Into the lower part of Ungava Bay flows a vicious, treacherous, steel grey river called the Koksoak. Fifteen miles up that river there lies a big trading station which deals with Eskimos from the barren lands and with the Nascopi Indians from the interior of Labrador.

Tides in Ungava Bay vary from twenty to thirty feet. A 3,000-ton steamer can reach the station safely, but she must steam up the river on the flood of the tide two or three hours after the turn. The native pilot alone, through certain land marks known to him, can judge the exact time when to start. He alone can steer the ship’s course through the winding narrow channel which, amidst whirlpools and rapids, between rocks and through narrow gorges, leads to a safe anchorage fifteen miles inland in front of the Post.

At first, and during several years afterwards, we had used a small 100-ton auxiliary schooner to bring in the yearly supplies. Finally we decided to take the risk of calling at Fort Chimo, for such is the name of the Post, with our new steamer of 1,000 tons.

That year when we anchored at the mouth of the river, we did not see the familiar face of our pilot. Several Eskimos climbed on board and with them stood a little lad aged about 12, who, although of sturdy build, was no bigger than a boy of 9 or 10. The natives explained to us that the pilot had died that winter and that the boy, his son, who had always accompanied his father in his piloting up and down the river, would take the steamer to the Post.

We received the news with consternation. We also argued the point. They all claimed that they did not know the river as well as the boy. Furthermore, as piloting seemed to be a family affair, going from father to son, none of them wanted to commit a breach of etiquette by taking the lad’s place. During the heated conversation the little chap remained aloof, calm and unconcerned. He had never seen a steamer in his life, and seemed interested not only in the length of the ship but in the height of the Captain’s bridge above the water line. We were drawing eighteen feet at the stern. We could not conceive that a boy of that age would be able to realize how deep a channel we needed. We measured out twenty-four feet with a rope and showed it to him. He glanced at it and nodded. In the end we gave in and told him to take charge. He was so small that we had to bring a chair on the Captain’s bridge for him to stand on so that he could see above the railing. He did not know a word of English.

For two hours he looked at the shore with a little telescope which he had brought with him. Finally, satisfied with what he saw, he motioned to us to weigh anchor. He had never seen a telegraph but he guessed at once what half or full speed ahead meant. For a long time he kept us going at half. Each time the Skipper, frightened by the eddies which made the ship sag a little in her course, would ring full speed, the boy would motion violently to slow her down. He understood the steering gear. For starboard or port he would look around at the man at the wheel, a big burly Newfoundlander with a grey beard, and make signs with his hand either to the right or to the left. Then he would glance quickly at the bow, judge the swing, and call for “steady your helm” by putting his arm straight above his head.

For two hours he steered us without a second of hesitation. He swung our course from one side of the river to the other. We passed at times thirty feet from a cliff on the shore or an ugly rock showing its head just above the water. There wasn’t a buoy or beacon in sight anywhere on the river. The lad had his own land marks somewhere and took his bearings from them. We reached the Post safely and dropped anchor exactly where he told us to.

As soon as his job was over he ran down the ladder to the galley, where the cook gave him a small pot of jam which he hastily emptied with the help of his fingers. The boy is a grown up man now. He still pilots our ship up and down the Koksoak River.