Bernie taught me about the submarine races

on salty men and pickled humour while jigging mackerel out on the dykes

When I was younger my dad used to take me out fishing.

We’d head out to the Cole Harbour dyke to jig mackerel from a bridge.

It was a great place to fish. Any time we’d go fishing in a boat, I’d have to be super quiet. Here though, we were about half a mile from the shooting range where they’d hunt clay pigeons.

From what I’ve heard, these birds are great to shoot but unfit for the pot.

Most of the time we’d go fishing, we’d meet up with my dad’s old pal Bernie.

Bernie was a ham of a man. He excelled at the most important characteristic of a firefighter: He was excellent at joking around and elite when it came to playing pranks.

We’d meet Bernie just past the bridge. As they jigged mackerel with Red Devil lures, I’d squeeze myself between the two of them. With my father smoking Cameo menthols and Bernie with his Export A Green Death, I bathed in their second hand smoke.

Even then I knew it wasn’t healthy. But I would do anything to try to get rid of the mosquitoes that bred in the salt marshes that surrounded our fishing spot.

You’d better get used to these bugs Jimmy. Before long you’ll be spending a lot more time out here with a lot more skin exposed.

Bernie was leading me on somehow. We were fishing and he was trolling. I bit.

I will? Why?

Ah Jimmy, one day you’ll bring the girls out here to watch the submarine races!

As an eight year old, there were those I had crushes on. Some I even attempted to put my arm around. These advances faced stiff rebukes such that I was wary about girls.

But submarines? They were cool. Halifax was a military town. I saw warships in the harbour all the time. It was thrilling to think that Canada had a big enough Navy that they could have submarine races.

I mean it seemed possible at the time. Me and dad used to go to the airshow every year and watch the Snowbirds put on unbelievable displays areal acrobatics. The idea of drag racing submarines ignited my imagination.

But Berine?

He was a ham and not to be trusted.

Girls aren’t interested in submarines. I’ll come here with Jason or Scotty instead.

Bernie guffawed dismissively.

Jason? Scotty? No Jimmy. Girls. Girls love submarine races.

But how would we watch them if they’re underwater.

My dad egged Bernie on.

Yeah Bernie, how do you watch them if they’re underwater.

Bernie smirked.

Well geeze fellas, I hadn’t thought of that. It does present a particularly interesting problem. I guess you’ll figure it out when you get there.

Years later, on a beach just down the road from that very spot, I fell head over heels with a girl at a campfire. She was from far away. We had a magical evening under the milky way.

Our romance was pure puppy love - every bit as innocent as I was when I was being teased by Bernie. There were no submarines or finish lines, but as we sat there by the fire staring at the reflection of the stars on the water, I couldn’t help but think about Bernie and my Dad and what they were preparing me for.

In the salt air with these salty men and their coarse pickled humour, I gained entry into a club - a club where men kiss and tell and share secrets of moonlit delights and the joys of playful passion.

It’s great to be part of a brotherhood.

Look after each other boys.

And if you see a car parked out on the Cole Harbour dyke with steamy windows, it’s more than ok to pound on the hood and run away laughing.

Stay salty brothers.

(a paid advertisement in a local community paper)