Learn to drink like a real man in Newfoundland.
“‘Ha’ nobody screeched yeh in?” came a voice from the next table in the sort of thick brogue that makes it impossible to tell whether the owner is sober or smashed. I was staying at Fishers’ Loft in Port Rexton, Newfoundland, a ruggedly beautiful fishing town where whales and icebergs outnumber tourists. The possibly-plastered “Newfie”- the name residents of this inhospitable rock just off mainland Canada give themselves - took my bewilderment as an invitation to join me. As it happens, Newfies and Australians share a similar history: both were settled by the Poms and Celts and both made use of the splendid isolation to develop some rather strange rituals. The ‘Screech In’ is a traditional (and terrifying) Newfoundland initiation.
For 300 years, my newfound friend explained, local cod fishermen sent their worst fish to the Caribbean to feed the slaves. Plantation owners, in turn sent their most gag-worthy rum to Newfoundland (rumor has it, in the same barrels as the cod). Thus the Newfoundland national beverage, Screech, was born. I had just finished an excellent meal and the prospect of topping it off with this concoction was distinctly unpalatable. “Sounds revolting,” I said, but he tempted me with the promise of an expensive Bordeaux and some good company (even before the Bordeaux, his wife was rather stunning).
“So how does this screeching in work?” I asked bravely once the wine was empty.
“Let me show yeh,” he offered, pulling three bottles of liquor from his case. “I pours yeh three fingers of screech and asks you, ‘Is you a Newfie screecher?’” He handed me a practice tumbler of single malt. “You down it in one gulp and says, ‘Deed I is me ol’ cock and long may your big jib draw.’”
Um, OK. Glug…I did as instructed but apparently my vowels sounded too Australian and my consonants too American. I needed more practice. I also might have winced.
The hazing continued in round two. “Oh, did I mention you have to kiss a cod?” he said, adding, “it’s usually on the mouth. Sometimes it’s a rotten cod; sometimes you have to kiss its arse. It depends on who’s doing it. We’ll just do it regular.” From out of nowhere a sad looking fish, origin unknown, was plonked on the table. Finally when he deemed me ready, the evil Newfie poured out four fingers of a vile brown filth.
“Is you a Newfie screecher?” he asked solemnly. I did my best to recite the poem and, to tell the truth, I’m not sure what I kissed. It could have been the cod, him, his wife or all three. I spent the night with my toilet as a pillow. The next day, before he left, he slapped me on the back and said, “Give me a shout when you come to St Johns. I’ll screech you in properly there.”
Words and images by Adam McCulloch. Originally published in FHM. The format has been altered to suit Tumblr.
