September
18
The rock falls away silently
under my outstretched hand. We had scurried up the cliff face ahead of the
rising tide, like so many lost goats. The boulder, a big hulking monster that
was sure to be stable due to its sheer size, only it wasn’t. It dislodged, and
careened down past me, inches from disaster. Death, the thought occurs to me as
the boulder smashes into oblivion on an even larger anvil of stone far below.
Me:
holy fuck.
Tyson’s
head appears above, having already reached the summit. Jeremy is there, right
beside him. The fear in their eyes is sure to be reflected back at them in my
own. Hands extend. I find my legs are a bit weak in the fear that the ledge I
am standing on will follow the boulder that had crashed into it.
Brad:
Everyone ok? What was that?
He had
been scaling a dozen metres over. Luckily not behind me. He didn’t see the
fall. Tyson did. He said as much, told me he knew the rock would miss me, but
it was close. He indicates my pants, the stain of dirt left behind by the
falling stone. It was a close call.
Following
the trail now, forgoing the adrenalin rush of scampering far below just ahead
of the rising waves, we come to a sign. Danger: High Cliffs, it reads. Indeed.
September
19
Dad had
suggested we rent bikes. There is a place on the island for that, 22 bucks a
day. Money well spent if you have the ambition to pedal. Crossing over the bay
to Whitehead makes for interesting viewing. The men working the boat are going
about their routines methodically, the same motions they perform 12 times a
day. Must be achingly monotonous. I say as much to the man coiling a hawser
near me. He grins, showing a ruined cavern of a mouth.
Man: Nah,
you get used to it. This here is a great job. Hard to land a plum like this
one.
The sea
does not exactly race by the small ferry. Its blunt prow surges through the
waves as gracefully as a bull battering its way through a tea shop. It is new,
all fresh paint and greased gears. The islanders from little Whitehead are
proud of her. They should be; she is after all their connection to the outside
world; the only way the 150 or so souls have of gaining access to the larger
world: a 15 car ferry. That is isolation.
The
going is hard. There are not an abundance of roads on Whitehead. About 5 miles
worth. But there are untold ATV trails, and it is down these we race away on
under our own steam. Bogs slow us, as do fallen trees, and wayward stumps. We
push on, ever deeper. It is an Island after all, and a small one to boot. Can’t
be that much coast till we find the road on the other side.
Brad: I
am glad we did it this way. Look at this.
He
indicates the sweep of coast with a wave of his arm. The salt smell is heavy. A
lone gull wheels in the distance. The Long Point Lighthouse sits solitary on
its prominence, we the only people within sight above it. Pell mell we ride
across the wet sand. The legs scream, but in a good way. It is good to feel
them work, feel alive. Tyson tries to convince Brad to take a dip. Fundy water
is notoriously cold. Brad thinks on it, and then declines. Afraid of chaffing
on the ride back is the official version. We know that is hogs wallop, and he
knows we know. His grin becomes sheepish.
We find
the road. We knew we would. But find, as we pull into the small village pier,
that the ferry has made its final run. Missed her by 10 minutes. There is a
7:30 run, isn’t there, we press. The girl at the counter, good looking, open,
pure Down Easter, nods, but informs us we need to call ahead for that. We are
cell phoneless. She nods again, then picks up the phone.
Kristy: Mel? This is Kristy. I
have 4 guys here on bikes. They missed the 4:30. Ok, Thanks.
The crossing back is even more
interesting. It is us, and one car, on the whole boat. Enough to make me feel
almost special.
September 20
Tyson: Who is this?
He has picked up my CD case, Jack
Johnson live. He seems to like it. I am surprised. Not what I would have
thought. He always seemed more of a classic rock guy. Even more shocking,
Jeremy chimes in, saying he doesn’t mind it. He hates Jack. What is going on?
It must be the East Coast vibe, that laid back, Laissez Faire attitude that has
overtaken us. Going back to the grind of Ontario will be harder as a result.
The Maritimes grow on the soul, gentle moss on the rock of a life, smoothing
the harder edges.
Flipping through the album cover,
Tyson comes to the picture of Paula Fuga, the Hawaiian singer. Her voice comes
in over the speakers in the corner: angelic. Tyson laughs, looking again at the
picture in his hands. He is having trouble with the voice juxtaposed by the
image.
Tyson: Beauty is only skin deep,
but ugly cuts you right to the bone.
Brad laughs so hard, beer
threatens to come out his nose. He doubles over, knocking a few of the beer
cans down, ruining the aluminum palace we have been constructing on the table
since the early afternoon. A day spent in drink amongst friends is a day well
spent, Jeremy murmurs. It is hard for anyone to disagree. We go back to
listening to Jack, the only sound the ukulele in Paula’s hands, and the fizzing
crack of a fresh beer.
September 21
Jeremy makes a face of disgust.
His pinched cheeks become even more pronounced. The Fish chowder he has been
looking forward to does not meet his expectations.
Jeremy: Too many potatoes, not
nearly enough fish. For 11 bucks a bowl, I want some fish.
I hope the waitress/owner of the
Fundy House doesn’t hear him, even if he isn’t lying. My food has yet to appear
on the table, and it wouldn’t do for the kitchen staff to punish me for his
outburst. Saliva and boogers make a shitty side to any meal. It is hard to
imagine the sweet old lady stooping to that, but having worked in my fair share
of kitchens, I know the drill. Never, ever piss off the people who handle your
food. That is common sense.
Luckily the haddock is delicious,
and seemingly fluid free.
September 22.
Dark Harbour is remote. The most
remote place on the Island of Grand Manan. A small fishing outpost known for
its dried seaweed, Dulse, and more recently, farmed salmon. To get to it, you
drive along the only road that cuts through the interior of the isle. Deep bush
surrounds the vehicle. One can imagine the wealth of deer. Getting a freezer
full of winter meat would not be a challenge here. The creek that wells up in
some woodland spring then wends its way to the coast has cut a gorge over the
millennia it has been flowing. The road hugs the precipice without guardrails. Disturbingly,
the gorge is a repository of debris; old refrigerators, stoves, mattresses. The
dump will take all of it for free, yet here it sits, staining the otherwise
pristine. It is the first time the Island and its people have let me down. I
don’t like that.
The sun is setting. Red is beginning
to stain the horizon. The chasm runs due west, into the burn. The view is
without equal. About us, the rocks are stained red, the graffiti proclaiming
teenage love and lust glows even brighter. Peaceful, serene. Except for the Bay
down below we could be in the north of Ontario. Somehow I like that. It is a
connection to home, a sense of the familiar. Not many days left to us now on
the Island, as the sun sets I realize it is almost time to come home. I am not
sure how I feel about that.
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