That Wasn’t the Plan. Reg Sherren
agreed to resign to make room for him. This time he was unopposed and took his place in the House of Assembly. The Clyde Wells era had begun, and it wouldn’t be long before Newfoundland’s premier was firmly in the spotlight of the entire country.
While all this was going on, another politician quietly came to town, one who would also play a large role on the national stage. His name was Jean Chrétien, and he showed up on the south coast of the island to pay back MHA Dave Gilbert. Gilbert, the member for Burgeo–Bay d’Espoir, was a huge supporter of Chrétien and helped him secure many delegates during Chrétien’s federal leadership drive.
So for a couple days it was just me, Jean Chrétien, cameraman Lloyd Pennell and a chopper pilot flying right across the south coast from Burgeo to Ramea to François and eventually to Bay d’Espoir. On a personal level, Chrétien was a soft-spoken and engaging character. He praised and encouraged me for trying to speak French with him, told me the story about working to get Gros Morne designated as a UNESCO World Heritage Site and impressed me with what seemed a genuine affection for Newfoundland and its people.
But what really impressed me were his skills as a politician and the quick lesson he gave a young journalist. As we were flying into Bay d’Espoir I mentioned to him that it was kind of ironic. In French, Bay d’Espoir means the Bay of Hope. But here the unemployment rate under twenty-one years of age was close to 50 per cent. I mentioned there wasn’t much hope in a number like that. Chrétien exited the chopper and walked into the community centre, where about 150 people were waiting. He got up on the platform and in his endearing Québécois accent began, “You know, in my language dis is Bay d’Espoir, da Bay of ’ope, but since the Mulroney government has come to power in Ottawa, dis is truly Bay Despair!”
His other favourite saying on that trip was, “You know, da biggest difference between me and Brian Mulroney, is dat I only talk out of one side of my mouth.”
Don’t Do That!
It wasn’t all politics. Sometimes there was crime, big crime. As the summer rolled on, another Quebecker flew in, this one a big player in the Montreal mafia’s crime syndicate. There had been a huge hashish drug bust near Clarenville, Newfoundland, at a remote location called Ireland’s Eye. Sixteen tons of hash were seized, at the time the largest drug bust in Canadian history.
The RCMP charged Vito Rizzuto, among others. Vito, also known as Montreal’s Teflon Don, looked the part. At the time, he was considered the most powerful criminal in Montreal, if not Canada. It was said he came to power after participating in the assassination of some renegade mobsters associated with the Bonanno crime family of New York. He and two others, wearing ski masks, apparently shot three of them to death.
I was assigned to cover some preliminary court proceedings at the courthouse in Clarenville. Mr. Rizzuto and his colleagues had flown in for just that occasion. Cameraman Sterling Snow was again with me. Sterling is a tall, lanky fellow with a big walrus moustache. He is also tough as nails and afraid of nothing. We waited outside the court for some sign of action.
Vito and his gang soon arrived. Vito was an imposing, nasty presence, with slicked-back hair and a big hooked nose. He was also immaculately dressed in a long camel-hair coat, silk scarf and fine leather gloves. As he approached, I asked him if he would like to say anything. He smiled and said nothing. Then, as he was passing Sterling, he bent his shoulder into the camera, hitting it. Sterling said, “Jesus, buddy, watch it!”
“Sterling!” I hissed, “forget it.” Thankfully, he did.
The court proceedings dragged on and were eventually adjourned until the afternoon. Nothing to do but eat lunch. With few options, we chose the restaurant at the Holiday Inn up by the highway. As we entered, Vito and his gang walked in right behind us. He nodded politely and there we sat, elbow to elbow, eating club sandwiches with the head of the Montreal mafia.
The charges against Montreal’s Teflon Don eventually slipped right off him. They were dropped after the RCMP was caught trying to illegally wiretap another restaurant table, this one belonging to Rizzuto’s lawyers.
I Do
Through it all, Pam was a real trooper. Her coming to Newfoundland was a big ask, a huge ask. She had put her own successful career on hold, not to mention that apartment by the beach in Kitsilano, Vancouver (I know if I don’t mention it, she will).
Other friends were getting married, having children. I had stalled long enough. But I guess we both knew that if we were going to figure it out, we would have to be in the same province, same city, and yes, the same house.
We figured it out.
In the fall of 1989, we were married. October 7 was a beautiful day in Brigus, Newfoundland, almost as beautiful as the bride herself. Twenty-two degrees with barely a cloud in the sky. We were married in the Anglican Church down by the sea, and we never looked back.
Pam was now getting some part-time work at the CBC and things were rolling right along. At the CBC Christmas party that year, we won the big prize, a trip for two to South America. (They knew how to throw a party in Newfoundland!) Then in January we learned we were going to have a baby. It appeared that 1990 was going to be quite a year.
We decided, considering the pregnancy, South America wasn’t a good idea, so we opted for Florida instead. There we were in February, lying on St. Pete Beach, when I heard on the radio that the space shuttle Atlantis was to be launched that evening. I said to Pam, “I think I’ll go.” She chose to stay on the beach and off I went. Driving to the Kennedy Space Center in our rental car, I realized I needed a plan (finally). I decided the plan should be not just to watch the launch, but to get up close and personal. I pulled into a Kmart and picked up a notepad as well as a small cassette tape recorder.
As I was nearing the Cape Canaveral Air Force Station, I spotted a local television van up ahead and decided to follow it. It took me right to the main security gate and media security. In I walked with my handy Kmart recorder and my driver’s licence, announcing I was from the Canadian Broadcasting Corporation and I had arrived to cover the launch of the space shuttle. They said I would need some way to prove I was there for work. “What do you require?” I asked, and was told that a fax from my office confirming my assignment should do it. I went outside to the phone booth on the corner and called the St. John’s newsroom collect. Producer Kevin Norman answered the phone. I said, “Kevin, can you get a piece of paper with our CBC logo on it and fax a message to this crowd here at the Kennedy Space Center saying I’m on assignment?”
“Lord Jesus, Reg, what are you up to now?” Kevin said.
“No big deal,” I replied. “Can you do it?”
Twenty minutes later, the fax arrived, and I was in. Can you imagine attempting that today? No passport, no media ID, just a cassette recorder, a driver’s licence and a fax from the newsroom. It was even more incredible when you consider it was also a highly secretive defence department flight mission. I guess I didn’t come across as much of a threat. I drove into the compound. CBS, ABC and CBS all had buildings on site. F-18s were buzzing overhead as I stood down by the big digital clock, the one they always show on TV, with the shuttle lit up a few kilometres in the distance.
As I stood there with newspaper reporters from the Wichita Eagle and the Tallahassee Democrat, the digital clock started to count down. Then, at T minus 31 seconds, the mission was scrubbed because of weather.
After that, technicians drained liquid oxygen from the big bomb they didn’t get to light up. All that manoeuvring and I didn’t get to see the big show. When I got back to my vehicle, it and every other car in the lot was covered with a fine white powder. A paper under the windshield warned not to use water to get rid of it, but only to wipe it off with a dry cloth. Who knows what exactly that stuff was. Good thing it