the shore*
The men of Peter's River are just barely getting by
And the boats of Peter's River have their bottoms to the sky
The wives of Peter's River are taking up the slack
Fisheries has ended and it's never coming back
Sell a little knitting, set some broody hens
No sooner does a hard day end, another one begins
The wives of Peter's River are too strong to sit and cry
And the boats of Peter's River have their bottoms to the sky
The boys of Peter's River are as bright as boys can be
Their eyes are on the highway instead of on the sea
Where their fathers went before them is not where they must go†
And the fate of Peter's River is not for us to know
The boys of Peter's River are too young to wonder why
And the boats of Peter's River have their bottoms to the sky
The storms of Peter's River have pounded us for years
Crashing in the harbour and smashing up the piers
We've ridden out these storms before by shooting at our boats
But we know this storm is different, - and we cannot stay afloat
And the boats of Peter's River have their bottoms to the sky.
* "Little Boats of Newfoundland" is the name of a Newfoundland song
† Sir Cavendish Boyle, Ode to Newfoundland:
As loved our fathers, so we love/Where once they stood we stand
This prayer we raise to Heaven above:/God guard thee Newfoundland
©Doteval Caymmi
I first heard this song in the 1950s, on the West Coast, but didn't learn it until Larry Holland introduced me to the music of Brazilian singer and composer Doreval Caymmi. Thanks to Prof. Holland for this translation from the Brazilian Portuguese (Northeast dialect).
Gordon – Spanish guitar
Let us go and call the wind
Vamos, charmer o vento (2)
Wind that fills the sail
Sail that lifts the boat
Vela que leva o barco
Boat that carries the man
Barco que leva a gentre
Gentre que leva o peixe
Fish that brings money
Peize que da dinheiro
Curriman ei, curriman lam bai
(a sound of sorrow)
Wind that fills the sail
Vento que da na vela
Sail that capsizes the boat
Vento que vira o barco
©Patrocinio Ortiz
A Guabina from Columbia
Gordon – 12 string guitar
Carol - harp
Traditional Newfoundland: Quigley/Apollonio
Many years back my old shipmate Geordie Jennings brought me a fine little pamphlet of songs. It was Gerald S. Doyle's "Old Time Songs of Newfoundland" (Third Edition 1955). Doyle says "The author …was 'Johnny Quigley', the bard from Erin, as he was wont to be styled by Newfoundlanders in the old days…" The first time I ever sang this for Nick Apollonio, his immediate comment was to sing the "O was ye drunk…" lines to another traditional tune.
January Men and Then Some
Ye muses so kind who are guided by wind
On the ocean as well as the shore
Assist a poor bard how to handle his card
Without ceasing where billows do roar
Not of cupid he sings, nor of country nor kings
Nor of any such trifles he thinks
But of seafaring, sail making, gambling, capering
Grog-drinking heroes like Hinks
When Jack comes ashore he's got money galore
For he's seldom cut short of a job
He can dress as well now as any can tell
With a good silver watch to his fob
For Jack in his life was ne'er plagued with a wife
Though sometimes with the lassies he links
That seafaring…
When inclined for to spend he comes in with a friend
And with pleasure he sets himself down
And he tips up his glass and he winks at the lass
And he smiles if she happens to frown
Like some rattling true-blue when the reckoning is due
On the table his money he clinks
That seafaring…
One evening last fall we fell in with a squall
On the northernmost head of Cape Freels
We were cast away without further delay
At the thought, how my spirit it chills
When cast on the rocks like a hard hunted fox
Then on death and destruction he thinks
That seafaring…
Now Jack without fail was out in that same gale
Having drove across Bonavist Bay
Old Neptune did rail as they handed all sail
And he had his two spars cut away
But Providence kind who so eases the wind
And on sailors so constantly thinks
Saved that seafaring…
Ah, but death it will come like the sound of a drum
For to summon poor Jack to his grave
There's naught he can do, for you all know 'tis true
'Tis the same for both hero and slave
And his soul soars aloft, so doleful and soft
While the bell for the funeral clinks
Oh peace to that seafaring…
Nick's comment:
Oh, was ye drunk or was ye blind
When ye left your two fine spars behind?
Or was it stivvering over the sea
Took the two fine sticks from your decks away?
To me too rye a, fall the diddle da
Toorye, oorye, oorye a
® ©1994 Kevin Barry Evans: Modtrad Music SOCAN
Bernie Houlahan of Moncton, N.B> taught me this poignant song about the death of the Newfoundland fisheries.
Over the years, ears and miles, mu version has wandered quite a bit. After I had recorded the song my way, Kevin, whom I had met years ago in New England, sent us the original words which we print here for your confusion.
Gordon - viol
I cast my nets into the sun
And with my father's hands upon my shoulder
Hauled them home
The nets moved like a living thing
All from the codfish held within
And homeward bound we'd laugh and sing
An honest man's work done
We'd throw our fortunes to the wind
But now we'll just remember when
(There were) lots of fish in Bonavist Harbour
Oh, no more
Lots of fishing in around here
Oh, no more
We'd throw our fortunes to the wind
Me boys we'll not do that again
Oh, no more
The sea had turned my father's eyes
A blue much deeper than the skies
That granted us our daily prize
King Cod, in all his glory
And like my father I grew strong
And proud I was to carry on
For in his footsteps I belonged
Ah, but that's another story
For times change faster than the wind
And now we just remember when
Jack was every inch a sailor
Oh, no more
Four and twenty years a whaler
Oh, no more
For times change faster than the wind
Me boys we won't fish here again
Oh, no more
My father's eyes are still as blue
But his hands are softer than I knew
There's nothing much for him to do
But smoke and drink and remember
And every day I sit and face
The spectre of my father's face
Dying at an icebound pace
His heart and soul, December
He'd give his life to ride the wind
Instead we just remember when
Lukey's boat was painted green
Oh, no more
Finest boat you've ever seen
Oh, no more
I was the boy who built the boats
Oh, no more
I was the boy who sailed them
Oh, no more
I'd give my life to ride the wind
And to be fishing once again
Oh, no more, Oh, no more,
Oh, no more….
Words © 1924 Elizabeth Shane
Music © 1980 Gordon Bok
Alouette Iselin sent me these words years ago: they seemed to beg to be sung, so I made this tune.
Gordon – 12-string guitar
Carol - harp
Och, hush ye then, och hush ye
An' you'll be the wee fisherman
Someday - someday
Och, rest ye then, och rest ye
The herrin's do be small
An' you're the boy when you'll be big
Will catch them all
Och, hush ye then, och hush ye
The night is dark an' wet
An' you too wee, o heart o' mine
For fishin' yet
Och, hush ye then, och hush ye
'Tis cowld upon the sea
But this wee house is warm itself
For you an' me
Och, sleep ye now, och sleep ye
For sure a night will come
When you'll be wakin' on the sea
An' me at home
Traditional English
I learned this from old Eric Ilot, "The Bristol Chanteyman" who graced our town for a few weeks some winters ago. It was also collected by Bob Roberts.
This old codger had a good dodge when he didn't want to go fishing; he's talking about a candle-lantern, a four-sided glass box with a candle in it, one side of which opens like a door. If you want the candle to keep burning, you keep the door (pane) closed.
Gordon – Spanish guitar
Now me Dad was a fisherman bold
And he lived till he grew old
'Cause he'd open the pane and pop out the flame
Just to see how the winds do blow.
Now me Dad he says to me
If you're ever going to go to sea
Do you open the pane and pop out the flame
Just to see how the winds do blow.
Now when the cold North wind do blow
Then it's we lie snug below
'Cause we open the pane…
When the wind comes up from the East
It isn't fit for man nor beast
Still I open the pane…
When the wind comes up from the West
She's going to blowup rough at best
So I open the pane…
But when the South wind soft do blow
Well there ain't enough wind to go
Still, I open the pane…
When me wife she says to me
We'll starve if you don't go
Well, I open the pane…
So if you'd be a fisherman bold
And you'd live till you grow old
Do you open the pane…
Traditional United States
I head this first from the Menhaden Chanteymen of Beaufort, N.C. with whom I once had the pleasure of singing in Norfolk, VA. This is a different version, from the Northern Neck Chantey Singers of VA.
The ship sends two motorized net-boats out, with crew, to surround the fish with the net, the captain running one, the mate running the other. When they've closed the purse, they haul the fish up to the surface by hand with some help from the donkey engine on the main boat. Slow, hard work, some days.
January Men and Then Some
Will you help me to raise 'em boys,
Oh honey
Will you help me to raise 'em boys,
Oh honey
Will you help me to raise 'em boys,
see her when the sun goes down
All the weights on the mate boat
I got a long tall yellow gal
Her name is Evalina, boys
All the weight's on the captain boat
All the weight's on the donkey man
Text: Traditional Hebrides
Music: © 1984 Kathy Wonson Eddy
Kathy kindly sent me this song among many others a few years ago: she is a great source of liturgical choral music. I have sung it with our chorus and another smaller group, but Carol and I wanted to keep it in our repertoire, so here's a third way to sing it. Kathy lives in Randolph, Vermont.
Gordon – viol
Carol - harp
Round our skiff's be God's aboutness
Ere she try the deeps of sea
Sea-shell frail for all her stoutness
Unless Thou her helmsman be
© 1992 Mary Garvey
Another of Mary's Columbia River songs. This is a good song to sing on the Maine coast where many of us still remember the sardine packing plants here. Quite a few of my school friends had summer jobs in those plants.
Mary says "Stella is a beautiful little town on the lower Columbia. The whole town was on piers when I was growing up."
Carol Rohl and January Men and Then Some – vocals
David Dodson – acoustic bass guitar
I've worked all my life in the cannery shed
And if I am dying or you think I am dead
Don't bury my bones but put me instead
In a can in the cannery shed
The cannery shed perches over the river
When the winter winds blow we freeze and we shiver
When the boss comes around I just might have to give her
My opinion of the cannery shed
There's no time to rest and there's no time to linger
And you'd better move sharp or you might lose a finger
It's make you stomach turn if you knew everything here's
Been canned in the cannery shed
We chop off the heads and chop off the tails
Scoop out the guts and throw them in the pails
We won't get a rest till the next schooner sails
From the dock at the cannery sheds
LaFaye he went away and he wrote me a letter
I tucked it up high in the sleeve of my sweater
And it slipped and it fell and ended in the shredder
And got canned in the cannery shed
The cannery boy he's a very happy fella
If he gets him a girl from the little town of Stella
I would if I could but I'm not going to tell ya
What goes on behind the cannery shed
Lyrics: Bill Scott/ Music: Roger Ilott © 1999
Restless Music APRA/AMCOS
Bill lives in Warwick, Queensland, Australia, these days. This is from one of his other eight lives. He says "When working aboard the Commonwealth lighthouse vessel, Cape Leeuwin, in the early fifties, we often saw some of the pearling fleet anchored among the reefs of the Barrier where they harvested trochus shell. The sound of the crews' voices in song drifting across the twilit still waters haunts me still with its beauty."
Gordon – 12-string guitar
Quasimodal Chorus - vocals
I am living dry and placid now among encircling mountains,
An old man still remembering the days that used to be,
But I close my eyes and live again those days of sweat and laughter,
When we worked the trochus luggers* in the western Coral Sea.
Sailing in a black hulled lugger with a lookout at the masthead,
You may drift along the coral cays and anchor where you please,
In the glassy leeside waters of some rocky offshore island,
Though the outer reef be trembling under pounding whitened seas.
Chorus:
Laddie oh… Laddie ay, Laddie oh… Laddie ay. (2x)
You may anchor calm and safely in the shallows over coral,
Where the waters glimmer peacock in a hundred shifting shades,
You can hear the rippling wavelets tinkle gently on the beaches,
And the stays and braces strumming in the southeast trades.
Chorus…
To the north of Lizard Island and to the south of Iron Range,
In my dreams I am returning to the place where I would be,
To the laughing Torres Straitsmen singing softly in the twilight,
To the trochus lugger's anchorage in Princess Charlotte Bay.
Chorus…
*Trochus is a large mollusk, Perhaps the boast were once lug rigged, but I've seen pictures of ketches, and Bill says he's seen motor boats called luggers.
© 1986 Elmer Beal/ © 1980 Gordon Bok
Seal is a long, narrow island on the outskirts of Penobscot Bay. We anchored there one day in the sardine carrier Ida Mae, waiting for dark when the herring would rise again. Cleon took a nap and Frank and I went ashore and wandered around the island, ducking seabirds, cooking up a mess of periwinkles over a driftwood fire on the beach and dozing in the sun. It was a grand, high, blue day, and the sea was very quiet.
A couple of years later (1978) the whole island was burned, destroying hundreds of seabirds and their habitat. A while later Elmer and I were on tour together, and he taught me his tune "Where is the Light" and I always associated it with that feeling of loss about the island. But it was the memory of that day that gave me my tune.
Gordon – Spanish guitar
© Gordon Bok
This piece is my attempt to remember of picture a single night of purse-seining for herring off the Maine Coast around (say) 1970.
It begins in the afternoon when the fisherman has finished his 'day job' and is looking at a full night of chasing herring, through to the daylight, when the sardine-carriers are hauling the catch off to the cannery, and he can sort out his gear and go home.
It is mostly conversations. Some I've heard on fishing boats, some on marine radio, some over beers ashore and some imaginary, trying to get into the heads of those whose skill at finding and catching these spooky fish is truly uncanny.
January Men and Then Some
I
Now give me strength at the end of the day
out on the deep
O give me strength to go back on the water
down in the dark of the moon
Out on the deep, out on the deep
Out on the wild old ocean
O give me fishes to soothe my sorrows
out on the deep
O give me darkness to soothe my herring
down in the dark of the moon
Out on the deep, out on the deep
Out on the wild old ocean
For there's snow, lord, there's snow on the wind
out on the deep
Snow on the wind before morning
down in the haul of the tide
Out on the deep, out on the deep
Out on the wild old ocean
And there's wind, lore, there's wind before morning
out on the deep
Wind on the cold tide coming
down in the haul of the tide
Out on the deep, out on the deep
Out on the wild old ocean
O give us one more morning
II
Somewhere out there I know they're traveling
bring them to me
Somewhere out there I know they're rising
bring them to me
Somewhere out there I feel them gathering
bring them to me
Oh, boys – easy! easy
Haul out your rings now easy
Roll them out easy easy
Come on around them easy
Circle all round them easy
III
Come on your purseline bring them to me
Bring them along now bring them to me
Bring'em all of 'em home bring them to me
Ah – come on a rising fire below boys
Coming on silver fire below
Come on a moving fire below
Come on a heaving light the deep (hold 'em)
O set out the light now set out the light
Fire up the ocean light up the deep!
IV
Now, call on the carriers come on the twine
All you little ones, big ones come on the twine
O but come on her easy come on the twine
O come on, Amanda come on the twine
Come on her, Edward come on the twine
Come on her, Grayling come on the twine
Come on her, Ida, come on the twine
Come on her, Jacob, come on the twine
Come on her, Maryanne come on the twine
Come on her, Muriel come on the twine
O come on, Amanda call on the boats now
come on the twine
Come on her, Edward come 'round the islands
come on the twine
Come on her, Grayling O mind all the hardware
come on the twine
Come on her, Ida come take up your corkline
come on the twine
Come on her, Jacob O come on her easy
come on the twine
Come on her, Maryanne come lay out your hoses
come on the twine
Come on her, Muriel I got a thousand hogshead!
come on the twine
V
Now their salt is all down and their hoses are in
And their baskets are full and their hatches are on
So they let go the twine and they kick themselves clear
And they slide up the bay and they're headed for hom
So we clear up the gear and we sort out the twine
And we string out the boats and we head for the barn
And it's home, home, home…
VI
O hey, she's making day!
VII
Somewhere out there I know they're traveling
bring them to me
Somewhere out there I know they're rising
bring them to me
Somewhere out there I feel them gathering
bring them to me… O
O give me one night's hauling
out on the deep
O let me see them rising
down in the cold dark sea
Out on the deep out on the deep
Out on the wild old ocean
O give us one more morning
Then will we lay this season down