At this time of year, I swear the Newfoundland part of our province sinks deeper into the icy North Atlantic Ocean. It has little to do with the ebb and flow of the tides. It has more to do with the collective weight of so many more people putting such an immense strain on our island's foundation that it cannot help but sag a little towards the resting place of the Titanic. Nothing calls a Newfoundlander back home more than the season that is Christmas.
Late last week, I had to go to the airport in St. John's to pick up my wife and daughter, Lynda and Kendall, who were returning from Kendall's swim meet that was held in Montreal. Their flight was to arrive at 11 p.m. and it just so happened that several other flights were scheduled to arrive at around the same time. When I walked into the normally sparsely populated terminal, I found myself having to zigzag around the myriads of people who had come to the airport to meet arriving family members.
We are either not a patient people or we are extremely loving. (I think it's the latter.) It seems that entire families are required to go to the airport in hopes of being the first to be able to say he or she was the first to get a glimpse of Ricky, Margie and the kids as they ascended the escalator to meet up with their luggage that may or may not have made the flight.
Despite the fact that several of the flights were delayed and the others had not yet let the passengers deplane, no one would dare move away from the entrance to the arrivals area. I had no intention of adding to the chaos, so I figured I would mosey up to the Tim Horton's to see if I developed a thirst for a cup of tea. To get there I had to get through the throng. When I finally succeeded, I realized what a pinball ball must feel like. I wasn't interested in a replay or to be tilted any more, so I decided to hang a safe distance from the arrivals area. Lynda would have to text me when she and Kendall finally arrived.
As I sat in relative safety, people-watching, I couldn't help but recall a time when I was living abroad and was lucky enough to get home for the holidays. I was a cop, living and working in Ontario. An investigation I was working on had me dealing with my counterparts in St. John's. As luck would have it, they needed a prisoner escorted from Toronto to St. John's on a last minute, urgent basis. It was December 22nd and no one, who was already in Newfoundland, was willing to risk leaving so close to Christmas. The unpredictable weather or the even more unpredictable airlines could easily commute a wonderful down home Christmas to the not-so-merry metropolis of Mississauga. In me, the Mounties had their man. In return I got an all expense paid trip back home to see the folks and two brothers. It was pre-kids for Lynda and me, so she was happy to see me go. (I'm not certain that sounds the way that I meant it.)
I had no idea who my prisoner was to be. It didn't matter because it was to be a quick three hour flight and I could stomach anyone for that long. The guy had been in jail for a while, so I was certain he'd be content with the change of scenery. It turned out the prisoner was also a transplanted Newfoundlander. Like so many of us, he had left home to seek fame and fortune in the big city of Toronto. Well, he may have been more infamous than famous, but he carried the common trait we all have of always considering the Rock to be home.
I didn't let on to this guy that I too was a Newf. After years of mainland living, I had become fluently bilingual enough that I could turn on or off my native Newfanese, so he never caught on. He revelled in the idea of telling me all about the unbeatable experience I would have when I spent an evening on George Street. He had a particular affinity for one particular nightclub called the Sundance. Apparently, the world renown friendly ladies of Newfoundland were even more so at this particular establishment. He repeatedly suggested that no visit to St. John's would be complete without experiencing all that the Sundance had to offer. I did a lot of nodding and listening to his stories and assured him that I would give the place a try. It almost seemed cruel not to tell him that I had chugged more than my share of beer at that place in my younger days, but we cops have found it a bad practice to tell bad guys too much about our personal lives. The last thing any cop wants is for some bad guy showing up on his doorstep, whether it be to exact revenge or just to reminisce about old times.
As I arrived at the old airport in St. John's, with its one carousel and 1940's decor, I saw my mom and dad amongst the horde of people waiting. With only two family members there to meet me, we were thoroughly outnumbered by the rest of the clans. I had given my folks careful instructions not to approach me until my prisoner was off my hands. Luckily for me, my RCMP comrades hadn't started partying early and remembered to meet me and their prisoner. I retrieved my handcuffs from the wrists of my travelling companion and bid him and the officers a Merry Christmas and farewell. As I was making my way to my awaiting parents, I heard the prisoner shout to me from across the crowded terminal, "Remember Jim, it's called the Sundance." He gave me the Newfie nod and was whisked away. I never did find out what happened to him. I'm sure he's now out of jail for whatever it was that caused him to be locked up over fifteen years ago.
It's funny how I fondly recall that story after so many years. Many cops have told me of their own memorable experiences involving Newfoundlanders - how Newfs are so honest that they often will readily admit to a crime when asked if they did it; or how they love a good scrap with a cop, but always fight fairly and go willingly when bested.
When a group of people are unique, an oft used phrase to explain the uniqueness is "there must be something in the water." In the case of the people of our province, this phrase is so true. The something in the water for us is this island that sits all alone in the frigid North Atlantic. Hopefully, we will never change. See you at the airport.
Merry Christmas
Jim
