On the Waterfront With the workers on the docks at Vancouver - some observations and experiences

Prairie-bred, reared in a sheltered and cultured home; for years a Minister of the Gospel and close student of social problems, never having done for pay a day's manual work, the writer of these articles found himself, in 1918, attempting to earn a living as a longshoreman at Vancouver.His past unknown to his fellow-workers, he was able to learn conditions from the inside.In time he became a member of the International Longshoreman's Association Local 38-52 Auxiliary.These articles, written at the time, give intimate glimpses of the life and thought of the labour men.It is hoped they may serve to interpret the viewpoint of labour and that their publication may stimulate an interest in our still unsolved industrial problems. COME ON IN -THE WATER'S FINE!My Winnipeg friends who knew me in connection with church work or social service activities would probably hardly recognize a longshoreman in grey flannel shirt, overalls and slicker, who lines up with his gang alongside a ship or stands waiting in line for his money at the office of the stevedoring company.Yet it isThe Northern Mariner/Le marin du nord, XXVI, No. 1 (January 2016), 48-68 the same J.S.W. who, though declared to be down and out, is in reality, feeling fairly fit and looking forward to the fight.To some of my former associates who are apt to pity me as they stand shivering and uncertain on the shore, I would call back, "Come on in -the water's fine!" Yes, I hesitated to make the plunge.Where a man has spent all his time up to middle life along one line it is not easy to make a complete break and as it were, start life all over again.But circumstances have a curious way of pushing one right up to the brink.Then, unless a man is a downright coward, it is a case of "Here Goes!" Some friends, with the kindest intentions, tried to dissuade me."It would ruin my career.""But just think -a mere labouring man.""Then you should consider your wife and family."And the water was cold -no doubt about that.Longshoring is hard and monotonous and irregular and, taking it the year round, no much better paid than other unskilled labour.Being a town-bred boy and having gone through school and college into professional life, I had never done manual work.Piling heavy rice sacks or stowing flour or loading salmon or trucking up a steep, slippery gangplank is no child's play.For one accustomed to congenial mental work in study or office or on platform or committee, it is doing time to go through the same dull mechanical exercise hour after hour, and day after day.Then to stand for three months on the street outside the Union Hall on the chance of getting a job and then after hard work and the strictest economy not to be able to earn sufficient to support the family, well, the water was decidedly chilly.But once in, one has to make the best of it.No one sinks without a struggle and in the struggle the blood goes coursing through one's veins till the whole body is a tingle.Then, as one rises on a buoyant wave, he feels like shouting back: "Come on in -the water's fine."As everyone knows, manual work means both a physical and mental stimulus.Undoubtedly hand development and brain development have gone on side by side.The attempt to divorce them is fatal.I believe that the worker, when not overtired, thinks straighter than the man in a sedentary occupation who rarely takes sufficient exercise.On some bright days when work is going with a swing and one can look beyond the ship's rigging across the blue inlet to the snow-capped mountains, one feels that life is worth living.Then, for me, there is a charm about life on the waterfront.The land fronts the mysterious ocean.Coasting boats from Alaska and from California, big liners from the Orient or Australia, transports from England or Siberia swing alongside the docks and unload their diverse cargoes which are soon on their way across the continent.There is a certain exhilaration in having broken through artificial distinctions -in meeting men as men irrespective of nationality or creed or opinions -in being one of them.At lunch time a big motor dray started down the street; half a dozen workmen, like so many youngsters, climbed on for a ride.The driver wore the button of the teamsters union; we, that of the longshoremen.We were one -members of the glorious army of workers.Perhaps it is, in part, because "he that is down need fear no fall" -that the workers have "nothing to lose but their chains" -but there is a certain sturdiness and fearlessness about the workers that is not commonly found among the so-called higher classes.At this time of social unrest, when many stand appalled at the uncertainties and dangers ahead, an old friend of mine whose life has been a hard one rubs his hands with satisfaction as he declares: "Things are looking pretty good for us."Another worker who had visited the Provincial Parliament buildings, and admired their beauty confessed, "You know, I couldn't but think that one of these days that would be our building."There is a strange thrill in being for better or worse one of us -one of the common people.

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