The road turns from the trees as the dark blue of the Atlantic comes into view. It’s early July and we’re heading to the beach. The brightening sky promises sunshine and our heads are full of stories. It’s the morning after a big family reunion and we’re looking forward to some beachcombing, trail hiking and possibly a dip for the very bravest of us. As is apt to happen when lots of family come together, there has been much remembering and this morning it is the stories of hot summer days at Middle Cove that are top of mind. As a child, Mom’s summer visits with her family often brought them to this place, she and her brother shivering on the smooth stones watching their mother run into the water, completely unphased by the frigid temperature. Kay, as most called her, was a swimmer to the end and this was one of her favourite spots.

In her book Why We Swim, Bonnie Tsui examines swimming throughout human history for pleasure, exercise, healing and to test our limits. She suggests that the notion we have seawater in our veins is not so wild a thought, explaining “Seawater is so similar in mineral content to human blood plasma that our white blood cells can survive and function in it for some time.”

This morning, the water temperature at Middle Cove is hovering around 11°C and will reach a maximum of only 14 or 15 degrees at the height of summer. It’s not unusual, after all, to see icebergs here in spring. Despite the cold, the pull of the ocean is undeniable. Perhaps some of us run colder than others or maybe there is something else altogether that draws us in. As a child, a mid-summer day at Middle Cove for Kay was a holiday—complete with picnic and, of course, the swim. As a teen, when a friend could get a car for the day, they’d all pile in and make their way here, likely making stops at other coves along the way. It was the late 1930s and a day at the beach was most likely the loveliest of respites from threats of war pouring in across the waves.

Dave pulls the car into the parking lot and we all clamber out, quickly zipping up our jackets against the cold. The cove, bracketed by cliffs that stretch out into the sea, is quiet. From the beach, trails run up in both directions, part of the East Coast Trail where paths through trees give way to spectacular views. Some of us wander off with our heads down in search of washed-up treasure while others imagine the sun warming us up just enough so we’ll feel brave enough to get our toes wet.

One of the kids is declaring there is no way she’s going swimming just as her brother yells “a dead fish!” And then, “so many dead fish!”

He’s found capelin and it turns out the capelin are drawn to Middle Cove in greater numbers than humans. Capelin are a species of smelts but while many species of smelts along the coast of New Brunswick or PEI migrate up rivers from the sea, capelin lay their eggs inshore and on beaches. Along this coast of Newfoundland, capelin roll into this cove and many coves in mid-June or July. They are referred to as a forage fish—a prey fish or bait fish—who travel in large schools attracting humpback whales, puffins and other birds who feast on the little fish.

At first sight, hundreds of beached fish may seem a tragic sight, but it is a key moment in the cycle of life for these little fish. For us humans, it also marks an important moment in time. From Greenland to Iceland, Newfoundland and Labrador, the Gaspé peninsula and parts of the Maritimes, when the capelin roll, summer has come.

Today, a few capelin have landed here at Middle Cove. Over the coming days, more will roll in and people will come to catch a few for dinner while others plan ahead to summer hikes along the cliffs, picnics on the beach, and, of course, the swim.

All along the north Atlantic we mark time by little fish. 🐟