It Takes Two. Joanne Michael

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      Abby looked skeptical. “Because I’m a scientist? You’re kidding, right? What does my being a scientist have to do with anything?”

      Marc sighed. “It’s complicated. I’m not sure I can explain it.”

      “Give it a try,” Abby said. “Remember, I’m a scientist, I’m pretty clever.”

      Her tone might be teasing, but Marc knew his words had rankled. “Okay, look out there and tell me what you see.”

      “Out where?”

      “There, in the bay.”

      Abby was quiet a moment. “I see boats, some people kayaking, a couple of buoys—that’s about it.”

      “And farther out? In the Saint Lawrence?”

      “Not much. Maybe…” She squinted into the distance. “Is that a container ship way out there?”

      Marc nodded, “Time was, you’d have looked out there and seen a dozen, maybe two dozen trawlers and fishing boats anchored in that bay. The rest of the fleet would be farther out, heading for home.”

      He turned to look directly at her. “There were more than sixteen hundred licensed fishermen along the North Shore in the early nineteen-nineties—on the north shore alone. Must have been another four thousand going up to Gaspé and the Magdalen Islands. That meant almost three thousand boats going after snow crab, cod, eel, redfish, shrimp and lobster and almost five thousand processing jobs back on shore. Now look at it. It’s deserted out there.”

      “What happened?” Abby asked.

      “Scientists happened. Scientists and their studies and reports and quotas.” Marc fairly spat the last word out. “Used to be a man could make a good living, support his family from the water. Not anymore. Got to be the size of the permitted catches didn’t even pay the costs of going out. So, over the years, the fishing industry pretty much died.”

      “You can’t seriously be blaming the researchers for that? They don’t set the policies or make the laws.”

      “You’re right, they don’t,” Marc agreed. “But they sure as hell have a lot of influence over the people in Ottawa who do. All I know is, every time someone shows up to do another damned study, we see a whole new batch of regulations telling us what we can and can’t do.”

      Abby tried to reason with him. “But those regulations are necessary to preserve the species,” she said. “Over-fishing, pollution, destruction of habitat—those are the real reasons drastic actions had to be taken.”

      Marc could feel the familiar anger rising in him, but he knew he had to speak. “I understand about all that. In fact, if anyone took the time to ask them, they’d find out most fishermen do, too. They know more about these waters than any college kid ever will. What they don’t understand is why, when they’re not the ones to blame for the problems, they’re the ones paying for them.”

      “Meaning?”

      “Ever see a Russian factory ship?” Marc asked, and Abby shook her head. “Giant monster of a ship. One of those babies will haul in more fish in a week than the old Tadoussac fleet took in a season. As for the pollution and habitat destruction, take a look at your own government. But I guess it’s just easier to go after the little guys.”

      “There’s a lot more to it than all that,” Abby said.

      “You’re right. Because now this generation of fishermen and sailors have their own regs to deal with. Those boats out there? Most of them are charters for Saguenay River tours or whale watching. But thanks to a bunch of scientists, they’re about to be regulated out of business.”

      “How so?” Abby asked.

      “Our season’s a short one up here. The nine hundred of us living in Tadoussac have four months—June to October—to make enough money to last the year. But the rules for the guys running the boat tours have made it damn hard for them. Only so many are allowed per square hectare, and they can only get so close to a whale. That sort of thing.”

      “So what’s your answer?”

      “Leave us alone to take care of our river and bay,” Marc said, more loudly than he’d intended. Up ahead, Sylvie and Françoise stopped and turned around.

      Marc took a deep breath, well aware he had no right to wage this verbal attack against Abby. “I’m sorry. I guess I’m just tired of people who don’t even live here telling us how to run our lives.”

      “I can see that.”

      “Da-ad!” Sylvie called. “Hurry up!”

      “We’re coming,” he said, and started walking with Abby. “Look, I know you have a job to do and I respect that, but if you can stand it, here’s a piece of free advice.”

      Abby smiled. “I’m all ears.”

      “While you’re here, take some time to get to know the people. Who knows? You might learn something.”

      ABBY DIDN’T KNOW how to react to Marc’s attack on her profession. Fortunately, she was spared having to say anything thanks to Sylvie. Overjoyed to have an audience, the little girl kept up a constant stream of chatter during the rest of the ten-minute walk to the restaurant.

      As Sylvie pointed out the various homes and businesses and where different side streets led, Abby mulled over Marc’s words. In her undergraduate work in marine biology and doctoral program in bioacoustics, she had come across numerous accounts of the decline of the Saint Lawrence fisheries, but she had to admit that Marc’s was the first version she had heard from the fishermen’s perspective.

      Should she respond to his accusations? It was probably better to remain silent. She probably wouldn’t be seeing him much this summer anyway.

      Sylvie announced they had reached Pierrette’s and led the way up the stairs.

      Marc held the door for the women and Sylvie made a beeline for a table in the corner. “Can I get some poutine, Dad?” she asked before the adults had a chance to take their seats.

      “How about we get a large order and share?” Marc said, sitting down next to his daughter. “You want to get in on this?” he asked Abby, who was seated opposite him.

      “Sure, okay. What’s poutine?”

      “What’s poutine?” Sylvie repeated in astonishment. “Everyone knows what poutine is!”

      “Sylvie!” Marc and Françoise said in unison.

      Sylvie picked up a menu and held it in front of her face. “I know, I know. Think it but don’t say it.”

      “Poutine is a kind of French fries,” Marc said, a grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.

      “I thought French fries were pommes frites,” Abby said.

      “In Québec, poutine is our own special kind of fries,” Marc told her.

      Abby shrugged. “Sounds good to me.”

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