From Eric...
My apologies to faithful readers for my lapse in making a blog entry. It’s been a busy summer.
I do have to go back to our first trip in July to Maine. It was a four day affair, starting with a rendezvous in Portland Maine. Shortly after leaving a restaurant with a perfectly acceptable toilet, George had to go. Since we are so conscious of avoiding arrest, a good deal of thought usually goes into location. But downtown Portland has few private offerings, and George picked some bushes adjacent to an on ramp to I-95. I waited patiently on the narrow shoulder, ready to alert George of any law enforcement presence via Bluetooth helmet communication, while cars whizzed dangerously past me.
After several minutes, George emerged and announced: “Hey Eric, I found a GPS!” He was holding a rectangular orange and black device that looked like those handheld black and white mini TV sets that were quite popular 20 years ago. I calmly told him that we had extended our welcome and that we should leave.
After several miles, we stopped at a gas station to examine George’s new GPS. If this was in fact a GPS, it appeared to be encrypted model since there was no map and readings seemed to pertain to levels of various toxic chemicals. I researched the item immediately on one of George’s various devices (it did have a name and model number) and found that you had to have security clearance to own or operate one. I suggest that George leave it behind the bushes at the gas station for some other adventurer to “discover.” When last checked, it was in George’s garage.
We took a ferry ride from Rockland to Vinlehaven. George’s motorcycle (the one I sold him at a steep discount from market value) tipped over during the ferry ride. We stayed in overpriced motel and had pizza food at what we thought was the only restaurant (only to discover after eating that there was a great place right across the street). We rented kayaks from the owner of the motel. It was an ocean estuary with a Class III type rapid going out to the ocean on an incoming tide. George decided to try to kayak the rapid to go out to the ocean and entered the rip at a right angle. It was an impulsive move, coming right after my words: “You may not want to enter perpendicularly . . . .” But, boom, he flipped immediately in water that no warmer than 50 degrees.
I immediately realized it was a life threatening situation as the racing water quickly swept George into the middle of the estuary and quite far from land. So I took out my iphone to capture the event on video. Bad for the iphone (it went into a two month coma from contact with the water, part of it medically induced with rice) and not very considerate on my part. George was immediately in trouble, holding onto the kayak, now filled with water and upside down. I had to act fast.
George, who is usually impervious to cold, was very very cold and I quickly calculated that we had about 6 minutes before hypothermia and shock would set it. So I maneuvered my kayak skillfully into the rip, told George to hold on and brought the nose of my kayak to the midpoint of his. Since the closest land was upstream.
I anchored my feet to the kayak pedals and, summoning adrenaline induced strength, managed to push the waterlogged vessel, with George hanging on, into strong current and then onto shore. I had saved his life.
We then left Vinelhaven.
This was the third or fourth time I had come to the place and it will be the last. Every trip was a disaster. Plus the Island has very little to offer except that it is, well, an island. Big deal. So is Sardinia and that’s full of trash.
We then went to Deer Island, a journey of about 5 miles by boat from Vinelhaven, but over 200 miles if you have to take the ferry back to Rockland. Deer Island was the summer home of my grandfather Grumpy and his partner, my former uncle Ed. George and I relocated the ancestral home, where I had spent many happy weeks as a child pouring gasoline on ant colonies on grandfather’s patio and then setting them afire. The reader would be correct in concluding that the prognosis for children that do these sorts of things is not promising and I look back on all of this with great shame.
Grumpy’s home
did not seem as large or magnificent as it was when I was a budding arsonist and it had fallen into disrepair and was for sale.
The next day we took a far more satisfying ocean kayak trip visiting several islands on a beautiful day. We stopped at Goat Island for a picnic and discovered the reason for its name. Two of the pesky critters, both sporting large horns, were determined that we would not leave without sharing. We shared, but barely made it into our boats alive.
All in all, it was a wonderful trip and I strongly recommend Stonington on Deer Isle, which has some really nice B and B’s, one of which we stayed in.
Fast forward to October 4. A rainy day in Waterville Valley and I am scheduled to meet George again in Portland the next day to take the ferry to Nova Scotia. Eager to get to Canada, I decided to bypass the overnight ferry trip and ride to meet George in Yarmouth, following the directions of my new motorcycle GPS, that I was anxious to try.
Two days and twelve hours of riding later, after riding through torrents of rain through the backroads of Maine and New Brunswick, I arrived in Yarmouth to meet George. I wondered why it had taken so long. I had relied completely on technology to get me to Nova Scotia, which seemed entirely fitting. Yesterday, I discovered that I had put the GPS on the wrong setting. I had arrived in the most efficient way possible – while the GPS was turned to “pedestrian mode.” The charted route had prioritized roads with sidewalks and large shoulders and avoided all highways.
We started out “along the coast” of south eastern Nova Scotia. George was quite insistent on that – that the coastbe “hugged.” He also wanted to find a hotel in Halifax, some 280 km away if we drove straight. It was a noble goal and truly a beautiful drive. Little coastal fishing villages and beautiful harbors and scenery. But if you “hug the coast,” it adds hours, more than doubling the time it takes to get to Halifax. On Tuesday night, it was getting dark.
Many of our critical route choices are handed over the intercom, less than half a mile from a critical intersection where we are forced to make a choice that has consequences. It’s a fast conversation. Go right to “Peggy’s Cove” which George wanted to see after reading about it on “someone’s blog” or straight on the highway to the brew factory in Halifax. So around 5.30 pm, we had our usual conversation. “Which one, George, which way? I want you to be happy.” George: “I don’t care, whatever you want.” Eric: “You sure? We have to decide, intersection approaching.” George: “You decide.”
So I make the turn for Peggy’s Cove, and we got there before sunset. We arrived at a cragged outcropping with a lighthouse, where much of the rescue efforts were coordinated on Swiss air flight 111 which went down some miles off the coast in 1998 (Moving memorial).
We watched the sun go down (separately) over the western facing water (even though we were on the eastern shore – there is a road to the west). George: “Why didn’t you go to Halifax? I want to be closer to the action.” Eric: “You told me to decide. Didn’t you enjoy the sunset?” George: “Yes, but I thought you knew I wanted to go to Halifax.” And so on.
We stayed at beachfront motel and took off to Halifax the next morning. It was a late start for reasons I would prefer not to recount. My bike, the recipient of a recent oil change at the local “A and H Auto” (note “Auto”) was leaking oil. We went to a snowmobile shop to get help. Jeremy tightened the oil filter for free. (I gave him beer money). We progressed. A man started yelling at George from a pick up truck. I could hear the conversation over the intercom. George thought it was a Boston driver, provoking a little trouble. In reality, it was a kind Halifaxan, telling George his right turn signal was out. Another fix with superglue in a parking lot and we were off. It was really late.
During many of our rides, we often make offers and counter offers about George’s purchase of my motorcycle. Sometimes we come close and yesterday’s barter fell apart over financing terms after the price was settled. Once negotiations collapse, prior offers and counteroffers are rescinded. Thank God. Because shortly after the conclusion of our last discussions, I actually rode George’s motorcycle for several minutes and fully appreciated the endurance it takes to be on that machine. The seat is so low it feels like a mini bike. Only a mini bike designed by someone who also believes in joint replacement surgery without anesthesia because the pegs are so poorly positioned that your knee is almost always in a constant backward flex. I have new admiration for my friend’s resistance to pain. This was torture
I mentioned to George that the red brake light was flashing on his motorcycle and asked that was OK. “Oh, that just means the ABS isn’t working.” No big deal. The roads were dry and I continued on. Several miles later, I applied the brakes to pull over. No brakes. I pulled on the lever and it went right to the handle. I coasted, sweating, into a strip mall, thinking that I would use the building to stop me if necessary.
Inverness is a nice place on the east coast of Cape Breton Island. It was dark again when we arrived, but it was important for some reason to get here. We had dinner at the Coal Miner’s restaurant and met Pam, our server, who haslived here all her life and whose Chinese grandfather met a native Canadian indigenous person and married. Interesting history here. Pristine harbor and great views, but a former mining town. Plugging on to the Cabot trail today under cloudy skies.
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Location:Inverness, Cape Breton, Nova Scotia
