Donna & John Cole's

page

Cuzin Donna Cole's husband John Cole was born and raised in Wales. Later, He was a Bobby in England, then came to Canada where he served with the Ontario Provincial Police.

John just sent me an article that he wrote for their local newspaper, it is entitled

"My first view of America"

so I have put it on this page for your perusal. I enjoyed the article, and hope that you do too.

"Sea Fever"

I must go down to the seas again,
to the lonely sea and the sky
And all I ask is a tall ship
and a star to steer her by;
And the wheel's kick and the wind's song
and the white sail's shaking,
And a grey mist on the sea's face,
and a grey dawn breaking,

I must go down to the seas again,
for the call of the running tide
Is a wild call and a clear call
that may not be denied;
And all I ask is a windy day
with the white clouds flying,
And the flung spray and the blown spume,
and the sea-gulls crying

I must go down to the seas again,
to the vagrant gypsy life,
To the gull's way and the whale's way
where the wind's like a whetted knife;
And all I ask is a merry yarn
from a laughing fellow-rover,
And quiet sleep and a sweet dream
when the long trick's over.

By John Masefield (1878-1967). (English Poet Laureate, 1930-1967.)

Mary Barker & John Cole

Once Upon a Maritime

John Cole

Preamble

It is not easy to explain to a landlubber the draw the sea has on those fortunate enough to have lived alongside an ocean. The wish is not to be on the surf, just close to its magnificence. The smell of the ocean is addictive to folks whose lives have been enriched by the sea. A year can not pass before I have to return to the salty air. I spend up to two weeks at the source of my addiction and then return home satisfied. All oceans have different smells. The Atlantic, whose daily tides intrigued me throughout my childhood, has an aroma completely different to that of the Pacific. The Atlantic lapping Canada’s shores smells as sweet as the Atlantic’s waters that sprayed my boyhood home. It is the same sea. It is my Mor Iwerydd*. The Atlantic only touches Wales for about thirty odd miles of coastline. A line of latitude from Red Bay would also run through my parents’ old homestead. Fortunately, because of the Gulf Stream, Wales has far warmer temperatures than does Labrador. When I travel Down East I begin to sense the smell of the ocean around Rivieré-du-Loup in Quebec. I get high on the ozone. Instead of taking the short St. John’s Valley route to Nova Scotia, I always end up circling the Gaspé Peninsula and visiting all of the coves as well as the vast majority of the pubs. I hear that most sailors have a girl in every port. Not this boyo, I simply know a good brasserie in every town. At ten I could swim for a mile between the points of our local bay. This was not considered a major attribute; all my friends could do the same. The oddity was not being able to swim long distances. We swam with the tides, played in the waters, fished in the bay and rowed on the swells. The surf was our playground. The Atlantic was a faithful childhood buddy and I miss her in this landlocked area of the world. All my old friends, now scattered around the world, agree the sea holds a special part of our souls.

Mor Iwerydd

or correctly:

Y Mor Iwerydd (Welsh) (The) Atlantic Ocean.

Awelon Mor
Sea Breeze

Remember these hills and the sea: They provide ancient inspiration. The sea composes our music and the hills recite our tales. Without these friends we would lose our creative souls. Omri ap Gifford

Desirable and dreamlike, Awelon Mor* begins as a mere caress and frolics with the sea lions near Rivieré-du-Loup*. This breeze gains strength through Rimouski and roars down on Cap Chat. She makes her artwork obvious on a canvas of stone at du rocher Percé then calms her spirit to produce the millpond seas of Baie des Chaleurs. Not attuned to mediocrity, Awelon Mor races to Cape Tormentine where she curses impertinent structures. With feminine flair, she stirs the waters to accent Fundy’s storied tides. Furious at human endeavours, her spirit smashes Canso’s causeway and bares Cape Breton’s coves to swirling clouds and moonless nights. Port aux Basques pleads for her fidelity only to hear her whisper seductively to new lovers along the Northern Peninsula. There, tremendous bergs and mammoth whales wish her well. From Labrador* she rushes brazenly across a relentless ocean to blast the fishing villages of Morgannwg. Soon a coquette and playing with the seasons, she reaches Afon Blaidd* where a tale is woven of her beginnings and all comes full circle. Rivers, similarly named, form Awelon Mor’s beginning and final terminus. She is the sea wind and when she smiles there is beauty. If her ire is raised she is as a woman scorned. Siren-like with her flirtations, many men find her irresistible. They travel great distances to lose themselves in her capricious welcomes. They are addicted to her wonderful perfume and her wanton personality. Without exception, she treats all her suitors with a lusty disdain. Awelon Mor knows she owns their hearts and souls.

*Awelon Mor. .(Welsh) .Sea Breeze *Rivieré-du-Loup (.French)... River of the Wolf. *Labrador (From Old Portuguese) Working man or Labourer *Afon Blaidd. (Welsh) . . Wolf River.