The Real Story of A Moratorium Child

I was born in a time when vibrantly coloured shorelines were bleached by the hammering of boards across windows and doors.

A time when I watched families reluctantly tear themselves away from one another, venturing across the continent in search of a way to make an empty living. Empty, because life as they had known it was changed forever. And no amount of willing, wanting, or waiting could return things to the way they used to be.

It was a time when our grandparents would tell us stories of the past. Of a town that seemed whimsical, fairy-tale like. Of general stores, merchants, and sailors. Of packed bars and town halls, coastal boats, and summer’s infinite buzz. 

In the time when I was born, an insidious fog wrapped itself around outport Newfoundland and Labrador. It choked the province’s last breath. Carried it under the serpent sea. Buried us half-alive.

Newfoundland was an island settled by the English and Irish, who left their countries in bold pursuit of a better life. In the 19th-century, Newfoundland’s economy was booming, and with its small population, the colony was capable and willing to absorb new immigrants. Risking their lives, English and Irish families voyaged across the North Atlantic to this foreign, new found land.

The economy was exploding like a firework, as Newfoundland held the rights to the largest fishery in the world - the North Atlantic cod fishery. The rhythm of the fishery flowed through the veins of every Newfoundlander and Labradorian. It tickled our tongues with quirk and wit. Carved a resilience inside us deeper than any ocean. It built those rainbow spilled clapboard homes. Put songs in our mouth and air in our lungs.

And then, it was gone.

In 1992, merely 40 years after Newfoundland became Canada’s 10th province, the Federal Government of Canada and Provincial Government of Newfoundland and Labrador announced an indefinite moratorium on the cod fishery - marking the death of a five hundred year old economy.

30,000 Newfoundlanders and Labradorians were left unemployed - becoming to this day, the largest layoff in Canadian history second only to the COVID-19 pandemic.

Therefore, myself and those born in the time that I was, watched our aunts, uncles, and cousins leave the province in droves. We saw homes once filled with warmth, become boarded up as they were left cold, empty, and vacant. And most painfully, we watched as our fathers and grandfathers held back tears as they hauled their fishing boats and nets ashore for what all they knew, could have been forever. 

The true effect of the Moratorium was never explored. My generation failed to realize the impact it had on us. And even those who lived and breathed the fishery, couldn’t put it into words or begin to unravel the emotional aftermath of what was happening around them when our culture, rooted for five generations in the fishery, ultimately faced extinction.

We were the Children of the Moratorium.

Amidst this catastrophic economic downturn, in what seemed the darkest of times, our little eyes remained wide with an unfathomable sense of freedom, wild imaginations, and an insatiable thirst for adventure.

We were entranced by the magic and mystery that lay on the bay shore. Enthralled by the stories of ghosts and spirits that haunted the rocky beaches. Mesmerized by the tales of English fleets blown to bits by French Naval ships. Captivated by the possibility of the past that laced the nooks and crannies of this crooked rock surrounded by the sea. The perfect antidote for the hardship and heartbreak surrounding us.

The outport has always represented a place of wonder, freedom, and fascination to us. 

Yet, outport communities still face a cold, dark future. Aging populations and declining populations plague most of these coastal towns. Schools close. Shops shut their doors. And for some, the inevitable fate of resettlement, a program mandated by the Government in the 1960’s, still threatens to hammer the nail in the coffin for the places that nobody fought for.

I spent the first eighteen years of my life willing, wanting, waiting to leave the rugged peninsula I call home. To be freed from its depressing and suffocating grip. To find a new life and a new place to call home. But the curious thing is, the further I ventured away, the more I felt the call to return. 

I felt that deep inside me, that my real home, the one illustrated by the psychedelic sunsets painting the sky, the rolling spruce-clad mountains, the wicked winds, unforgiving sapphire seas, ochre-red fishing stages, those vibrant clapboard vernacular homes, the whimsical tongues of the Irish descendent, the unparalleled sense of welcome and love of strangers – all of it – was who I was.

I had spent so much of my early twenties looking for who I was, when it was within me all along. The call became more and more powerful, and it became clear that my soul’s purpose was to fight for the place that I loved the most.

History may have tried to bury us. But outport people possess resilience and grit beyond measure. Our lineage fought to live on this salt stricken rock. The same grit that lived in them beats within our hearts, too. Outport people are seeds. 

And when I finally found the courage to take a leap of faith and put my heart and soul into a business that would bring people to my breathtaking corner of the earth, to immerse them in our unique culture, and make them a part of our story, I felt that I was doing just that - planting a seed. A small step towards the possibility of a better tomorrow. A new chapter in the story.

The Moratorium itself may have been an event that defined our history. But as Newfoundlanders and Labradorians, we must not let it define who we are. We must begin the unlearning process of this narrative that no longer serves us. We must open our eyes to the possibility of a thriving future, and learn from our coastal neighbours that have succeeded in rural revitalization. 

We must come home to ourselves, our authenticity, and the power that these magical outports hold. No amount of willing, wanting, or waiting could return things to the way they used to be. But maybe, just maybe, we can work to make them better than they ever were before.