Grace Harbour

Grace's Excursion*

It all started one horrible Monday morning when my no-good husband took it into his head to take some damned fool excursion up t' Harbour Grace with a bunch of the lads from the pub. I was sure they were just going to go out in some leaky boat that's not fit to haul garbage and drink the day away. I made up my mind to put a stop to it.

Just as the gang plank was being raised, a very nice young sailor kindly helped me aboard. I "volunteered" to jump on board and make sure everyone behaved.

There must have been three hundred fools on that boat all of them stinking of cod guts and last night's ale. I found my husband looking over the bow with a couple of other fellas. The sun wasn't above the first yardarm and I could already smell that the old black run had gotten a hold of them. They were standing up so brave and proud - thinking they were all fine sailors and soldiers in a fine regiment. I went right up to him and gave him a piece of my mind. The other guys were choking with laughter, but I didn't care.

By the time I'd said all that could be said and had a moment to draw a breath, we had pushed away from the pier and were well out in the harbour. Right then I started feeling a bit off. I knew it was the stink of these brutes and the rolling of the boat (I was sure the captain was as drunk and good-for-nothing as the rest of them). No matter what I said or did, I could feel myself turning green. "Oh me, oh my" I said "I think I was gonna die". My husband, bless his stupid soul, brought me all sorts of things he said would make me feel better. I don't know why he brought me fat pork - he knows I can't have fat pork. And the castor oil and candy was enough to make me heave over the gunwales. But why in the names of St. Patrick and St. Michael he felt the need to slather me with pure oil I will never know! He said he wanted me to look my best when we arrived in Harbour Grace.

Once we put in to port, I was a wailing and a moaning enough to wake the dead. I made my lazy husband go to every store and shop in Harbour Grace to get me cure so's I could go with him to the hop - but of course he could only find the pub. I said to my self, I said "I wish I'd never taken this excursion around the bay".

I finally found my rest as we were making the return trip. We were just below the Brandies when St. Peter called me to him. As I floating up towards the pearly gates, I chanced to look back and seen the lot of them dump my still warm corpse overboard wrapped up in some old red, white and blue sheet. Everyone one of them had a smirk on his face as my poor earthly remains sunk down to Davy Jones' locker.

So now I haunt coast of Newfoundland from Fogo to Twillingate and down to Trepassey keeping watch over reckless young men. They call me Grace Harbour and here I write of my travels and tell tales of my adventures. You can share a yarn or two yourself. We can always go the kitchen for a party.

(*with thanks to GBS)

new server