As snowdrifts piled up outside Hollett’s Burin house, three men walked up the path. Merchant Frank LeFeuvre came from Bull’s Cove. He was followed by Albert Grant of Corbin and Captain William Foote who came from Stepaside.

As the men settled into the parlour and were served tea by Hollett’s quiet little maid, the magistrate read his draft report on the district south of Burin.

The men nodded solemnly and Albert Grant spoke up.

“Make sure you mention that Joshua Mayo’s house is gone,” he offered. “His and Sophia’s. The first wave ripped the house off its foundation and broke away the porch. It tore great holes in the roof, too. Now there’s a big tribe of them homeless.”

Hollett picked up his pen and raised his bushy eyebrows.

“There’s the Mayo children,” Grant continued. “Morgan, Irene, and Daisy, and there’s the four Moulton orphans who live with them, Annie and Tryphena, and the boys, little William and Bert. They lost all their food and Josh’s Hubbard engine is badly damaged, too.”

“Sounds like a very sad case,” Hollett said grimly.

“It is,” Grant nodded. “Those orphans have been through enough already and now this. I believe the family is all split up because there are too many of them to be housed together. It must be hard on those poor children.”

After a minute, Hollett turned his attention to merchant Frank LeFeuvre.

“How did you make out in the tidal wave, Frank? Have you had a chance to assess everything yet?” he asked.

“Well, it was the business that was hurt,” LeFeuvre answered. “Not our home, thanks be to God. But LeFeuvre’s Trading Company took a hit—I’d put the damage at about twenty-one hundred dollars. It’s substantial for us.”

Hollett looked dour. “You’ll need to be back in business for the fishing season,” he said. “The fishermen will need that as much as you do. This brings me to my next topic. There’s been a generous response to our tragedy from all over the country and beyond. We very much need and appreciate all the help we can get. But now Christmas is coming and the New Year will follow. People’s attention will turn from the tidal wave. Besides, human nature being what it is, November 18 will fade from memory soon enough—as good as people are. We have to do something about this.”

He stopped and did a slow turn about the parlour as the men considered his words.

“We still need help,” Albert Grant said. “There’s so much to be done yet.”

Hollett continued. “Yes. So I propose a trip to St. John’s after Christmas to remind the government and the people of the city of our tragedy and the conditions we are still facing. I think that you three gentlemen should accompany me.”

Grant drew back, his eyes wide. LeFeuvre spoke up, “A capital idea, so to speak. A kind of speaking tour of the city.”

“It’s certainly needed,” said Captain Foote. “I don’t know if we’re the right men to go, but you’re on the right track.”

“You might want to bring representatives from farther south, where there’s even worse damage and grief,” Grant said.

Hollett’s face brightened. “Quite right!” he said. “Thank you for your support, gentlemen. We shall agree in principle to the idea and begin planning, then?”

He smiled at their nods.

On January 15, 1930 Magistrate Malcolm Hollett and fisherman Albert Grant sat in the editorial offices of The Daily Newson Duckworth Street in St. John’s. Hollett’s heavy-lidded eyes bored into the editors and stenographers as he listed off the devastation that the tidal wave had wrought: thirty-two houses destroyed; twenty-seven others badly damaged; 144 large dories and one hundred small dories wrecked; and twenty-seven trap boats smashed to pieces. The men around the table gasped as Hollett spoke. This was the first time they had heard the numbers in such blunt form.

“Our people have also lost much of their fishing gear,” Hollett said, speaking slowly. “Gone are forty-seven thousand cotton lines, a hundred and eight herring nets, ninety-four cod nets, thirty caplin seines, and three hundred and fifty six anchors.”

“That isa great deal of gear,” a burly, grey-haired man mused.

“It represents the livelihood of many men like Mr. Grant here,” Hollett said. “And some of the wealth of the country, as you can appreciate.”

“Rope,” Grant said. “We lost over forty thousand fathoms of rope of all sizes.”

“Yes,” said Hollett. “Keep in mind, gentlemen, that while we are most grateful for everything that has been done for us, the government is only taking care of public property. That is, government wharves will be rebuilt at public expense but family flakes and wharves will not. Our immediate requirements are for timber and sticks for wharves, flakes, and stages. We’ve received three carloads from Highland, on the west coast of the island, landed by steamer, and we were so pleased to get it. But, sadly, we need more. I’ve prepared a list of our needs.”

He handed a crisp piece of paper to eager hands. It read:

“We would be so grateful if your newspaper could publish this list,” he added. “It is difficult to distribute the goods we are receiving because so many places are without a wharf or landing stage—Lamaline, Point au Gaul, Taylor’s Bay. There’s only one private wharf at St. Lawrence. But efforts must be made regardless.”

Hollett noted the silence of the editors and how they stared at him. He continued.

“I cannot emphasize how important it is to get the fishermen outfitted for spring. The people of the South Coast are fishermen firstly and lastly and they need to be put in the same position they were in before the disaster.”

Albert Grant nodded. “Yes, we are fishermen. We want to fish.”

That day, the men of Taylor’s Bay put the finishing touches on Charles and Selina Hillier’s house, which had sustained fifty dollars worth of damage in the tidal wave, leaving it open on one side and exposed to the winter elements. Through the South Coast Disaster Committee, fifty thousand feet of lumber had been accumulated. A substantial portion of this had been brought to Taylor’s Bay, a priority as per the instructions of the medical staff who had visited on the Meigle.

After one of Charles’s neighbours hammered in the last nail, he said, “That’s it! She’s done and ready for you to move back into.”

Charles smiled and rubbed his hands in the January cold. He still had a lot of work to do—he had lost his three small boats, stage, and wharf—but this was a start. He looked across the meadow to see Selina and their children, Thomas, Bertram, Junior, Harold, and Freeman, the baby in her arms—his five fine boys. Before the tidal wave, Selina used to talk about wanting a girl; everyday she would tease him about it. Since November 18, she hadn’t mentioned the idea.

Behind her was Robert Bonnell, still ashen-faced from the loss of his wife and child to the waves. His three children came after him. The Bonnells would stay with Charles and Selina until the men of the village could build them a new house.

When the group reached the Hillier house, Selina turned to Robert and said, “This is your home now for as long as you like.”

Charles put his arm around his friend’s shoulder. Robert nodded and crossed the threshold, his little ones trailing after him. Charles and Selina looked at each other. “Poor Robert. I’m so glad we have each other,” she said, giving her husband’s hand a squeeze. Then she looked into his eyes and smiled shyly.

“Maybe we’ll have that girl one day,” she said.

That night in Point au Gaul, David Hipditch lay straight as a board in bed, staring at the plastered ceiling as he usually did until sleep finally overtook him in the wee hours just before dawn. The house— not his own, which was at the bottom of the sea somewhere—was full of people, but there seemed to be some kind of cotton gauze between him and everyone else. All his energy went into keeping it well hidden and showing appreciation for the kindness his in-laws, Nan and her family, were showering on him and Jessie. The faces of his and Jessie’s drowned children never left him: Thomas’ grin; Henry’s dancing eyes; little Elizabeth’s chubby cheeks. He cursed himself for the thousandth time for not being there to save them from the cruel water. He wished he could talk to Jessie but, though she lay at his side every night, her grief bathed her and there was no room for him in it. Since that awful night, she had barely registered his presence. As he did every night, David tried to pray.