The G3 Marquis approaches Hamilton Harbour. (Photo: Thomas Fricke/Canadian Geographic)
The crew hail from a variety of hometowns across Ontario, Quebec and the Atlantic provinces, with some originally from farther afield — Ukraine, Philippines and Barbados. Five come from Newfoundland, two of them from the village of Burnt Islands. From a population of about 600, nearly half of the men from Burnt Islands are working the Great Lakes, says islander Calvin Chaulk.
What do these diverse crew members have in common? Often it’s a strong connection with the water. Like Berry, Captain Les Comrie sailed from childhood, in his case on Lake Ontario’s Bay of Quinte. Many of the guys from the Atlantic provinces are the sons and grandsons of sailors. One of the Burnt Islanders, ordinary seaman Art Seymour, was even born on a boat. Jolliffe, the captain, was in the naval reserve. Even before he first visited Georgian College’s marine studies program with the reserves, he had decided to make lake boats his career. “I’ve never looked back,” he says.
They are away a lot, six or seven months a year, but with email, Skype and cellphones, the isolation isn’t as bad as it once was. Jolliffe still remembers the days when, once a ship had tied up, “You’d have a long lineup standing in front of a pay phone in the rain yelling at the guy ahead to hurry up.” Unlike going to work in Fort McMurray, Alta., say, there’s no need to relocate to work on the Lakes. The company flies you to and from anywhere in Canada. (The pay is good too — junior crew can make around $60,000 a season, a captain more than $150,000.)
And yet, life on board still feels very separate from life on shore. This is particularly true at night, especially on a long run, such as north on Lake Huron after leaving the relatively tight confines of the St. Clair River. Around midnight, there might be three people awake on board — two on the bridge, one other several decks down in the engine control room. The auto-pilot is on. The wheelsman and the officer on watch pace slowly back and forth, looking out into the darkness and checking the radar and the chart on the display screen. They also keep an eye on the ship’s course, which shows a scattering of triangles in the vicinity, each a ship. Roll over one with your finger, and a popup box tells you the vessel’s name, type and size. It’s quiet on the bridge, pitch black outside and dimly lit inside. It’s oddly soothing — if you aren’t responsible for just over 24,500 tonnes of lake freighter, that is.