Letter: DFO ignored inshore fishers’ wishes
I’m a fish harvester from Red Harbour on the Placentia Bay side of the Burin Peninsula. I’m also the elected representative for the FFAW executive board for fish harvesters on the west and south coasts.
Another foggy day in Newfoundland.
©Keith Gosse/The Telegram file photo
It seems that when you get my age you seem to hear the phrase, “B’y, this growing old sucks.” And I am inclined to agree with this, but then someone comes up with, “It sure beats the hell out of the alternative.”
Food for thought.
If we are to believe old people, this place we live in has a negative effect on our way of life and if we are to take our doctors seriously, they add credence to the findings of seniors, because if you go to them with a sore neck it’s arthritis, pain in the leg — arthritis, pain in the arm — arthritis. You get the picture, and as you advance in years this becomes more the norm.
It’s the weather, my son. This bloody place we live in is killing us. Everybody knows that your arthritis flares up with the change in the weather. If it’s going to be a bad day, you’re in trouble; if it’s going to be a good day, you’re in trouble. You can’t win for losing.
Today we are past the middle of May — flower and dandelion season, but studded tire season has been extended and there is talk of freezing rain and a possibility of snow. Needless to say, I am having a crappy day as I sit on the couch grunting and groaning. My lovely partner is looking at me with concern on her face, so to ease her mind I’d better get my arse in gear and get out and make like I’m cleaning the car or raking the lawn, but too late — she is coming at me with a tube of A535 in her hand, and I am barred in by the TV on one side and the radio on the other.
I have two options: jump out the window or get A535’ed. I choose the safest of the two options and after 10 or 15 minutes I can only compare the contentment I feel to how my old dog used to love getting his ears rubbed. I succumb to another curse of getting old — the need to sleep or catnap — so I lie back turn, on the “Open Line” show and try to become agitated enough to forget my sore knees.
Paul Lane, Phil Earle, a Budgell fellow, Gus Etchegary, Earle McCurdy, Captain Bartlett, Colin the legal genius, Tony the Tory — the list goes on, including yours truly. Why don’t these fellows get together with a guitar, a harpsichord or a set of bagpipes and cut a DVD and send it in to Paddy Daly? On any given day when it’s slow, he could plug it in.
Then we have Lorraine Michael. Then there’s her sidekick, Gerry Rogers. What a sweet, patronizing voice that lady has, but when I think of the money these two ladies are hauling down, my knees start to pain like the devil again.
And we can’t go without mentioning the St. John’s councillor who has taken up the sword and gone to war — not against crime, not against drugs, or ladies of the night; not even against potholes, but against plastic bags. She uses “Open Line” to promote the cause. In a little while when the ice goes out she will be on telling everyone who wants to hear all about swimming from Bell Island to Portugal Cove. Why the hell don’t she get on the ferry like everyone else?
All of a sudden I’m wide awake, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. You know something? My knees are not paining. I feel like I’m back to age 75. Is it possible that we have been missing this all along? Open-line shows are a cure for arthritis.
It’s the weather, my son. This bloody place we live in is killing us.