Kissin’ da Cod

 A birthday, a shot of Screech, and a cod with a mind of his own make for one unforgettable initiation.

Newfoundland is a beautiful land of many stories, legends, songs, and time-honoured traditions. Her people are among the friendliest you will ever find and fiercely proud of their heritage and, as I learned, there is a certain rite of passage for come-from-aways: the legendary “screeching-in” ceremony. It’s equal parts history, hospitality, and hazing—Newfoundland style, with an emphasis on the hazing, at least to my way of thinking.

Now, don’t think I didn’t do my research before deciding to proceed. I wanted to be fully prepared should the opportunity ever arise, and once I had completed my investigation, I thought I had it down pat. As I was about to discover, I couldn’t have been more wrong.

Through my in-depth sleuthing, I learned that back in the day Screech was a potent Jamaican rum that made its way to Newfoundland through trade with the Caribbean. As the story goes, the name came from the sound an unsuspecting mainlander made after swallowing it—something between a scream and a dying moose call, hence the term “Screech.”

Now, I can’t attest to the validity of that tale, but the practice of getting “screeched in” apparently came sometime after that initial shocked yowl. From there, it grew into the hilarious ceremony it is today, involving six steps to prove you are worthy of becoming an honorary Newfoundlander and a very “solemn” ritual that must be followed precisely.

It goes like this:

1. Friendship with the MC is required before the ceremony can proceed, since he can’t screech in someone who isn’t a friend. So, you’re asked your name and where you’re from—this cements the friendship.
2. To become an honorary Newfoundlander, you must answer the question, “Are you willing to become a Newfoundlander?” The proper response is “Yes, b’y,” delivered with the right volume of enthusiasm. If your enthusiasm isn’t quite up to snuff, you have to repeat the phrase until you get it right.
3. You must eat a chunk of baloney (affectionately called Newfoundland steak).
4. Then down a shot of Screech.
5. Show you can talk like a Newfoundlander.
6. And finally, the kissing of the cod.

I’d been to the “Big Rock” three times before but never had the chance to get screeched in. I’m not sure what first drew me to the raw, rugged beauty of Newfoundland — my multi-generational fishing heritage, my Newfoundland roots (my great-grandmother came from St. John’s in the 1800s), my Viking ancestry, or a combination of all three. But Newfoundland called in my blood long before I ever set foot on her soil. Along with that calling came a strong desire to get “screeched in,” and I swore this time it was going to happen. The fates had decreed the perfect date: August 14. I was in St. John’s, and it was my birthday. The stars, and the shot glasses, had aligned. What better time for such an auspicious occasion?  And what better way to celebrate than with baloney, rum, and a questionable kiss? But now that I’ve had time to think about it, what does it say about me that my best option for a birthday kiss was a dead fish?

I booked the auspicious event at Broderick’s on George to celebrate my birthday in true Newfoundland style. My partners in crime for the evening, Miranda and Dennis, and I arrived early for a hearty supper before the ceremony. They had wisely counseled that I should have something substantial in my stomach before downing the Screech. Just to be on the safe side, I also enjoyed a couple of frozen strawberry daiquiris to make sure I was well fortified for the upcoming event.

Ten brave souls stepped up that evening to be initiated into “Newfoundlandhood”—some from New Brunswick, some from Texas, and even one from Australia. When the time came, the master of ceremonies gathered us all at the front together. I was relieved. There would be no solo spotlight zeroing in on each of us with a potential walk of shame back to our seats if we failed. Safety in numbers—or so I thought.

I was more than ready to be screeched in, though I had a fair bit of trepidation about downing the shot of Screech. I’m not much of a drinker—an occasional glass of wine suits me fine, but hard liquor is another story. That night, the MC showed no mercy, filling the shot glasses right to the brim. No half measures in this initiation, apparently, and I had visions of it racing back up far faster than it went down.

We sailed through the first two steps—cementing the friendship with the MC and enthusiastically declaring our desire to become Newfoundlanders—with only a few false starts. Then came Step Three: the sacred eating of the baloney. Some were hesitant but no big deal for me. Been eating it all my life. Step Four, however, was the one I had been dreading—the shot of Screech. I braced myself, downed the whole thing in one smooth gulp, and was pleasantly surprised: it slid down like silk with just a faint warmth trailing behind. Honestly, given the chance, I could probably do it again.

Step Five was all about talking like a Newfoundlander. A precise phrase had to be repeated flawlessly: “Indeed I is, me old cock, and long may your big jib draw.” Not exactly a sentence you toss into daily conversation. In that moment, I felt the full weight of my heritage and my fishing ancestors staring over my shoulder. Miraculously, I nailed it on the first try—the only one in our group to do so. I may have done my ancestors proud that night.  Then came Step 6.  The easiest of all by far, kissin’ da cod – or so I thought – but this is where the story went awry.

Now, I wasn’t sure whether to reveal this hither-to unknown chapter of the events as they unfolded.  But, in the interests of full disclosure, should you ever decide to get screeched in and dutifully step up to kiss the cod, I feel it my solemn duty to warn you: that wily fish has a mind of its own, and you may be caught unawares—just as I was. I wasn’t about to give the cod some half-hearted, timid peck on the cheek that lasted barely a second, like some of the other participants did. No sir, not me. I come from stronger stock than that. I latched on to him with both hands, held him tight and drew him in towards me for a deep kiss, looked him straight in the eye (as best you can with something frozen and glassy-eyed), before planting a full-on kiss on his lips.  They told me he was supposed to be frozen, but something tells me he was still pretty hotblooded under that layer of frost, because as soon as our lips met, I swear I felt movement. Either he twitched… or he kissed me back – a little too enthusiastically to my way of thinking. In that moment, truth be told, I wasn’t sure if I was being welcomed to Newfoundland or proposed to.

The crowd cheered, we were congratulated by the MC, and just like that, I was officially an honorary Newfoundlander—with a suspiciously affectionate fish somewhere out there telling his buddies about his big night.  So be forewarned, my friends, should you ever feel the urge to get screeched in next time you are in St. John’s.  You may just be getting a little bit more than you bargained for.  Submitted by Darlene Norman-Brown