Just folks live with majestic Fundy Bay views above
ferryside Saint John, New Brunswick, where towheads learn to skip stones from
their pops; one father throws a sinker, then recovers, skims a seven
I try to rest on the ferry but no dice. I’ve parked the car
on an incline and have visions of the deck floor being covered with slick oil
from the diagnosed terminal leak and elder Yanks, South Asian families and
lifetime fishermen slipping and falling on the treacherous floor surface as
they try to go to their cars at the end of the trip
But no. When we go to the car as we enter the darling port
of Digby, Nova Scotia, I again check the oil. The level, mysteriously and unbelievably,
is still holding firm
We’re directed off the highway to the historic Acadia way where
we make two memorable stops
1/ At a pier walk farmers’ market, the stalls are
plank-empty and there’s nothing to buy, a toilet with paper and places to sit
along the shore wall, sights of crabs scuttling in the low tide mud, rivulets
pulling back to the sea, the power of nature in a thimble of water, and
sandpipers, not by the dozens but enough, and KILLDEER! I forget the name but
then it comes to me, like a shot to the heart
2/ Behind a
lighthouse along the coast where on a clear day you can see the spit of land
where the whales come, K and I walk down to a ledge, the wind with shards of
ice in late July, mind you, and covering the shore rocks like a wench’s hair is
massive tresses of kelp with not a seal or a sea lion or an otter in sight
Landmark churches of Acadia, French Canada, doilies on the
sofas, tea for breakfast, poutine for lunch. Even the gas bars shout stay away
The English rule in Barrington, though, where we arrive as
late as is deemed prudent, 7 p.m., credential closing time for the 44th
edition of the Nova Scotia Marathon, a manila folder with our orange-hued
public warning to be aware of morning drivers, a T-shirt that’s shriek-loud
orange, and a raffle. We put in our names, and not even a loonie is demanded,
and I wonder out loud if the medium-dog-sized rosy-red toy lobster, the
marathon mascot, is the prize, and the bored teen who is alone manning the desk
at the Barrington Recreation Center doesn’t miss a beat. “Just take it. Please.
No questions asked
In Shelburne, Nova Scotia, we put our things in the motel
room. And go to the one place where you can still get dinner at 9 p.m. on a
summer Saturday night. The Sea Dog Saloon. With a red ale they call Boxing Rock
For dinner we sit by the harbor, one of the oldest on the
eastern seaboard. There’s a skiff anchored with a Jolly Roger flying, and in
the distance a lone mansion in the woods. K smiles under the most beautiful
sunset I’ve seen outside of the Rockies and says, D, that’ll be my summer
house, indicating the skiff bobbing on the gentle waves, and beyond, the house
in the bush, my winter one.
Next: Running for Your Life: Nova Scotia Mood, Part Four
