I was a polygraph operator during the last three years of my career.   I was the oldest in the class of 2007 at fifty-two.  I was comfortable in the job I was in as a Criminal Operations Reader where I could have easily served out my career in.  The job involved research, reporting, developing policy and meeting with community and government agencies.  I enjoyed the work and the long hours (maybe not so much).   I could have remained there and been quite comfortable but comfort was never where I was happy.  Being in the game, not sure of your next move, figuring out problems, that was where it was at for me.  When I heard of an opportunity for polygraph, I put my name in the pile.  A few months later in January 2007 I was off to the Canadian Police College in Ottawa where I spent the next four months learning what the Polygraph technique was all about. Once you completed the training, you were required to undergo a two-week internship with an experienced polygraph operator.  Then you returned to your posting and started arranging and conducting your tests.  A random selection of your testing during that first year, were reviewed by Ottawa, and if no problems surfaced during this time frame, you were certified as a Polygraphist. 

I liked this job but being a polygraphist in Newfoundland and Labrador is a lonely job.   One spends many hours travelling to and from work sites, and while you have contact with other members at the detachments you are often alone when performing the polygraph tests, making the calls on your own.   Many members often enjoyed road trips and I was one of those members but when you spend over half of each month on the road, eating restaurant food, watching TV while lying on a hotel bed, more than likely falling asleep on top of the covers with the TV blaring in the background; it loses its luster real fast. 

While the road was lonely, I did enjoy the social interludes that I encountered on my travels.   Once such encounter occurred on a trip to Labrador in spring of 2009.  I flew into Blanc-Sablon, Quebec to start my journey to Forteau.  I was scheduled to conduct a polygraph test in the afternoon on a young man who was suspected of a break and entry into a business in that detachment area.  I had other tests scheduled in Cartwright and Goose Bay and my plan was to rent a car and drive to Forteau.  Once I finished here, the police plane would pick me up and bring me to Cartwright detachment for another test.  That was the plan.

To say the airport in Blanc-Sablon is small, is probably an understatement but it serves this remote area of Quebec and the surrounding communities of southern Labrador well.   I came off the plane and went to the baggage area. While there I saw a sign for a car rental company which said inquire at the ticket counter.  I looked over at the ticket counter which had a couple of people waiting in line, but no one was behind the small counter.  Through the conveyor belt access door, I could see the baggage guy unloading the bags from the plane onto a cart.  I watched him as he brought the bags to the conveyor belt and laid them on it.   When he finished that, he came in and went behind the ticket counter serving the two customers waiting in line for tickets.   Once I had my luggage, I got in line at the ticket counter.  When it came to me, I enquired who I had to see to rent a car and the man said,

“That would be me.”  

I smiled as he completed the paperwork for my car rental.  This made me remember one of my favorite cartoons.  It depicts a man standing before the boss’s desk saying he deserves a raise because he is doing the work of three men.  The boss looks at him and says,

“Give me the names of the other two and I will have them fired.”

I always loved this cartoon because it so depicts life in the RCMP for me.  I would tell you the name of the cartoonist if I could read his signature.  I did not bother to explain my amusement to this industrious fellow. 

I drove to Forteau and checked in at the detachment and set up for the test.  The guy showed up at 1:00 pm with his mother.  He was twenty years of age, but she did the talking for him, and according to her, he was not taking this test.  I tried to convince him otherwise, but his mother would not be buying anything I was selling.  They left and the member who had arranged for the testing and I exchanged glances with each other as if to say, ‘well back to the drawing board’.  That meant back to the hotel room for me to wait for the police plane in the morning. 

Now, if you are a coffee drinker, Labrador is probably not a place to go looking for that gourmet brew.  Outside of Goose Bay and Lab City, they are tea drinkers, and coffee is only kept for those few outsiders with strange tastes.  When ordering coffee, you are most likely to get the cheap powdery instant coffee or some brewed concoction akin to motor oil.  Needless, to say, when you are on the road in these parts of Labrador and you finally reach coffee civilization, you are in an advanced stage of withdrawal. Thus, was my state as I waited to be picked up by the police plane in the morning.

Best laid plans echoed in my brain when I received a call early the next day from the detachment.  The member told me the police plane had mechanical problems and could not pick me up.  I discussed my options with the member who advised I could drive to Mary’s Harbour and get a flight with Labrador airways to Cartwright, where my next test was scheduled.  I wondered if I could get there in my rental car and the member told me unless it was a four-wheel drive, he would not attempt it.  He advised he would drive me to Mary’s Harbour in the detachment suburban. 

We left shortly after I returned the rental.  The sixty-five kilometers to Red Bay was not bad as the road was paved.  I say paved in the loosest interpretation of the word.  The road had suffered from the relentless onslaught of nature which covered it with potholes much like the face of a teenager with a severe case of acne.   Even still, it was heaven compared to the ninety kilometers of muddy ruts to Mary’s Harbour.  My experience with Labrador was limited up to this point and this trip gave me a real appreciation for travel in the Big Land.  In addition to the road conditions there were giant banks of melting snow on either side of the road making it seem like we were driving through a series of tunnels.   If this was spring, what was it like in the dead of winter?  I could only imagine.  Since then, anytime I hear anyone saying they have seen a lot of snow, I ask them if they have ever been to Labrador, if they have not, I know they do not know snow.  

We got to Mary’s Harbour, a picturesque community, surrounding the beautiful St. Mary’s river.  The member who graciously gave up his time to get me there, bid me goodbye and left to return to Forteau after dropping me at the airport.  I arranged a ticket through Lab Air (Labrador Airways), and it was off to the races so to speak.  It was a milk run type of trip and if memory serves me correct, we had four stops before we got to Cartwright.  I boarded the plane which had five seats and a big open area in front of it filled with cargo.  A sudden stop might end up with the passengers becoming human pancakes, I thought as the pilot, a rough featured older fellow, jumped in the pilot’s seat and maneuvered the craft down the gravel runway. 

We stopped in what I think was Rigolet first.  The plane lowered, touching down, then rolling in with rocks tinging off the wings until is spun around in front of the sole building at the end of the runway.  The pilot jumped out, grabbed some of the cargo in front of us and dropped it in front of the terminal.  He was closing the cargo/passenger door when he said to me,

“The next place we are going to is God’s country.”

“That must be where you are from.”  I replied, smiling.

“Right you are!”  he exclaimed.  “Charlottetown is the place where I was born.”  He was almost singing.

We flew into Charlottetown and because we were only there for a few minutes, I did not get an opportunity to see if God was out for a stroll on the local streets.  I would have to take his word on that but if you cannot trust someone who loves where they are from, then who can you trust.  The pilot grabbed some more packages from the cargo hold and while he was doing that, he said to me,

“They got a saying about the next place we are going to.”

“What’s that?”  I mused expecting some humour from this crusty fellow.

“Behind every tree there is a good-looking woman.”

“Where’s that?”  I queried.

“Black Tickle.” 

We were off the ground again leaving Charlottetown in our wake.  It was not long before we came to a large barren area devoid of trees.  This continued until we hit the gravel in Black Tickle.  I looked out the window and there were no trees.   I chuckled at the pilot’s remarks as I waited to travel to my next and final stop at Cartwright.  A couple of passengers got on, one being a young man with a heavy odour of cologne.  It reminded me of a men’s cologne from the sixties called Hai Karate.  It was best known for its humorous television commercials depicting the users of this product using martial arts techniques to fend off women who were attracted to this fragrance.  I had some of this in my bathroom cabinet in the late 1970’s but I have not seen it (smelled probably the better term) in years.  It never worked for me; I never had to fight off any women and then I got married so I did not have any reason to wear it any longer.  On the other hand, this guy seemed to have the last existing stockpile of this aftershave.

Amused with my great humour I waited for the plane to lift off.  I looked out across the tundra in front of me, amazed at its vastness.  Wait now, what was that?  Blazing across the openness I saw a snowmobile pulling a sled laden down with logs.  No doubt there would be another snowmobile and sled coming behind this one carrying the women they had found behind those trees.  I reached out to tap the Hai Karate guy on the shoulder to let him know.1

The rest of the trip was uneventful or perhaps could be a story for another day, we will see on that.  The only thing I remember of any consequence was arriving in Goose Bay in the evening of a blistering cold late spring day and wanting a coffee.  Bad.  I did not have a vehicle, but it was not a far walk to the Tim Horton’s from my hotel.  A few minutes later I arrived to find the restaurant part of the Tim’s was not open due to construction.  The drive-thru was open but I did not have a vehicle.   Determined I got in line.  I was getting a coffee regardless of what I had to do.  I stood behind the cars in the lineup breathing in their exhaust as it rose in clouds in the cool evening air.  When it came to my turn to order, nothing.  No one asked what I wanted; the speaker was dead.  It was the first time I realized the kiosk was activated when a vehicle passed the sensor.  I need coffee!  was screaming in my head and while I was trying to figure what to do next, the kind gentleman in the car behind me pulled his car up to the kiosk so I could order.  He saved my life, I thought, as I waved to him after I ordered. 

The young lady who served me was surprized by me standing where a car should have been, but she did not question me.  The desperation in my eyes was enough to tell her to back off on this one.  I paid for my coffee and decided to wait, albeit difficult, until I got back to my hotel room.  I got to my room, locked the door, and closed the blinds while the coffee sat on the table.  I popped off the lid, and I quickly sipped the elixir within.  It flowed through my veins. I was at peace and the world was now safe.