News Article

When Chris Lewis headed out to explore Harbour Grace Bay with his father on a crisp winter day during Christmas break, he didn’t go with the intention of creating a drone video starring the SS Kyle - but that’s what came out of their spontaneous excursion.
 
The SS Kyle is a 220-foot sailing vessel that ran aground in the town of Harbour Grace in 1967 after more than 50 years of transporting goods and residents from Carbonear to Coastal Labrador, even acting as a troop transport during World War II, bringing Newfoundland soldiers to Canada. Since that time, the vessel has been a tourist attraction for the area, but it has long fallen into disrepair.
 
Chris is a second-year College of the North Atlantic (CNA) Journalism student and a native of Carbonear. He says receiving a drone as a Christmas gift from his parents was a welcome but unexpected surprise – one they took advantage of.
 
“My dad and I have been really interested in drones since I took a drone journalism course last semester. This was the first time we had taken it out to see what it could do. The Kyle has been in Harbour Grace for almost 100 years so we figured it would be cool to fly around and see if we could see what no one else has seen – to get a bird’s eye view. The footage turned out a lot better than we expected, so I put it all together into a little video.”
 
Chris then posted the video to his social media page and says it “blew up” with the amount of feedback it was receiving.
 
“It was a spur-of-the-moment thing and there was no original planning or anything, but it turned out really cool,” he said. “I put the original video on my Facebook account. It has 500 shares and 26,000 views now. I didn’t expect it to go that big. I assume it was a lot of Harbour Grace natives (contributing to those views).”
 
When he returned to CNA after the break he showed the footage to Drone Journalism instructor, Jeff Ducharme, who suggested narrating it with the popular story, The Smokeroom on the Kyle by Ted Russell.
 
“When I came back to Stephenville I showed it to Jeff and he came up with the idea to add the voice over. A week later we recorded that and I edited the video a bit more, and there it was.”
 
While this wasn’t an assigned project for Chris, he says it wouldn’t have been possible without everything he learned at CNA.
 
“It wasn’t a school project, per se, but my skills flying the drone and editing and all the different shots I could take, I learned that all from Drone Journalism in a class I took last semester. That’s where I learned all of the “how to’s” and all of the basics of flying a drone. If I hadn’t taken that course I probably wouldn’t have been so good at flying and the footage wouldn’t have been nearly as good as it was.”
 
This is just the beginning for Chris’s drone adventures as he is already looking forward to his next project.
 
“It’s definitely just the beginning. I love it. It was tonnes of fun. Even down to the editing, I loved it all so I definitely see myself doing more.”
 
To view Chris’ footage of the SS Kyle, visit CNA's YouTube page at https://youtu.be/L09ePOTSfLA.
 
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Media Contact:
 
Glenda McCarthy
Public Relations Specialist
College of the North Atlantic
709.643.6408
glenda.mccarthy@cna.nl.ca
 
 
The Smokeroom on the Kyle
By Ted Russell
 
The Smokeroom on the “Kyle” Tall are the tales that fishermen tell when summer’s work is done, Of fish they’ve caught, of birds they’ve shot, of crazy risks they’ve run. But never did a fisherman tell a tale, so tall by a half a mile, As Grampa Walcott told one night in the Smokeroom on the Kyle.
 
With ‘baccy smoke from twenty pipes, the atmosphere was blue. There was many a “Have another boy” and “Don’t mind if I do.” When somebody suggested that each in turn should spin, A yarn about some circumstance he’d personally been in.
 
Then tales were told of gun barrels bent to shoot around the cliff, Of men thawed out and brought to life that had been frozen stiff, Of bark pots carried off by flies, of pathways chopped through fog, Of woodsman Bill who, barefoot, kicked the knots out of a twelve inch log.
 
The loud applause grew louder still when Uncle Mickey Shea, Told of the big potato he grew in Gander Bay. Too big to fit through the cellar door, it lay at rest nearby, Until, one rainy night that fall, the pig drowned in its eye.
 
But meanwhile in a corner, his grey head slightly bowed, Sat Grampa Walcott, eighty-eight, the oldest of the crowd. Upon his weather beaten face there beamed a quiet grin, When someone shouted, “Grampa, ‘tis your turn to chip in.”
 
“Oh, no boys, leave me out,” said Grampa. “Oh thanks, don’t mind if I do. Ah, well alright boys, if you insist, I’ll tell you one that’s true. It’s a story about jigging squids I’m going to relate, And it happened in Pigeon Inlet in Eighteen eighty-eight.
 
Me, I was just a bedlamer then, fishin’ with my Dad, And prospects for the that season, they were looking pretty bad. Now, the caplin scull was over and that hadn’t been too bright, And here was August come and gone and nar a squid in sight.
 
Day after day we searched for squid, ‘til dark from the crack of dawn. We dug up clams and cock n’ hens ‘til even these were gone. And still no squids so, in despair, we give it up for good, Took our gear ashore and went cutting firewood.
 
Now, one morning, while out in the woods with all the other men, And wondering if we’d ever see another squid again. Father broke his axe that day so we were the first ones out, And as we neared the landwash, we heard the women shout.
 
“Come hurry boys, the squids are in.” Well, we jumped aboard our boat, And started out the harbour, the only crew afloat. But soon our keel began to scrunch like scrapin’ over skids. “Father,” says I, “we’ve run aground.” “Me son,” says he, “that’s squids.”
 
Said he, “The jigger, heave it out,” and quick as a flash I did, And soon as it struck the water, ‘twas grappled by a squid. I hauled it in and what do you think? As soon as he crossed the rail, I’ll be darned if there wasn’t a second squid clung on to the first one’s tail.
 
And another clung to that one and so on in a string. I tried to shake ‘em loose but Father said “You foolish thing. You’ve got something was never seen before in Newfoundland. Drop the jigger, grab the string and haul hand over hand.”
 
I hauled that string of squids aboard ‘til the boat could hold no more, And then we hitched it in the risings and rowed for the shore. Now the men were coming from the woods, they’d heard the women bawl, But Father said, “Don’t hurry boys, we’ve squid enough for all.”
 
So Uncle Jimmy, he took the string until he had enough, And, neighbour-like, he handed it on to Skipper Levi Cuff. Well, from stage to stage that string was passed throughout the whole night long, ‘Til daylight found it on Eastern Point with Uncle Billy Strong.
 
Now Uncle Bill, quite thoughtfully, before he went to bed, Took two half-hitches of that string ‘round the grump on his stagehead. Next morning Hartley’s Harbour heard the news and up they come, In a trap skiff with three pair of oars to tow the string down home.
 
And when Hartley’s Harbour had enough, the following afternoon, That string went on from place to place until it reached Quirpon. Now, what happened to it after that, well I don’t exactly know. But some folks say that it crossed the Straits and ended in Forteau.
 
Yes, tall are the tales that fishermen tell when summer’s work is done, Of fish they’ve caught and birds they’ve shot and crazy risks they’ve run. But never did a fisherman tell a tale, so tall be a half a mile, As Grampa Walcott told that night in the Smokeroom on the Kyle.