Good thing, because with more than a decade between us, there were musical differences to consider. 

As my dearest flipped through the jackets there was little shock as I thoughtfully, though equally enthusiastically, vetoed a few of his ‘old time’ musical offers. 

We quickly came to a compromise, deciding he’d pick the first listen through of the evening and I’d get to select the next, and so on, over our mealtime adventure. His first pick? The Platters, Remember When, and we sipped our first partridgeberry cocktail to Smoke Gets in Your Eyes. 

How or Why

While before my time, it was a grand selection and there was little complaint. Still, as delighted as I was by the audio ambiance, the second that old but still familiar ‘scratchy scratchy’ white-noise began, signifying the end of the record, I was on my feet. Rock ’81, it was, and I couldn’t wait to hear me some my-time tunes. “Get at me, Stars on 45,” I tormented as I lifted the arm off The Platters to replace it with my first pick of the evening. There was something about the smug – yet throughly amused – look on my dearest’s face that made me pause mid-album change over. 

“Wa?” I asked. “My selection isn’t over,” he replied. I challenged with the evidence: “Look,” I said, pointing at the player for emphasis. “The hand/arm/thingy is at the end. It’s done. My turn,” said a confident I. He looked at me with a smirk and I knew instantly that I was wrong, though for the life of me I couldn’t figure out how or why. My dearest left me pondering my plight for a few more moments before putting me out of my misery. “Pam, albums have two sides,” he said simply. The light instantly went on and the at my expense laughter – well earned and much deserved – began and continued on and off all evening. Funny, yes, but also a good lesson. I mean, I wasn’t that young. 

At just a smidgen past 50, I had enjoyed a a few record purchases before CDs came around in my early teens. From Loverboy to ABBA’s Greatest Hits, I swirled a few vinyl in my day. 

While a somewhat cute reminder at how quickly we forget, adapt, and move on, it did get me thinking more profound thoughts as well. From how we listen to music to how we communicate, things have certainly changed and while we’ve come a long way, the evening’s exchange was also a reminder that it’s wise to never forget or take things for granted either. 

In the 40 years since the change over from vinyl to CD, much has happened that we should never forget. From the cod moratorium to the devastating loss of the Ocean Ranger, ’82 was a rough year on the people of this province. In ’85, the Universal Helicopter crash claimed six lives, one of them the father of a friend and playmate. 

Jump up & Change

While time passed and the world advanced, those losses are still felt. The Ryan’s Commander. The Sarah Anne. Pop’s Pride. Cougar. All past tragedies that left a lasting imprint on future generations. 

Four decades isn’t a long time when you’re my age, though it’s a lifetime for others. I clued in to that when a friend mentioned she had lost her grandfather on the Ocean Ranger. Curious, I asked her about him. 

Her reply? “I don’t know much. I never met him.” Of course. In her early thirties, she wasn’t born when he passed. Another ‘two-sides’ moment for yours truly. The lesson, if there is one? Pause. Reflect. Remember. Live, but don’t rush this life. 

While we’re all anxious to move on – particularly in these pandemic times – and, like in my case that night, we’re often ready to jump up and change the soundtrack, take the time to listen and enjoy that ‘B’ side. You just might be glad you did.

Pam Pardy, The Herald’s Managing Editor, can be reached by emailing pghent@nfldherald.com

I knew something of the tradition of St. Valentine’s Day, but the words would not come easily. It’s because thoughts in mid-February in Newfoundland and Labrador will always and forever for me be dominated, not by Valentines, but by the ghost of the Ocean Ranger.

It just will not go away. The passage of the years has not softened the blow or healed what is still a terrible open wound. I know why. The sinking of the Ranger is a bitter symbol really of what a struggle life in Newfoundland and Labrador has been for those trying to make a living from the Atlantic.

We try to forget what a brutal and unforgiving ocean it can be. The loss of the Ranger was an obscene tragedy of the sea that took its place in a litany of tragedies that includes The Newfoundland Disaster, the loss of the Southern Cross, the   Blue Wave disaster, and the Cougar helicopter crash. 

There are hundreds of other terrible things that have stolen lives from us. It all  reminds us, not just of events themselves, but of who we are; trying to make a living and get by out here on a rock in the middle of an unforgiving ocean. We all know in our hearts despite our cheerful disposition and “love of place” there is a frightening price that’s paid for fish, seals, or oil. 

An act of God?

That price is not measured in dollars alone. There’s a human price that has been paid down through the years and centuries. It’s a price without calculation to which every family in Newfoundland and Labrador is connected. 

As I look at the list of disasters, I am also convinced that every one of them need not have happened. We throw around phrases like “act of God” and things like that, but those are words from a book of laws. 

I know what happened to the Ocean Ranger and in its simplest form it is that a wave in a terrible storm broke a porthole in the ballast control room. It short circuited the system that kept the rig on an even keel and the system failed. The expertise to fix it was not on board the Ocean Ranger that February night and it should have been. That’s the fault of people other than the men of the Ocean Ranger.

It’s true that almost everyone in Newfoundland and Labrador knew someone lost on the Ranger. I knew one who was a school mate of mine. On February nights when the winds are high, I think of him and the rest of the crew of the Ocean Ranger and I say a prayer.       

NTV’s Jim Furlong can be reached by emailing: jfurlong@ntv.ca

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fgys4wbWSqM&t=4s

I was watching television when the telephone rang. It was Sunday night, I was tired, the sitcom was boring, and the last thing I’d expected or wanted was a phone call about work. 

I was 25, a rookie television reporter with NTV and I was about to be thrust into one of the most tragic events in Canadian maritime history.

The caller on the phone that night had something very important to tell me — something scary that had happened on the tail end of his two weeks offshore. 

Sometimes news comes to you that way — tips and documents in brown paper envelopes. Sometimes it’s a voice at the other end of the telephone. Someone who doesn’t want their name used, but who wants to get a story out there.

An Anonymous Caller

It was no mystery to me how the caller knew where to find me. I won’t say why. He wanted anonymity then. It seems appropriate, even now.  

Anyway, I settled in and listened. What the caller had to say was astounding. Between held breaths I peppered him with the questions that needed to be asked — wrote furiously on a paper napkin until I had enough information. Then I hung up.

It was a huge story, and it did need to be investigated. I decided I’d begin my work first thing in the morning Monday. I’d need a couple of days to flush it out, and then run the piece on the six o’clock show — maybe Wednesday or Thursday of that week. 

My news director would make the final call on that. It was exactly eight days before the Ocean Ranger oil rig sank and 84 men were lost at sea.

The facts that surround the sinking of the Ocean Ranger are seared into the collective consciousness of Newfoundlanders and Labradorians. A fierce North Atlantic storm battered the rig for hours before a rogue wave smashed through a port hole in one of the rig’s legs, soaking the ballast control system. From that point on the rig was doomed. A list developed and technicians who thought they were fixing the problem, actually made it worse.

The radio communications between the rig and Mobil Oil’s St. John’s base were ominous. Mobil’s rig superintendent listened as a voice far out to sea reported at 1 a.m. that the rig was listing badly. It was a grim message to receive from an oil rig, hung off and riding it out at the epicenter of a weather bomb. A brutal winter storm was producing winds of up to 90 knots and waves five stories high. 

Mobil’s emergency response team was called in and the coast guard was notified. It was shortly after, that a second radio message arrived — a message that would send chills through Mobil’s Atlantic Place radio operations centre. “There will be no further radio communications from the Ocean Ranger. We are going to lifeboat stations,” it said. 

Later that Monday morning, during a news conference at the Holiday Inn in St. John’s, a bleary-eyed Steve Romanski, Mobil’s manager of east coast operations said, “that was the last message we got from the Ranger.”

The truth is the Ocean Ranger story actually began days earlier while the rig was still safe — the men on board working their shifts, or in their berths or maybe watching the same bad television I was watching when that phone call came to my home. That phone call eight days earlier from a caller who wanted to tell me a story.

An Eerie Silence

It had happened the day before, while the man was still on board finishing out his two weeks ‘on.’ The man said he was wrapping up an all-nighter and was returning to his bunk at daybreak when he saw the first sign of trouble. It was as simple as the small privacy curtain hanging from his bunk. Curtains don’t normally hang sideways, but this one was — leaning way out there at a near right angle. It meant the rig had to be listing — and listing badly.  I continued to listen.

The rig was a dynamically positioned floating structure prone to rolling and pitching with the movement of the sea. When it dipped, it normally bounced back, when it rolled, it usually stabilized a few seconds later. Not this time.

My contact was worried. “This time it didn’t come back,” he said. A few moments later the alarm sounded and he was off to the lifeboat station.

An eerie silence engulfed the Ocean Ranger that fair-weather morning in February. Silence replaced the “racket” that was a constant reminder that work never stopped on an exploration oil rig. When my contact arrived at the lifeboat station he was met by other crewmembers, several of whom were lightly dressed as if they’d just jumped from their bunks. Some had no lifejackets, no survival suits. Confusion and fear on their faces as they waited for further instructions. What happened next was another indictment of evacuation procedures on board one of the largest drilling rigs in the world. The engine on the lifeboat wouldn’t start. As the rig continued to list, the crewmembers gathered at that lifeboat station, waited anxiously for a second alarm that would mean “abandon the rig.”  

It didn’t come. I continued to listen.

Reaction was Swift

That night, the Ocean Ranger story had a happier ending. The rig was eventually made right and life returned to normal at the J-34 Hibernia well. The man on the other end of the phone that Sunday evening was thankful to be back on dry land again. The roulette of scheduling meant he would live. The story generated by that phone call was over length, not the usual buck and a half (one minute and 30 seconds) that television news stories usually ran. There were artist’s sketches of a listing rig, and crew members running to the lifeboat station. 

There was an interview with the head of the newly minted Newfoundland Petroleum Directorate. The listing incident was news to Steve Milan, even though strict guidelines at that time demanded the NPD be informed of any offshore ‘incidents.’ Odeco Drilling, the rig’s New Orleans owners, claimed there was never anything to worry about. 

A company spokesman was interviewed over the phone and declared the list was a routine occurrence, necessary so workers could carry out maintenance on one of the rig’s giant pontoons. 

The story went to air on NTV’s 6:00 o’clock newscast on Thursday, Feb. 11th and reaction to it was swift. Mobil Oil wasn’t impressed. 

A spokesperson called to complain that the story was essentially a piece of fear mongering sensationalism which had needlessly alarmed family and friends of Ocean Ranger crewmembers.

Taking the High Ground

 It was the kind of bluff and bluster that PR flaks are paid to dish out. That’s part of the game. So for most of that Friday I clucked my tongue and claimed the professional high ground. How dare they criticize a solid piece of fair, balanced and worthwhile television journalism.  Then the doubt began to set in.

Had I gone too far? Had Odeco been above board in its account of the listing incident? Was it part of routine maintenance? Had Mobil Oil’s denunciation of the story been righteous and justified? Had I sewn fear in the minds of loved ones in the name of questionable journalism?

I thought about all of this. In fact I brooded over the possibilities for an entire weekend. Then on Sunday, a storm hit — a vicious winter storm that rattled windows and laid the landscape thick with snow. That night, about 175 miles out to sea, 84 brave souls felt their unsinkable rig list again. They raced to the lifeboat stations and some of them at least launched into the killing North Atlantic. This time, the rig didn’t come back and hours later the Ocean Ranger disappeared beneath the surface of the cold black water.

Waves and wind killed those men. They were nature’s culpability in the tragic sinking of the Ocean Ranger. Man was to blame too. A subsequent inquiry said mistakes were made at many levels. From the ballast control room on that stormy night, to governments and an industry that still had a lot to learn about safety and evacuation procedures aboard offshore oil rigs. 

The oil and gas industry and the politicians would have years to try and make sense of it all. Reporters had until the next deadline.

No Survivors

It was a sunny day on Monday, Feb. 15th. At the Holiday Inn in St. John’s where the world’s media and industry officials had gathered, the mood was as black as soot as Mobil Oil’s president stood stone faced in the glare of television lights and began to speak.

“It is my very, very sad duty to tell you officially that the Ocean Ranger is lost. There were 84 people aboard and at this point in time we certainly can not hold out much hope for survivors.” 

The worst had happened. The room went silent. Mason paused a second to allow the weight of his announcement to find its place. “On behalf of all the employees of Mobil I’d like to express my very deepest sympathy for the wives and families of the men on board.”

It was an unprecedented maritime tragedy. One of the largest oil rigs in the world was gone — swallowed up by a North Atlantic storm in the dark of night. There were no survivors. There were no bodies — yet. And unbelievably, there was nothing to suggest the cause of the rig’s disappearance, except for a pair of ominous radio messages from the doomed drilling platform.

Command Centre

The story flashed around the world, setting off a stampede of news people towards St. John’s from some of the finest journalist organizations on the planet. 

NTV’s newsroom at Buckmaster’s Circle became the command centre for at least a dozen reporters, producers and cameramen representing heavyweight networks like ABC, CTV, and others. Harried pros sprang into action. 

There were elements to gather — things that tell the story. The grief, the blame. The hopelessness of the recovery effort as ships, and aircraft converged on a patch of ocean revealing oil rig debris and sadly an overturned lifeboat. 

I still remember someone’s interview with Captain Michael Clarke, an air, search and rescue specialist who was aboard the first helicopter to reach the scene at daybreak. His account of the snow storm still raging as they made a desperate attempt to retrieve bodies from 40 and 50 foot seas. ‘Lights on the water’ was a phrase that I haven’t forgotten — a witness describing tiny flashing lights on the life vests of the dead as they rose and fell on rolling waves.

Then there was Robert St. Aubin — another Ocean Ranger crewman who was on board eight days earlier when the rig listed that first time and the alarm was sounded. St. Aubin confirming what my guy had told me on the phone — that people showed up with no life preservers when they arrived at the lifeboat station — and that the boat’s engine was dead. 

The media were fully involved now — racing to gather the story’s elements, looking for the hooks and angles — to satisfy their editorial masters in Toronto, and New York and all points in between. Canadian and American radio producers from places I had never heard of were calling — begging for voice reports on the sinking of the Ocean Ranger. The Americans wanted to know where Newfoundland was — what was a semi-submersible oil rig? 

How in the hell could you sink one? Could you give us 30 seconds over the phone for our next newscast?

A Dark Anniversary

How could anyone wrap up the Ocean Ranger disaster in 30 seconds? Forty years later, the story is still untold in its entirety. The truth is the tragedy still haunts and hurts. For family members of those lost souls the dark anniversary must still bring the burdens of pain, regret and anger. Maybe all three are an inseparable price to be paid for a family’s memories.

Forty years later, I can still remember the story I filed on Monday, Feb. 15, 1982 — the day the Ocean Ranger sank. With the ocean behind me, I stood with my cameraman rolling, and — word for word — closed the story this way. 

“For as long as Newfoundlanders have taken to their boats they have always taken with them the chances they would not return. But those odds have worsened now, as seagoing life embraces oil and gas activity — and as fishing boats are joined by oil rigs offshore.”

After four decades in broadcasting, the last 15 on NTV, the man with the quintessential news voice is signing off. The March 4th show will be his final from the desk, dropping the curtain on a distinguished career.

It might surprise many to know that Glen Carter’s poised, polished voice did not come completely naturally. He cultivated it as a tool of the trade. In fact, Carter fashioned a renowned, esteemed career without any real formal training, instead earning success the old-fashioned way – hands on and hard work.

From a wide-eyed 19-year-old copy boy in 1976, Carter would commit his adult life to the craft – no emeritus status from higher learning but instead a spot on his audience’s dean’s list. His colleagues would happily afford him a doctorate.

Master of His Craft

Carter is a master of his craft and the anchor chair afforded him a front row seat to life, from tragedy to triumph. He’s reliable and, although predictability can be boring for many, the 65-year-old thrives on routine. 

You can set your watch to his daily arrival, his brown bag lunch, the crunch of his afternoon apple and his usual list of news chores. The trademark white dress shirt is a uniform and, well, so is his steady, measured approach to news.

“Retirement can be difficult because of the people you’ll no longer see every day, and because of missing the job’s challenges and rewards,” said Carter in a philosophical mood, “but, those relationships don’t disappear, nor does the sense of accomplishments that goes along with the job. They go on.”

There’s much more to Carter than the trusted voice you hear every night. He’s a family man, an award-winning three-time novelist, a friend to many and a mentor and colleague to fellow reporters.

“I call Glen ‘The Colonel.’ He’s the master of the ship, the steady hand that guides us and the rational voice in a world of chaos,” says co-anchor and long-time friend Toni-Marie Wiseman. 

“We all know that he’s brilliant and a master story-teller with the quintessential anchorman tone. But he is also humble, easy-going and doesn’t like being the center of attention. He does enjoy being part of a good team and he’s helped mentor and develop the strongest and closest team I’ve ever worked with throughout my career here at NTV.”

He’s approachable, quick-witted and has an incredible sense of humor. But don’t let his easy-going manner fool you. He is fiercely passionate about journalism, how a story is assembled and delivered to the audience.

“Sometimes it’s tough telling the stories that don’t have happy endings,” Carter says. “But there’s comfort in doing something that is important and valued … and hopefully appreciated.”

‘One-of-a-Kind Talent’

NTV colleagues are crushed to see him go but thankful for the opportunity to learn from a journalism giant. His fingerprints are all over the show. He edits news scripts and offers sage advice with each sentence. 

The Glen Carter you see on TV sets across Canada is truly an example of the tip of the iceberg metaphor. Much of what he is, and provides, is beneath the surface.

“I couldn’t have asked for a better learning experience than watching Glen anchor the news. He’s a one-of-a-kind talent in the industry,” says Michael Connors, who will replace Carter on the desk. “His experience working in different TV newsrooms all across Canada has been so valuable to us over the years. It’ll be a big loss not having him around, just to be able to draw on his knowledge whenever we need it.”

One of the most trusted names in broadcasting, his impeccable 40 year journalism career has endeared him as one of the all-time greats in his profession. For decades – much of it as anchor of the award-winning NTV Evening Newshour – he has guided viewers through the political, economic and cultural events that have shaped not only the province, but the nation.

“Glen has always been a most remarkable journalistic talent. From his rookie year covering the Ocean Ranger tragedy, to interviewing Prime Ministers, Premiers and ordinary newsmakers for decades, his integrity and humanity has shown through,” says SCI president and friend Scott Stirling, who had a big influence on his career. 

“Last year Glen was awarded the Lifetime Journalism awards both regionally and nationally and NTV celebrates Glen’s retirement from the anchor desk. And we’re thrilled that he will still contribute to NTV news specials periodically for his faithful followers. He is a real gentleman, a man of honour, and I respect and salute him.”

Sound of the News Wire

Carter’s career at NTV is without precedent. Co-anchor of the province’s most-watched show, he’s best known at the helm of its flagship show, The NTV Evening Newshour, helping transform the program into Newfoundland and Labrador’s most-watched television show.

From the moment he began his first news job as a copy boy for the then Evening Telegram, Carter was seduced by the sound of the news wire. His job with the newspaper led eventually to a career in television news and postings in St. John’s, Halifax, Ottawa and Calgary. NTV, though, is where it began. He broke into the broadcast business in ’80 with NTV.

As an award-winning reporter, he’s produced compelling television on everything from the G-8 summit of world leaders to the heartbreak of sea and air disasters. He’s a consummate storyteller who believes the best stories are about real people and real lives. 

His sensitive coverage of the province’s worst marine disaster in 1982, where 84 lives were lost on the Ocean Ranger, remains one of the toughest stories he’s had to tell. Known for his trademark integrity, and gentle humor, Glen has chronicled the stories that helped shape this province – whether it was the devastating 2009 Cougar 491 crash that claimed 17 lives to the Arrow Air crash in Gander in 1985. He’s filed his share of heart-breaking stories.

‘Very Tough Days’

There’s the unimaginable 1990s story where a toddler was murdered in Ottawa – his tiny body discovered in a dumpster just feet away from where Carter was reporting live that day. Even in his own Ottawa CJOH-TV newsroom in 1995, Carter’s close colleague, Brian Smith, was gunned down by a deranged man as his friend exited the building. “There have been some very tough days,” he says.

Some stories reverberate more than others, like the Cougar crash, which Carter covered for NTV. “Covering these stories changes you,” he says. “It confirms just how fragile life is.”

He now passes on that wisdom as a newsroom mentor, using his editorial acumen to guide a new generation of journalists. A true professional, he offers a breadth of insight into current affairs that is rivaled by few others. His journalistic instincts are invaluable and are also applied through his daily current affairs feature, The Carter File.

The 65-year-old retires as one of the nation’s longest-serving anchors, a distinction that puts him in very elite company in this business. He was a part of a news wheel that, he says, will continue to turn.

Love of Storytelling

His love of storytelling has broadened to the flight of fiction. He has three published novels. His love affair with words has gifted many awards, including lifetime achievement awards by the Atlantic Journalism Awards (AJA) and Radio Television Digital News Director Association (RTDNA).

Carter is spending his final days on the “desk” before retirement reflecting with admitted mixed emotions on his departure while saying “bye for now” to colleagues, but with plans to continue at NTV in special projects. “If they’ll have me,” he laughs. That’s a done deal.

“I wish we had many more years of anchoring together, but I will always value the time we did have; the learning and the laughter,” Wiseman says, fighting tears. “I salute you, Colonel. Happy Retirement.”

By: Russell Bowers

In the four decades since the tragedy of the Ocean Ranger, the impact of that event resonates still in the psyche of Canadians. Families acrosç this province felt it most closely, even ones who didn’t have loved ones directly involved. But families in Ontario and across the western prairies also felt the grief as they too suffered loss.

The joys of living here

Artists in this province often write about and reflect the joys of living here, and similarly, they know how to express our collective sorrow when those rare but too often tragedies visit our lives. The sense of loss around the Ocean Ranger was still palpable in 1989 when Ron Hynes went into a radio studio to do an interview about songs on which he was then working. 

The beloved troubadour who penned Sonny’s Dream along with co-writing many other favourites was asked about his latest work, and with little fanfare, he picked up his guitar and played a song called Atlantic Blue.

A list of names 

Glen Tilley is a St. John’s producer and musician (not to be confused with the former news anchor, Glenn Tilley) and he was in the studio at CBC when Ron arrived that day. He also remembers the Ocean Ranger vividly.  

“I had a cousin who was killed on the Ranger. There was another guy we all knocked around with who was in my kindergarten class. I used to go to school with a guy named Freddy Harnum, for like 11 years, as you did back in those days at Bishop’s Field. When the list of names came out, (music producer) Claude Caines’ brother was on it. I was at that age, where I might have been on the rig working, that age group when this all broke in the ‘80s.

‘Hand of God’

Tilley would eventually produce a radio play about the tragedy called Hand of God, written by Joan MacLeod. Short thereafter, he got a call from another CBC producer about Ron Hynes to ask him to come in and play a new song. At this point no one knew what song Hynes had in mind.

“It would have been the Fall of 1988, so it wasn’t connected to an anniversary or anything. I don’t recall if he went into too much detail about the song other than he was working on it. I’ve since read that Ron was working on this song for five or six years. It was too overwhelming (for him) at the beginning.”

“Ron always played the tragic hero in his own songs, but this one, he managed to challenge that by asking who are the heroes, writing it from one woman’s perspective.”

“Ron started to sing and technically, he sounded very beautiful. I remember putting my head down and slowly the song started to reveal itself. But when you get to the second verse, and that Valentine lyric, it got to the personal. I still feel emotional about it because I could think of all the people that I knew with both family and friends who were lost. And the weight and gravity of this song. I turned to (CBC recording engineer) Terry Winsor and said, ‘this is one of the most amazing experiences of my life here.’ 

“And then, as Ron would do, he finished the song, talked a little about it and then he packed up his guitar, and left. And that was the first time the song was performed in public.”

No one but Ron Hynes could have written that song, Tilley continued. 

“Nobody who walked among us could absorb and realize what that tragedy did to this community. No one else could express it in such a delicate, beautiful, yet deeply resonant way that only Ron Hynes could do.”

NFLD folk music

In the 30-plus years since the composition of Atlantic Blue, a handful of Canadian artists such as Valdy, Tara McLean, and Kim Stockwood have tried to put their own imprint on the song for other Canadians. 

But as you watch the few Ron Hynes performances on YouTube, it’s clear that the song is singularly his.  

“In the annals of Newfoundland folk music, this song will endure. Generations from now, people may not understand it’s about an oil rig, but it’s equally transferable to anybody lost at sea in a tragedy. I would hold this up against anybody who has written anything anywhere to capture the sensitivity of loss and mourning.”

Visit our YouTube link for more

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fgys4wbWSqM