My younger sister's eyebrows had shot up at the sound of "swordfish", my youngest sister had a look on her face that said she wanted nothing to do with the fish in question, and I didn't dare look at my older sister for I knew she might giggle. Every one of Dad's five sisters and his two sisters-in-law had fed us her version of codfish cakes Dad's favourite food but this was something new. At home, in the coal hod beside our fireplace, we had two rusty World War I bayonets for prodding the fire, but a fish with a sword?
My younger sister beamed up at Aunt Tina and politely commented that it would be nice to see a fishing boat, one that went out on the ocean. I agreed. We all piled into the car, headed off, and in a short time, were at the dock of a little fishing village.
There is a special smell to the sea fish, seaweed and salt air. It leaves an imprint on your lungs that lingers for years, and when you are once more by the seaside you feel at home. We all knew that tang in the air.
The boat was a disappointment. We were expecting something huge. This boat was short with a gangplank at the front, which led to a small platform with a harpoon gun sitting on it. Encircling the gangplank and platform was a railing of rope strung through steel posts. After hearing a fisherman explain to Dad how he and his crew harpooned the fish and brought the catch back to shore, well, we decided that it took courage to do that for a living. We left Dad and the fishermen talking and my sisters and I wandered off.
There were long crates on the dock. The unused portions of swordfish had been tossed into the water at dockside; it was not a pretty sight. We went back to where the men were and lingered and listened.
"Well, now," one of the fishermen asked Dad, "would you like to be taking a sword back with you. We could get you a better one than this." The sword being examined was about eighteen inches in length, the colour of ivory, frazzled at the broad end with a worn, saw-tooth edging at the pointed end. It had been dragged far too long behind a boat. It was tattered.
Dad had been enjoying a good chinwag with the fisherman and from their conversation the ruddy-faced chap seemed to know just who we were related to. From his glance at us we knew that we had "the look". He had learned where we fitted in.
"Well, now," he said, picking up a grappling hook, "we'll just haul one of these heads out of the water and cut off a fresh sword for you." The job was soon done and the sword was tied to the front bumper. "Best place to carry it. After a few days 'twill be really rank."
Aunt Norrie was delighted with the swordfish about the same size as a nice roast of beef. Uncle Norman just smiled. It was known that he was partial to fish and that Aunt Norrie had a way with cooking it.
Their comfortable home sat on the sunny side of a hill, high up from the shore of the Bras d'Or Lakes, with a view to delight an artist. The visit went well. Pictures were taken. As we were leaving, the bundle on the bumper was inspected and Dad's cousins kidded him about it.
Wrapped with cardboard and twine, the sword remained attached to the front bumper as we started on the long journey home through Evangeline country, across Fundy Bay by ferry, through Customs as we entered New England, back again into Eastern Ontario, and on through Windsor into Detroit without a Custom official raising an eyebrow. The sword was rank indeed and no one wished to challenge the situation.
Then we reached the Manitoba border.
"That's a sword from a swordfish, you say! Oh yeah??" The Customs officer rubbed his chin and stared at the odorous package. He called out another man. They circled the car. "A sword from a swordfish? Hmmm, just park the car over there," he told Dad in an officious tone of voice, "and everybody get out."
We did. They made a show of checking the car from top to bottom, inside and out, with my younger sister and I dogging their heels and asking questions. "How can you see under the car?" one asked. "Mirrors." But they didn't have any at hand right then so they couldn't show us how they did it. Somehow, our suitcases were overlooked too. Then they set about doing what they had been leaving to the last this, my sisters and I were eager to watch. A poor rookie was ordered to undo the bundle still clinging to the front bumper.
Yes, he found out. Some fish do have swords, and after two weeks of being tied to a bumper, our sword had an odour beyond description. All the Customs officers had a quick look, and the lowest man on the totem pole was told to "Tie it up again. And be quick about it!" We were free to go.
When the fisherman in Cape Breton gave Dad the sword, he also told him how to cure it. "Look now. You put the sword cut side down into the biggest anthill you can find and leave it there for...well now, until it is clean." Several weeks, it seemed, would do the trick. To be sure Dad did it right, he handed him the less-desirable sword that they had hauled behind their boat. "It should be as clean as this, but it will be looking better."
The first Saturday night after we got home, Mom and Dad had some fellow Maritimers over for bridge. The story was told all over again and then Dad invited his friends out to view the much-travelled prize.
The anthill was there, but no trace of the sword! Some daring dog had dug up the most dangerous bone in the district and made off with it and the proof of my story!
The less desirable ivory-tone object sat on a shelf in our bookcase for many years after that mute testimony to our adventure with a sword.