Coming home.

Our province was built, and continues to exist, on the fishery.

Whether you live in Leading Tickles, Ramea or St. John's you are connected and the lifeblood that runs through the fabric of your community, and the economic survival of your community revolves and depends on the vast ocean resources we have as well as the hard work of those who put their lives and safety on the line to and raw material to the wharves.

On Thursday evening, as I sat here in this exact spot at the table, hammering out words on a blank page, my phone buzzed:

"Glenn's boat is missing."

And the terror, the anxiousness, the shaking hands and tightness in the throat felt by anyone who knows someone who puts their life on the line in this industry when they hear those words, sank in.

The familiar dread felt in 2001 when the phone rang and Peggy Lee said, "Darrell isn't home." And just like that two friends and their dad vanished into thin air like they had never existed on the vast expanse of Bonavista Bay.

The horror of the phone call in 2004 when dad turned back to the supper table and said, "The Ryans are in trouble off the Cape." And the next morning surveying the rubble on the beach that was left of a vessel that, when seen weeks earlier, seemed beautiful and invincible. Two men gone.

The anxiousness with another call in 2005 that gave the same story, as the Melina and Keith II went down, the unforgiving ocean swallowing four men so close to home.

All too familiar.

As the daughter of a fish harvester there is not one day when he goes to work that you are not aware that the phone may ring and this time it is not someone else who has been thrust into the waves.

It may not be another family sitting vigil and hoping against the odds that are undoubtedly stacked against any human who battles nature.

That on the other end of the phone there might be someone telling you there is no contact with the people most important to you on a vessel that, tied to the wharf, looms over her berth.

Yet, still not invincible to the force that is the Atlantic ocean.

Being fortunate to work with harvesters in the industry that has filled my heart and soul since the day I was born, and realized that everything we had came from the sea, unfortunately also comes with the tragedy and loss caused by the unforgiving sea.

So we sat vigil as a Union, as an industry, as a province, as the children and relatives and friends of fish harvesters.

The conversations were grim.

Videos and pictures were shared of young men singing and laughing on the deck of the vessel, working hardily as boxes of turbot sat around them.

"As they steam up the harbour,
You can see their masthead light..."

But there was no light.

There was no mayday.

No communication.

No sign.

Family members begged for dad, son, friend to come home; for captain Carter to bring them home as they knew he was capable.

Nearly every conversation had brought some mention of how dire each passing minute and second looked as there was no communication from the Elite Navigator.

And last night, into the early morning hours that I know everyone has spent awake since hearing the first reports, while chatting about diminishing hope, I opened Facebook and the first message I saw was, "All seven on the Navigator r safe."

Safe.

For moments I know everyone who saw that post sat in silence, shock, dismay.

Good news is not often heard in our industry when such tragedies strike.

Safe.

And since that moment small details have trickled in of a faint handheld red flare seen by the Canadian Coast Guard vessel Teleost who was then able to reach the life raft and bring all seven to safety.

Bravo Zulu.

This industry is full of disaster, heartbreak, and every ounce of anxiety and worry when a vessel is known to be in distress or overdue is felt in the souls of every person in this province.

We are the fishery.

Captain Carter brought his men home and the scene on the wharf in Valleyfield this afternoon will be one the ocean has stolen from so many - but the crew of the Elite Navigator are coming home.

Dads, sons, brothers, friends, are coming home.

And I know last evening the entire province breathed a united sigh of relief as the news circulated. The radio recording from the Placentia Coast Guard will never not give us chills and remind us that the ocean is unforgiving but unites us all, while reminding all of us that next time it could be us.

It will never be you until it is.

To the families and friends of the crew - I hope you could feel the arms of an entire province and industry around you as you waited with bated breath and dread.

Welcome home, boys.

"With their hardy crews and captains,
They're the finest fishermen.
And the girls are all excited,
The longliners are coming in..."

Drive On.

In those first days, when everything was filtered through a lens of intense grief thicker than any shitty Instagram filter, I could not see anything past that exact moment.

No month later.

No six months later.

No five days later.

No later.

And as we filled the Rock House to Dave Whitty, Nick Earle and then the always incredible Matt Mays I still could not see tomorrow.

Matt belted out his usual hits and, like he had been able to hear me the day prior when I said into the empty car, "If he plays 'Drive On' I don't know how I'll get through it," the familiar chords came.

I will never forgot that moment.

Because, in that moment, he looked at me and sang directly, his words gentle but strong:

"There's no fear of losing,
The horizon holds the winning hand.
The rear view plays a movie
You never gotta see again..."

And later that night when I got the opportunity to talk to him, one-on-one, he said he did sing it directly and to me and hoped I would carry the message and live by it into the next days:

"Everybody seems to want the same thing,
Blinded by the light of a diamond ring.
Well look at you you've got too much to prove,
Too many songs to sing..."

There have been many song sang since.

A lot of laters that I did not anticipate, a lot of those movies in the rear view that I would argue I do have to sometimes see and mostly when I need a reminder.

It can be hard to even know where you are if you cannot see where you have come from, come back from.

And some of those rear view movies will keep repeating over and over because PTSD is a bitch and there is not much that can be done abut that other than to turn down the volume.

"There would be no good sunsets
If it wasn't for the rain.
You can't have true love
Without pain..."

There will always be pain, that ache that is chronic and only exists in those who know what it feels like to have your heart ripped out of your chest and be left with a gaping, open, empty chasm.

It is like the ache in that bone you broke when you were rolling down the hill at age six and now, 36 years later you know when it is about to rain.

Dull, deep, faint but there.

"So you drive a little faster,
'Cause you don't even have a place to go.
You breathe a quiet Hallelujah,
And let it all fall..."

But, I have learned it is possible to live both with that ache and to harness it; to carry it but also use loss and grief as a driver to ensure what you do have - these new, good sunsets - are appreciated and never taken for granted.

Sunrises, sunsets and all of the days to come are visible now - all of the things that seemed so impossible, out of reach - the "never agains."

There are still never agains - but that is okay. There are now soons, eventuallys and whens.

And all of those nevers I declared so defiantly have shrunken into maybes.

With one big change of mind and heart.

"Organically," he said when describing how it grew.

I like that.

Beautifully, as well.

Beauty out of destruction and devastation.

So many songs to sing, right, Matt?

"So drive on into the moonless night,
And just for a second everything is alright.
Drive on and give it all away,
You've got to trust yourself..."

And, for the first time in a long time I trusted myself and I am so, so thankful I did.

Because these last few months and the days, months, years, every single second left to come indicate something great; something grown from the devastation left by others.

"Let yourself turn into something else,
Feel yourself fall into the great white open..."

I am liking who I feel I have, and am, turning into.

I love the person he makes me feel I am and can be.

I am glad I shook away the nevers.

So, as I sit here watching the clouds darken the room, eyes open and the chasm in my chest a little more fuller every day, thanks Matt.

Thanks for the advice and the lessons.

And I will continue to do exactly that.

Drive on.

The Story.

"All of these lines across my face,
Tell you the story of who I am..."

I am alive again.

Aware.

It is funny how one minute you can be in a hole, wondering if you simply have to accept and take up residency in the ditch, and the next there is so much light and things are not quite so dire.

Sitting in this airport in Charlottetown after a morning where I was engaged, laughing with colleagues and for once seeing everything basked in the sunshine, I realize how long it has been since I have truly felt like a living being.

These past two and a half years (well, two years and three months if we are being exact) have been torture.

Hellish.

I have simply existed.

I have woken, breathed, worked, carried myself through - but not lived.

It sure is something to wake every morning and the only thought in your head is getting through to go to sleep and do it all again tomorrow.

And for two years and god knows how many days, that is what I did.

Everything in splinters.

"But these stories don't mean anything,
If you've got no one to tell them to,
It's true..."

I have said for many years that hockey is therapy, hockey has saved me and without my hockey family I do not know how I would have pushed through so much.

And so, how fitting that it is hockey that has brought me the reason to live again?

The reason to breathe?

The reason to find myself daydreaming while looking at a picture and getting absolutely lost in the happiness and absolute ridiculousness that has brought me, us, here?

It sure is something, that fate.

It is quite a feeling when you emerge from the wreckage of what was your life and survey the landscape that is left.

"You see the smile that's on my mouth,
It's hiding the words that don't come out..."

For so long I stared at the rubble and did not have the energy to drag myself, my way, through it in an attempt to find whatever was on the other side.

For so long I did not want to.

To be honest, it is very easy to sit amongst the damage and just be.

The difficulty lies in movement -

Movement forward.

Movement progresses and movement leaves something behind.

I did not, do not, want to leave my previous life behind.

But, I have realized that I can move and carry it with me, like callouses and scars, evidence of hard work.

And I will not leave it all behind - I will leave claw marks on it all as I go.

Because, as difficult as it all has been, as hellish and cruel as this life and world are, it all has made me - this.

And my god if I am not feeling damn good about moving into this next phase of this living.

With him.

He who accepts all of my scars and complications. I find all of his beautiful, too.

And though there are times when I look at myself and wonder how and why anyone would ever want to crack me open and see what I am, who I am, exactly what has poisoned everything for me to the point where I never felt I would live again - I am accepting that this beautiful soul has done just that.

And he is still around despite knowing and seeing the ugliness of it all.

Every time I take a breath now I am more conscious than ever that I am alive and there is more to every day than just making it to the time to close my eyes.

"And it's true,
That I was made for you..."

I'm here.

It has been a while, hive.

The therapeutic space where I could write, open my wounds and let them bleed, became a target, as most things do these days.

And so I bled in silence, for the most part of the past year or more.

Thank you to everyone who continued to reach out. Your messages always let me know that in the dismal reality that is every day on this cesspool we call social media there also exist many lights who shine through the cracks and keep breath in struggling lungs, at times when we feel like we are drowning.

So, here I am again -

Eyes open, wounds cauterized, a semblance of the person I used to be but, given what I know now about grief, loss, recovery and love - I do not want the person I was back.

And I am beginning to love who the woman is who emerged from the rubble, the one who was collateral damage.

"Nothing is the same, everything is a better change,
Sometimes I see silence in your eyes..."

Change.

That taboo concept that everyone both dreads and welcomes in the same breath.

So much has changed.

So many walls have come down.

"Let it all crash down,
When it ends, it begins with you..."

And when your eyes open for what feels like the first time in 2.5 years, there stands the person who helped carry you along more than he will ever know, even through his own hurt.

There for the beginning, the end and the new beginning.

Constant.

In retrospect, life is funny, that.

The kind, gentle soul who was always there to chat, laugh, talk about life and always try to help.

He helped and helps more than I can even put into text on this page.

I see a road forward now - a beaten pathway lined with the remnants of a fight to survive and be, cut through with pain and anger, and pure spite.

And it looks long but, in the grand scheme of things, it is but another trail to conquer.

I know we can and we will. 

This world seems a bit clearer now; the days brighter, the night times not so scary.

The monsters are no longer at the door.

And there is hope.

Every day I breathe it in and am thankful for having him in my life; not just for now, but for the years prior and for the years to come.

My bright light.

And in his eyes, his smile, his arms there is so much promise, so much to come. 

So much love.

I am sitting in this airport, the one where the worst moment on my life happened, and I feel peace.

Finally.

Finally.

These past few months have been a whirlwind and the days continue to be. When the dust settles, there he is.

"You took my life, turned it around,
You put my feet back on the ground.

I owe you, eternally..."

And this love - born from pain, hurt and pure devastation - means more to me than anything in the world.

I will make sure he knows every day.