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 ma…