August Gale (2 page)

Ambrose is not a man who panics easily, but now fear constricts his throat, making it difficult for him to breathe. He has been gone from his home, the small Newfoundland fishing village of Marystown, nine years. There had been nothing for him in the rural outpost; he never had the stomach for or the desire to battle the sea like his four older brothers. When the demand for exporting cod and salt fish prices began to tumble in the 1920s, Ambrose decided it was time to explore other opportunities.

He had barely turned eighteen when he filled his duffle and hugged his mother, Cecilia, good-bye. “You're too young to be leaving, boy,” she'd told him. She didn't like the idea of losing her youngest child, her mischievous “Tom Divil” to a country so far from her village doorstep. Yet she harbored little doubt that Ambrose could charm his way, flash his smile, and endear himself to women and men alike.
And sure now, he wasn't the first of her boys to head for America. Her son Leo had done the same years earlier, like so many Newfoundlanders looking for opportunity and a better life
.

“Don't forget us now,” she had scolded. “I'll be praying for you, son.”

Ambrose hadn't thought much of Marystown since he arrived at New York City's Penn Station, the enormous train depot that made him dizzy and delighted all at once. Never before had he seen so many people in one place, hurrying in dozens of directions, heads bent with purpose. Ambrose was eager to find his own purpose, a good job, a fair wage. His older brother Leo, who lives in Staten Island, had promised to get him hired at his place of employment, a company called Procter & Gamble. Ambrose had never heard of this American company or its famous Ivory soap, but his brother Leo assured him that a man could do well working for them.

From the moment he arrived, Ambrose has chosen to cut off communications with his Newfoundland family. A man prone to keeping secrets, he now guards the details of his new life, understanding that his silence will make his mother think the worst: that her youngest son is dead or in some horrible trouble. Still, neither he nor his brother Leo sends letters to Marystown about Ambrose. No word about his home in Staten Island or his marriage to Patricia O'Connell, a shy, blonde-haired girl with kind blue eyes.

On this August afternoon, Ambrose has an aching desire to return to Marystown, the rows of houses on the bay, the families bound by blood and sea. The guilt of abandoning his family weighs on him now. He is afraid to read more of the newspaper story, more of the killer gale. A betting man, fond of gambling and playing the horses, Ambrose knows the odds of losing family in this storm are great. Most of his brothers, uncles, and cousins still earn their living from the sea. Surely his oldest brother Paddy was out in his schooner, hoping to make his final catches for the long winter months ahead.

Ambrose allows himself a grin at the thought of Paddy shouting orders to his crew as they prepared to sail from Marystown: “Heave up the anchor, boys!” There would have been singing on the deck, the crew's voices blending together as they heaved the anchor and hoisted the sails. Ambrose knows that nothing thrilled Paddy more than sailing schooners. He lived for fishing from one season to the other. Paddy knew where to find the cod and how to handle the sea when it grew rough.

“You're missing the adventure, boy,” Paddy had often chided him. “A man should be at sea. Come out and crew for me. Come and fill yur dory with fish. We'll fight the sea together.”

Ambrose had tried to embrace Paddy's love for fishing. Briefly, he considered it, imagined himself hunting cod and sailing schooners, all the while his heart telling him there was no measuring up to Paddy.

Twenty-one years older than Ambrose, Paddy is more like a father than a brother. Ambrose's own father, Tom Walsh, is old enough to be his grandfather, and any fatherly instincts have long been spent on his first eleven children. It was Paddy whom Ambrose had sought as a youngster, longing to be in his presence, wanting what Paddy had: confidence and the courage to face whatever challenges came his way.

Now on this Brooklyn wharf, Ambrose would give anything to hear Paddy tell another story, the two of them sitting beside the kitchen cooker, laughing late into the night.

Ambrose hasn't enough money in his pockets for the fare home to Newfoundland; there is no hope of seeing Paddy or anyone else in his family. He has little doubt that his mother, along with every woman and child in Marystown, is on her knees, whispering the Rosary for the missing men. He cannot say his own prayer, begging God to keep his family safe from the storm. Ambrose has never believed in the Lord no matter how much his mother tried to persuade him otherwise, and he is not about to change his mind now for even the most desperate of causes.

Though the August sun warms his face, Ambrose is bone cold, as if he himself had fallen into icy waters. He is afraid to learn more about this killer storm, yet he cannot ignore the paper pushed to his feet by a sudden wind. His dark eyes scan the report of sunken schooners and scores of missing men. He finds the words that cause him to cry out.

Like his brothers and the generations of Irish ancestors born before him, Ambrose Walsh is not in the habit of revealing his fears or emotions. Yet on this day, as the ferry carries him across New York Harbor to his Staten Island home, he curses and moans. The wild look in his eyes frightens the other passengers. When he arrives at his doorstep, his voice hysterical with grief, his wife, Patricia, hushes their baby, as Ambrose, himself, weeps like a child.

M
y father is the first to tell me about Ambrose and the August Gale. He shares the story with me one winter evening, realizing that he has never recounted it to anyone since his mother had told it to him forty-odd years earlier. He finds it strange that the story has lain dormant in his mind for so long.

Yet this does not surprise me. My father, Ronald Eugene Walsh, was the baby Ambrose's wife hushed that August afternoon in 1935, the dark-haired son whom Ambrose would abandon eleven years later.

For most of my life, Ambrose was a mystery, a taboo topic. When I was a child, I asked my Nana where Grandpa was. She quickly told me, “He's dead.” I do not remember asking more about him. In my seven-year-old mind, I accepted that Grandpa didn't exist. I could not see or touch him; I did not know his name, and no one ever spoke it—not my father, not Nana, nor my uncle. There was no evidence of Ambrose, no photographs of him in our home or my grandmother's.

I was eighteen before I learned my grandfather was alive. The revelation occurred when my older sister Diane and I drove my dad from our New Hampshire home to the airport in Boston, Massachusetts. During the ride, Ambrose's name came up. I do not remember if I pressed my father for details about my grandfather's death, but he suddenly explained, “Ambrose isn't dead. He's living in California with another family.”

“He's alive?” I repeated, stunned.

There was little time to ask more questions before we pulled to the airport curb for my father's flight. Grabbing his bags, he hugged us good-bye, and I watched him disappear beyond the airport door.

I turned to my sister, who strangely did not seem as surprised at the news about our grandfather. “Can you believe that Ambrose is alive?”

“I knew he was in California,” she replied nonchalantly. “Nana used to tell me about him.”

“What? How come no one told me?” I asked, hurt.

Despite my shock over Ambrose and his mysterious California family, my grandfather quickly slipped back into a place best left untouched, forgotten. Asking questions about Ambrose was like touching a hot stove. My five sisters and I knew it would cause pain. During our teenage and college years, random phone calls from our mysterious grandfather stirred my father's anger, leaving him silent, brooding. Occasional books, letters from California were quickly discarded. If anyone dared to utter Ambrose's name, my father fell silent or left the room, unwilling to acknowledge the man he could not forgive. Years before I was born, the guests at my parents' wedding were told that Ambrose was dead. It was easier than answering questions about a man who abandoned his family—twice, on distant American coasts.

Now on this winter evening, my father talks about Ambrose and the August Gale. I fall silent, unconsciously holding my breath, afraid that if I speak, it will stop my father from continuing, from giving me a gift: a story about my grandfather.

We sit, side by side, on my living room couch as a distant foghorn echoes in the woods out back. My father is three years shy of turning seventy. His broad-chested, five-foot-eleven-inch frame is still intimidating, a characteristic that helped him in the amateur boxing ring and in the brawls he fought as a young Navy sailor, touring the world. Though his hair is gray and thinning, decades of yard work and a lifetime of sports have kept my father trim, muscled. His brown eyes hold a newfound softness—a benevolence—and they remind me of my Nana's kind blue eyes. My father has softened in other ways too. During the past few years, he has begun telling me and each of my five sisters after every phone conversation: “I love you.” My voice always catches as I return the salutation, understanding that his parting words illuminate a shift, an emotional sea change. Though I have never doubted his love, my dad has long guarded and buried his feelings. Now, at the age of forty-four, I am beginning to understand why.

On this February night, his voice is low, mesmerizing, as he shares what he knows about the 1935 Newfoundland hurricane. While my father speaks, his large hands cut the air to emphasize his thoughts. Later I will learn he has his father's hands—Newfoundland hands—strong and suited for hauling cod. He describes how the foreboding newspaper landed at Ambrose's feet carrying news of the deadly storm; how Ambrose feared his hero, his older brother Paddy, was dead.

It is this moment, when my grandfather is most fragile, that he becomes real in my mind. I can hear his sobs and see his face red with pain, and for the first time in my life, I want to know more about him and his family. I press my father for details: “How bad was the storm? Did a lot of our people die? Did Ambrose ever get back to Newfoundland to see his family?”

My father cannot answer these questions. He believes that one of the crew may have lashed himself to the schooner wheel to survive, but he is unsure of what happened to Captain Paddy or any of our other Newfoundland relatives. The scant details are enough to lure my imagination. For most of my journalism career, I have chased stories about strangers. Now the journalist in me wants to chase the storm, resurrect the men, my ancestors, who sailed schooners and relied on God and the wind to carry them home. My father, a lover of history, sea adventures, and a former Navy shipman, is equally intrigued by the story.

“Maybe we can get in touch with some of the family,” he says, “and see if they know anything about the storm.”

Family? Ambrose's relatives?
I silently ask. My father's offer to contact Ambrose's family stuns me into silence. Over the last twenty years, attempts to coax my father to talk about my grandfather have met with little success. Though I did not often try to broach the topic, one occasion stands out in my mind: My dad had flown from his New Hampshire home to visit me and tour the Fort Lauderdale, Florida, newsroom where I worked in the late 1980s and early 1990s. On a warm March evening, we sat in the dark on my patio, a small deck that looked out onto the city's man-made canals. We sipped beer and dined on the only thing I had in my cabinet—a bag of pretzels. Perhaps it was the effect of the second beer on my empty stomach that gave me the courage to try and unearth my father's feelings. “How,” I asked, “did you learn to be a good father, when your dad wasn't around to teach you or give you advice?”

My father stared into the dark, past the row of sailboats silhouetted in the city lights. His rocking chair creaked as he pushed it back and forth with the tips of his sneakers. He could not find the words to answer me.

The rigging on the nearby boats rattled and clanged, filling the silence between us. When our words returned, they focused on the newspaper stories I had written that day and my father's plans to play golf the following morning.

Now on this winter evening, my father's offer to contact Ambrose's family leaves me quiet again. I do not question why he is ready to share memories that have remained private for decades. I only know that I am grateful that this conversation about the August Gale has found its way to my living room on this February night. It is well after midnight when we finish talking about the storm and how we might further our research. My father promises to e-mail and call relatives, who can help us learn more. I kiss him on the forehead and bid him goodnight, adding “I love you.”

He quickly replies, “I love you, too.” Before I head down the hallway to my bedroom, I turn to look at him. He is lost in thought, and I wonder if his mind has drifted back to his childhood, and his father, Ambrose.

The house is still as I slip beneath my bedcovers. My husband, two daughters, and my mother have been asleep for hours. I lie awake in the dark, excited about this story that links me to my father's past and our Newfoundland family. That night, I dream of giant waves and the grandfather I never had the chance to know or meet.

P
addy Walsh rubbed the coins in his pocket as he walked toward the priest's meadow. The coins had always given him comfort as tokens of his good fortune and the bountiful catches that had provided well for his family. Yet on this August day the sound of the money did not console, but rather unnerved Paddy, reminding him of how little the salt cod was worth.

The schooner captain was not a man who consumed himself with worry, but in this summer of 1935, Paddy was uneasy about the years ahead. At the age of forty-eight, he could still find the fish, hauling more cod than most captains on the southern shores of Newfoundland, yet a full hold meant little when it drew a pitiful price. The smell of the sea pulled Paddy from his thoughts. He eyed the bay that separated the northern and southern shores of Marystown. Wooden houses flanked the dirt paths leading along the water; here the Reids, Brintons, Farrells, Walshes, and Powers made their home, descendants of Irish immigrants who crossed the Atlantic to seek their fortune in a place the Irish called
Talamh an Éisc
, “Land of the Fish.”