SMOKE ON THE WATER

by Ben Robicheau ~ brobicheau@cogeco.ca
    One of the sure signs that spring has arrived is when you open a window or step out onto your doorstep and notice an unmistakable, smoky-wet-wood smell drifting over the island: someone, somewhere has a grassfire going.
    This spring-time ritual has been carried on since man first discovered fire, and some of the original reasons for doing it are still in practice today. Those who have grazing animals will burn off last year’s dead grass so the new, green shoots can show through and give their horses, cows or sheep a break from that dusty, dry winter hay. Others do it for appearance; the easiest way to get rid of all of that unsightly, matted, dead grass lining the edge of the yard or wrapped around the lower strands of a wire fence is to just put a match to it. Still others have safety in mind; having fields of tinder-dry grass around your house and buildings is not a good idea, the results of a carelessly tossed cigarette could be catastrophic; a controlled burn gets rid of that problem. Unfortunately, even though grass fires may be started with the best of intentions, that first scent of smoke is often followed in short order by the sound of sirens as the local fire department rushes to a blaze that has spread out of control.
    It was just about his time of year when a gentleman of the town - I won’t mention his name, but I will say that he lived on the Back Road next door to Pinchard and Melida Swift - decided to get rid of some burdock bushes in his back yard. After dousing them with kerosene and setting them alight, he decided to step inside for a few minutes; not surprisingly, this turned out to be a bad idea. Upon his return, he was astounded to see that his little burdock fire had jumped to a near-by field and was now racing before a brisk wind through the long grass behind his house. Luckily, the breeze was pushing the fire away from the houses and along through the fields that lie below the hill that runs behind the village.
    In short order most of the Island was heading for the fields, armed with shovels and wet burlap bags, hoping to stop the fire in its tracks, or at the very least prevent it from doing serious damage. By the time they reached the front of the fire, it was moving along at a rapid clip with a wall of flames reaching fifteen or twenty feet high in some places. One of the first casualties of this inferno was a camp that Braddie and Clayton Titus had built just below the top of Joe’s Hill, it was reduced to smoldering ash in an instant and the flames then sped along towards Edgar McDormand’s big building in the field behind his house. Luckily, the grass around this structure had been kept short so the fire fighters were able to fend off the flames.
    This was before there was a fire department on the island and it was obvious that without proper equipment, the only hope the fire fighters had was that the blaze would burn itself out before it did any real damage. Daniel’s Road lay right across the fire’s path, if they could hold it there, it might starve itself out. The firefighters massed along the road, some still in the barvels and rubber gloves they wore as they ran from the fishplants. Despite a valiant attempt to contain the flames, a few sparks managed to leap this barrier and spread rapidly into the knee-high grass across the road. Just as the fire was getting a good hold, the wind suddenly shifted, blowing directly towards the village. The first building in its path was the old Coggins house which was now home for several of the fishplant workers. The field grass grew right up to the back wall, and to make matters worse, there was a pile of firewood only a few feet from the house. The flames were shooting high into the air and travelling down the field at a rate that the men were unable to match; it looked like the house was gone for sure. Then, at the very last second, just short of the woodpile, the wind shifted once again. Coming now from the exact opposite direction, it blew the fire back on itself and the flames, starved of fuel, dropped to a level where the shovels and burlap bags could be effective.
    Although this part of the fire was successfully defeated, the main body carried on, finally exhausting itself just before reaching the High Knoll; but it went out with one last destructive gasp, sending a camp that Chester and Harry Lent had built at the base of the hill up in flames. The ironic thing about this whole episode is that once it was all over, it was discovered that the burdock bushes that had instigated the entire fiasco had survived with only minor scorching.
    Of course, not every fire resulted in near disaster. Night-time skating parties on Lively’s Pond often involved a roaring bonfire that provided a chance to warm up and enough flickering light to let you see the thin ice and soft spots at the edge of the pond. Bonfires were also popular in the summer months; on many an evening at Pond Cove, hot dogs and marshmallows would be roasted over a roaring driftwood fire while everyone huddled up as close to the warmth of the flames as possible. The wind baffling across the beach usually kept you busy ducking sparks and eye-watering smoke while experiencing the unique sensation that the front of your body was about to burst into flames at the same time that your back was freezing and wet from the fog drifting in off the ocean.
    Beach fires were also used for cooking other things. If you got hungry while hiking the back shore, a little fire inside a circle of stones could be used to boil up some periwinkles in a tin can scavenged off the beach. If you didn’t happen to have a pin to pick the meat out of the shells, a nail pulled from an old, busted up lobster trap would do just fine.
    One of the most innovative ways of cooking on a beach fire that I can remember occurred during a family picnic at Scattaway Cove. A large fire was started and while it was burning we collected some mussels. Since we hadn’t brought any pots, I wasn’t sure what we were going to do with the mussels, but I soon found out. When the fire had burned down to white hot embers, my father came up the beach with an armload of wet seaweed which he threw down on the coals, as it sizzled and popped, he put the mussels on top and covered them with more seaweed. After several minutes in the hot, steaming seaweed, we had some nicely cooked mussels.
    Of course, not every fire has to have a function or a purpose, some are just for fun and for a kid, the Back Shore is ideal for this. There are usually no adults around, the beach is littered with combustible material and it is a relatively safe place to build a fire. What kid who just happens to have a couple of matches in his pocket could resist? Most of the fires we built were just simple bonfires set far enough down the beach that there was no danger of catching the grass and trees ablaze, and after we got tired of the fire we had the fun of watching it die hissing and spitting in the rising tide. Occasionally we would give an old lobster crate a Viking funeral, lashing it to a couple of sticks of pulp wood, then setting it adrift and afire on the ocean.
    One summer I and a couple of friends discovered a large propane tank washed ashore in a cove not far from the Copper Mine. In the past we had enjoyed the pyrotechnics caused by burning up old aerosol cans, so we felt this was an opportunity not to be missed. After building a huge fire on the beach, we picked up the tank, swung it back and forth between us, and pitched it into the middle of the fire. We could hear gas sloshing around in the tank, so we knew the fireworks were going to be good. We ran up into the field and ducked down behind a little hill, peeking over the top and waiting expectantly for the big bang.
    We waited…and waited…but nothing happened. We finally decided that the tank must be a dud, full of water instead of gas, and were just starting down the hill to investigate when there was a terrific explosion. We all hit the ground as bits and pieces of flaming debris rained down around us. We looked up to see dozens of little grassfires radiating out from the smoking crater where our fire had been. After fifteen minutes of frantic running around, we managed to put out all the fires, although in the process one of our group ruined his new jacket by using it to beat out the flames.
    Just before we hit the ground, I had noticed a hiker coming over a rise on the trail along the shore not far from the fire; when I looked up after the explosion, I just caught a glimpse of him heading back the way he had come but at a much brisker pace. His peaceful walk with nature had turned into something more like a hike through a war zone! I might be nearly fifty years too late, but whoever that hiker was, I’m sorry for almost blowing you up!