Some Day the Sun Will Shine and Have Not Will Be No More (28 page)

This was most clearly demonstrated to me when I attended a Mines Ministers
Conference in Quebec City in the late 1970s. I arrived at the hotel the
afternoon of the day of registration. There was to be a reception that evening
hosted by the Quebec minister. I registered in the lobby of the hotel and was
about to take the elevator to my room when I noticed a large map of Quebec
hanging just behind the registration desk. There was no Labrador—it was all
Quebec. I blew my top. I immediately complained to the people at the desk, went
to my room, called to see where the minister was, and within a short period of
time spoke to him. I indicated in no uncertain terms that this brazen display
was unacceptable and that we would have to withdraw from the conference if this
map remained on display and that I would hold a press conference announcing our
withdrawal and why. The map was quickly removed.

The Churchill defeats were deeply bitter disappointments and it makes me now
recall a staunch supporter.

I always liked small communities. I was raised in them, and as I got older I
was always drawn back to them. In politics this can be good or bad. Good because
you got to know more of your province, bad because there were fewer voters and
time seemed always of the essence.
Nevertheless, I prevailed in
one election campaign, much to the chagrin of the election planners, to visit
the community of La Poile, an isolated community on the southwest coast of the
island. I had prided myself that I had been to nearly all the inhabited places
on the island, and La Poile was one that I had never visited, and hence I wanted
to add it to my list as well as show my concern for those who lived there.

So with the required campaign staff press person or two and a megaphone at our
fingertips, we set off in helicopter. Of course, the south and southwest coast
is notorious for its fog, as the election planners kept reminding me. And so it
was with great relief that, as we came to the coast from the north, we could
glimpse that a glorious day lay over the community. The pilot landed the
helicopter in one of the few places just large enough to do so, and we are off
around the harbour/pathway to an appropriate location to deliver a speech on
behalf of the party, our candidate, and myself, explaining why the people there
should vote for us.

After tracking down a well-used pickup truck, I got into the back of the
vehicle and with megaphone in hand began to wax eloquent to almost all of the
inhabitants of the community.

In the course of my talk I happened to glance off to my left, and I noticed in
the far end of a rocky field, just beyond the truck, an older gentleman sitting,
likely out of earshot even for my well-performing megaphone. For a politician
this is most aggravating, but I soldiered on, trying not to be put off by one of
the elder citizens of the community, obviously a supporter of the opposing
party.

After completing my speech and getting down from the truck to mingle among the
people, I glanced to see if my wayward voter was still in his place in the
field. Sure enough, he was still there keenly following the proceedings. I
signalled to one of my campaign staff that he should, with the candidate,
request that the people move just down over the hill to a pre-arranged lunch at
the local school. I then whispered to him that I would be a little late for
lunch, but given that it would take some time for everyone to get refreshments
and a sandwich, I was sure to be there with lots of time to speak one-on-one and
answer any questions.

As the people moved down toward the school, I jumped over the
rail fence and made my way up the field to meet the challenge before me,
sensitive that this might not be easy, a Tory premier meeting a senior citizen
in a historically Liberal community.

It was one of those special days, warm and so clear that you could see for
miles, and for a moment I savoured the peace and freshness that was all around
me. I sat down next to my distant spectator.

“How are you today, Skipper?” I asked.

“Number one,” he replied, with a slight twinkle in his eye.

“You never came down by the truck?” I inquired.

“No, boy, me legs are not what they used to be, can barely walk a few feet. And
I don't like asking for help. But me ears are good. I heard most of what you had
to say.”

“Good for you,” I said, trying to keep a brave face. “Well, perhaps then I can
count on your vote come polling day. I am doing my best to get around to many of
the smaller places and not just go to the big places where most of the votes
are.”

“No, 'tis a good thing you're doing, I'd say,” he retorted, “a really good
thing.”

Mindful of my lunch obligation just down the hill and aware of the coy approach
of my new acquaintance, I got up to leave and was about to bid a friendly
goodbye when he raised his arm and with sudden conviction exclaimed, “No, don't
go yet. Please, sit down. I won't be long.”

His tone, more than the words, told me he had important things to say. I
quickly sat down again.

“Do you know something?” he said in a quivering voice.

“What's that?” I said, half afraid to ask.

“Joey Smallwood said he had been in every community on the island. You're too
young to remember. But I remember. I heard him say it on the radio. But dat's a
lie. He was never in this place, because I have lived here for over seventy
years and I should know.”

Somewhat taken back, I responded, “Yes, Skipper, I have heard Joey say that
many times. But I did not know if it was true or not,” I responded
eagerly.

His voice now raised, he exclaimed, “And another thing. You're
the first prime minister or premier to ever set shoe leather in this place.
Did you know that?”

Now fully surprised, I replied, “No sir, I did not know that.”

“And I'm some proud you're here,” he continued in a broken voice, “and I bet
you don't know how many people vote Tory in this place, especially since
Confederation with the Baby Bonus and old-age pensions. Let me tell you: two.
And I was always one of them.”

Somewhat shaken, I gently put my arm around the Skipper's shoulders and looked
him straight in his watery eyes. “And you will never know how proud I am to meet
you!” I uttered in my own quivering voice.

Well, we yarned a bit. Old buddies we were, or so it seemed— all in these few
precious moments. I told him about my grandfather Peckford and his fishing
exploits and about George Prole in Nippers Harbour, who was so much like
him.

He told me of his life of fishing, the good times and the bad, and how he never
trusted Smallwood and thought Confederation would make us lazy; all that free
money wasn't good, he allowed.

Needless to say, in a few short moments I could have sworn I had known him all
my life—a few tears from both of us, and then they were gone.

I rose to go, our hands clasped together. I made a solemn promise that I would
return to see him. With that, we parted.

I galloped down the rock slope, over the fence, and barged breathlessly into
the school and into the fray.

Two years later I accepted an invitation to speak to the annual Port aux
Basques Progressive Conservative Association. La Poile is in this district, so I
let it be known that I had a promise to keep, and that I had to go to La Poile
on this trip. The schedule that had been so carefully prepared had to be
scrapped, and I would spend an extra day in the area to accommodate all the
other meetings that had been painstakingly arranged. We decided that on the day
of the annual meeting we would leave early, helicopter to La Poile in the
afternoon, and go on to Port aux Basques that evening for the dinner and dance
and meeting.

By helicopter we went south from Deer Lake, crossing Grand Lake and moving down
over the western edge of the Annieopsquotch
Mountains and
Lloyd's River. The pilot told me that the weather reports were not good on the
coast and that fog was likely to be rolling in. He knew my story and how badly I
wanted to get to La Poile. So we continued. And then we saw in the distance the
fog bank at the coast. We continued into the fog. But it was impossible.

We were now over the ocean and descended to about fifty feet so we could see
water, and then travelled westward, intermittently seeing the water. We crawled
along the coastal edge, land and water. Miraculously, we saw some lights and
buildings ahead, and after several attempts we landed nimbly on the government
wharf. What a flight!

People had gathered nearby after hearing the helicopter and knowing that,
perhaps, given the fog, the wharf was the only safe place to land. We were in
Rose Blanche, the first large community west of La Poile. We were able to hire a
car and get transported to Port aux Basques to join the festivities already in
progress.

When I got up to speak later that evening, I decided I would dispense with my
original thoughts and instead I would tell the story of my attempt earlier that
day to get to La Poile and why.

And I told it all in great detail. Slowly, and with every detail, the audience
got a sense of the importance of the story and its emotive effect. As I finished
to a hushed crowd, a person stood up near the back of the hall.

“Brian, I know the person you're talking about. He was my uncle. He spoke of
you a lot and he always said you would return to see him. He passed away last
week.”

“I must go down to the sea again.”

— John Masefield

WHEN I APPROACHED PREMIER
Frank Moores and said
I would like to have the vacant Mines and Energy portfolio, I knew that it was
the place to be.

I was blessed with really good people who had been hired
earlier by the government, especially Cabot Martin, Steve Millan, John
Fitzgerald, and Lorne Spracklin. These people were invaluable in those early
years: Cabot with his passion for the new opportunity and his devotion to
Newfoundland; Steve, the steady, methodical Trinidadian; John, to remember what
the rest of us forgot; and Lorne, the numbers man. It is extremely doubtful that
we would have been successful later without the passion, persistence, and
dedication of these four public servants.

The Petroleum Directorate was established and the important document “The
Heritage of the Sea,” our case on offshore minerals rights, was prepared and
distributed to every household in the province, and the strong support of
Premier Moores and the Cabinet validated our endeavours. This led logically to
negotiations with all the oil companies who had an interest in the offshore to
accept our regulations. I remember well all the trips to Calgary meeting with
oil company executives. I particularly remember a meeting in New York when most
of the companies came on side and were instrumental in getting Petro-Canada,
then owned by the federal government, to accept our regulations.

Of course, the federal government was aghast at the audacity of Newfoundland to
claim ownership of the mineral rights offshore and, I suspect, thought that we
would soon abandon what they considered a silly and frivolous position. So the
period from 1976 to 1979 was one of getting the Cabinet to agree to our many
proposals for staff, legislation, and regulations, and to have a mandate to
negotiate with the companies. The Newfoundland Regulations were gazetted in
November, 1978, and the Petroleum Directorate was formally established after I
became premier in 1979. In this atmosphere of competing jurisdictions and two
sets of regulations, the oil companies withdrew in 1977–78 and no drilling
occurred. Thankfully, they returned in 1978. Of course, the companies were not
pleased with “having to serve two masters,” and there were voices around the
country who saw the province—and me in particular—as being provocative, if not
belligerent, and the province acting like a banana republic.

I became premier in March, 1979 (on St. Patrick's Day), and the
first discovery of oil at Hibernia occurred a few months later. However, it was
not known at that time whether it was a significant discovery and whether it
would be commercial. It was not until 1985 that it was declared a significant
discovery. However, it was known that a significant flow of oil was encountered
on that first discovery and that there seemed to be a large pay zone. So hopes
were rising that this would turn out to be something worthwhile.

The first glimmer of hope in our quest came with the election of Joe Clark as
prime minister in June, 1979. I had campaigned for Joe in his successful
leadership bid of 1976, and he was well aware of the province's desire to gain
control, like the other provinces, of its oil and gas resources. After many
discussions and meetings, I received a letter from Prime Minister Clark on
September 12, 1979, in which he said: