We Were the Salt of the Sea

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The moment O’Neil Poirier glanced out of his porthole and saw the hull of the sailboat moored alongside, he figured the day was off to a very bad start. From the Magdalen Islands, was Poirier. His personality too, and his two deckhands. They had motored into Mont-Louis two days prior to stock up on their way to Anticosti Island, where the cod and the herring were waiting. Wanting to leave at dawn, they had hit the sack early the night before, and hadn’t heard the sailboat dock beside them. The hum of their generator must have covered the sound of the neighbouring crew’s footsteps.

O’Neil Poirier barked at his men to get up and clambered out on deck, intent on making a bit of racket to show these fair-weather sailors they were far from welcome. When a man gets up at half past three in the morning for a hard day’s work in the frigid waters of the Saint Lawrence Estuary, he does not want to have to shift a boat out of his way, especially not one that’s full of sleeping tourists who’ll grumble about being woken up early and fret about fishermen not retying their mooring lines properly.

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