Our ancestors, out of necessity, settled as close to the ocean as possible. Harbours that had spacious beaches would be regarded as a bonus. According to a Trinity Bay Census 1800-1801, Elizabeth Beckett was a proprietor and occupier of a fishing room at Old Perlican. This included a fairly large expanse of the beach and waterfront, as Beckett's Ditch, where we spent most of our spare moments in Winter, was just a small part of it. As in most outports, the beach or waterfront was the hub of activity. As boys we would borrow (to use the term loosely) a rodney to row out to the Island, or catch connors or flaties from the wharf or stagehead. We even played a game "Hoist Your Sails (or Yourselves) And Run" on the beach at night. Many of the activities would involve companions or groups, but, at times, I preferred a solitary stroll of the beach, or as Wordsworth expressed it, "I wandered lonely as a cloud." In my case it was not daffodils but beach pebbles I was searching for - what we called, "glassy stones." I think the modern term is "sea glass." Worn by waves, recycled by the sea, those colourful stones are a product of both nature and man. Bottles, jars and glass carelessly discarded are tumbled by the ocean to form gems of the shore. These collectible beach gems are vanishing due to plastics and recycling. They are regarded as a reverse gem. Whereas traditional gems such as diamonds are made by nature and refined by man, these are made by man but refined by nature. At times I would get the urge to comb the beaches commencing at the south end and head toward the old breakwater to the north. While my eyes were focused on the prize, I could hear the waves lapping the shore, the cry of a seabird, feel the gentle breeze and catch the redolent smell of the salt air and sea kelp. I tried to gather gem stones with distinct quality: non-shiny, well frosted, with smooth tactile edges. I searched intently for the rarer colours blue, red, and aqua. My beach combing expanded into seeking driftwood, something more prone to risk, and included a more expansive, chasmic, coastline. Old Perlican, with its barrens, bogs and rock, was not known for its timber stands. For some, driftwood meant readily accessible firewood. There were two notorious driftwood beachcombers patrolling the main beach and a young boy would not dare encroach on their territory. The best harvesting season was probably in the autumn following the strong North East gales at a time when I was in school. I recall one year I spent the entire summer walking from the old breakwater to Watering Cove sometimes as far as Cook's Cove. If I spied a piece of driftwood down on some small beach in a gulch below I debated the advisability of precipitously maneuvering my way down to retrieve it and make my way back safely? Some of the gorges or gulches were simply too steep or dangerous to consider any attempt at descending and ultimately, perhaps, the impossible task of ascending. I was rather limited in my carrying capacity, for I had the rather dubious or unthinkable idea of transporting each piece to the top of Watering Cove head. From there I hoped to retrieve it during the winter. Some pieces were out of the question; they were simply too massive to handle. We weren't fortunate enough to have chain saws back then to make the task more manageable. Occasionally I would see the ideal piece that was firmly imbedded by nature between two large boulders, and no amount of human effort could free it from its vise. It was an arduous task performed at a tortoise's pace but my pile was gradually accumulating. Robert Collier said, "Success is the sum of small efforts repeated day in and day out." By the end of summer I had about two or three dogsled loads within sledding distance. Back at school, I had completely placed it on the back burner until winter snowfall. Meanwhile, at the other end at Cook's Cove, harvesting was not as dangerous or treacherous; one could walk along the beach rather effortlessly. Rather than climbing rocky promontories, I had to deal merely with trudging through kelp and water. By the end of summer I had accumulated another couple of dogsled loads. The following winter, when sledding conditions were good, I was successful in getting my two loads from Cook's Cove home. I went to check on The Watering Cove pile and was devastated to discover that it had disappeared. It had been conveniently placed there for someone else. It was not on my own land and nothing to identify the owner; I'm not so sure it would have made any difference. At least "Theft affects profit margins" had no application in my case. And I'm sure it has not affected, nor impacted negatively, my life's journey. By Charles Beckett Gambo, NL   Submitted By: NULL