TROUBLE IN DOUGHBALL COVE
   by John B. Walsh

It was during the short days of winter that men rowed their dory to the Virgin's Cove to cut down enough firewood to last until after the fishing season. Young boys accompanied their dads Saturday mornings to help chop, trim, and carry out the wood.

By the time my father, Din Pat, had to leave home to fish the Grand Banks and Cape St. Mary's, we had a big stack on the edge of the cliff above Doughball Cove.

Come time when the weather was good for coasting, Jim Gardner, my brother Ron, and I took the old Co-op skiff and dory, left Big Merasheen Harbour, and went around the Head, past Little Merasheen, Breakheart, the Virgins Cove, and on to Doughball Cove. They landed me on a rock and I climbed the steep hill of Doughball Cove where the wood was piled.

The procedure was to throw the wood one stick at a time over the cliff into the water. There Jim and Ron would haul it on board until we had a full load. All was going well. I picked up a crooked old stick and heaved it as hard as I could. It turned over in my hand and the butt end hit me square on the back of the head. Realizing my precarious perch on the edge of that cliff, I grabbed the first stump my hand touched as the stars filled my head and my body went limp. By the time I came back to the land of the living, we had our wood on board and it was time to head for home before the southwest wind began to freshen.

Even today I shudder when I think about what might have happened had I lost my grip and went tumbling over that high cliff down into the salty water now littered with wood.

I can attest to the line in the poem ‘Footstep in the Sand’ that states ‘God is always there’. I know since I have felt his presence in many an outlandish adventure in life.