Sealing

Dear Editor,

Regarding the annual Newfoundland seal hunt, the emphasis, it seems, is focused primarily on humaneness towards the hunted.

Please permit me an attempt to humanize the hunter.

Thank you.

Michael J. Dwyer, sealer

Lewisporte

Sealing
A sky of gloom, a sea of white, we worm our way left and right.
Winds that cut clean to my bones, hurtling ice hard as stones.
Smashing! Crashing! Bashing a way. A thousand hours makes this day.
Harp seals lounging just ahead. Gunner's bullets strikes some dead.
With gaff in hand, I eye the floes, skeleton shivering inside my clothes.
Stomach tight, breath sucked in, butterflies squirt adrenaline.
The sea, it heaves them up and down, tides spin them round and round.
Winds hone them smooth and slick, frost sculpts them layers thick.
Through the sleet I see my tow lying lifeless upon the floe.
The diesel quiets, sheets collide, pick a spot and jump over the side.
Hail Mary, full of grace, guide me through this perilous place.
In the air a chilling grate. Keep me safe for Jesus sake.
Concentrating on my feet I contact atop the tossing sheet.
Rubber boots find no grip, but for the gaff I'd surely slip.
Holy Mary, Mother of God, venture onward towards the slob.
On the floes, alone indeed, pick a path and pick up speed.
Running. Jumping. Risking, Stop! Wait a while or I'm in the drop.
100 fathoms of frigid blue will swallow me whole should I fall through.
Thoughts like these do not relish. You don't die in the floes, you perish.
Onward still, fighting to stand, I weave a way to the blood pan.
The seal lies still, dead no doubt, a geyser of blood like tea pouring out.
Thrice my weight, longer in length, this tow will test all my strength.
The great beast is heavy, my boots slip. Bamb! I am down, pains in my hip,
elbows are deadened, knees go weak. The hunt is waiting, back on my feet.
Snarling out curses, give a great rip, gaining some traction, I head for the ship.
My path is in turmoil, it moves up and down, opening, closing, shifting around.
Steaming profusely, breathing real deep, I pull, drag, trot, hop and creep.
It looks like I made it, thanks to the Lord. The winch pulls my tow in, now, climb aboard.
Rising and falling, body on fire, wait for a time to jump for the tire.
Boot finds the rubber, hands grab the rope. The hull lurches forward, attacking the slope.
Safely on deck, blood pan in sight, a trail of dark crimson on floes dove white.
Ahead harps lay lounging, millions I know. Number 1 is onboard, 600 to go.
The labour has started; the cold, the gore. Backs will be breaking, muscles sore.
Bullets dispatch them, over the side I go, risking it all to retrieve my tow.
And, so in closing, this I will pen, "Sealers earn their meagre share". Amen.