NEWFIE MEMORIES FROM THE PRAIRIES by Hayward J. Prince I was born in the 40's in the small outport of Princeton on Bonavista Bay in Newfoundland, the son of an inshore fisherman. The fond memories related here are of my younger years till age fifteen, when I left home to live in the city. ADRIFT IN A ROWBOAT We rowed like we had never rowed before. Sweat ran down our faces and our arms burned in pain. Our skin stung from the saltwater as the tops of the waves were lifted off and flung into our faces. A hurricane was raging, and my 12 year old cousin Karl and I were adrift on Bonavista Bay in a tiny rowboat. How did we get into such a predicament? On our way home from school, we had decided it would be a cool thing to do, to brave the bay in a rowboat, giving no thought to the danger. But now with each stroke of the oars, it was becoming painfully clearer that there was nothing ‘cool’ about our impulsive decision. The howling wind was gradually pushing us further and further out the bay and, if we didn’t make land, the Atlantic Ocean would be our grave. The truth began to sink in -- we were in big trouble. It was this realization that motivated us to row that much harder to try to make it back to shore. Karl would row till he was out of breath and exhausted. Then we’d scramble to trade seats, keeping as low in the boat as possible and I’d take a turn. We’d always lose a little ground in making the transition, but after an eternity of pulling, it was encouraging to see our system finally seemed to be working. I didn’t even want to think of the dire consequences if one of the oars should break, or if the spliced rope holding the oars to the toe pins should part. But, thankfully, everything was standing the test. We drew close enough to see people gather on shore, and it heartened us to know that our family and others were aware of our danger. The waters became a little calmer as we passed into the lee of a point of land stretching its finger into the bay, so the tiny row boat was able to nudge slowly towards land. It was about this time that I noticed a big man holding a stick stalking swiftly back and forth on the beach. There was no doubt he was very angry. It was Uncle Charles, Karl’s father. Seeing my uncles’s rage, I started debating where was the best place to die, at sea or on dry land, though I consoled myself with the knowledge that Karl was in bigger trouble than I was, since he was the oldest. What probably added to Uncle Charles’ anger, was the knowledge that that we had “borrowed” Uncle Rex’s brand new rowboat without permission. So, as soon as the keel of the boat scraped the beach, I leaped over the gunwales into knee-deep water and ran for my life, while Karl’s father jumped aboard. Karl, with one eye on his father, had shrunk back in the boat as far astern as he could get without actually jumping overboard. As I made my escape across the beach, I could hear Karl’s pitiful cry, “I’m dying, I’m dying, I’m dead!”, while Uncle Charles shouted “You’re going to get it now!” Actually, Uncle Charles didn’t even touch him with that stick; waving it around and yelling threats was just his way of dealing with a stressful situation. He dearly loved his only son and just couldn’t bear the thought of the tragedy that could have transpired had we been swept out to sea. He knew only too well how unforgiving the Atlantic Ocean can be.   Submitted By: Hayward Prince