More on Newfoundland and Cape Breton
As we have been far from Internet connections and only able to post brief blogs through our single side band (SSB) radio, many of the highlights of our trip have failed to make it to print. Now, from the comfort of the dock of St. Peter’s marina in the Bras d’Or Lakes of Cape Breton, I shall try to recapture some of the stellar moments of our voyage.
We’ve finally gotten around to posting some new photos online. Rather than putting them in the text, we created separate pages for them so we can easily add captions. Please use the “Photo Album” link on the right side to access them. We’ll add new ones as we get the chance.
In the town of Francois, set dramatically at the bottom of a red-cliffed fjord, Karen, from Challenge, was given two huge cod by a local fisherman. He then asked Kenny and I if we would like some too. I looked at the bewildered Karen holding the two big fish by the gills. “I think we could share what you’ve given her.†Karen looked at the fisherman imploringly, “Do you think you could show me how to fillet these?†The fishermen kindly took them back and deftly turned each fish into 4 ready-to-cook fillets. Dieu merci. I put ours in the fridge and baked it in bread crumbs the following night. It was possibly the best fish I’ve ever eaten.
That day in Francois was the last we saw of our buddies Karen and Phil on Challenge. They were unsure of their destination as they had to figure out a place to meet up with Phil’s brother who was to arrive in Baddeck, Cape Breton in a couple of days. As their boat disappeared over the horizon, we imagined they were heading for St. Pierre and Miquelon, French islands about 60 miles south of Francois.
Contrary to what we’d previously decided about turning back to the west, we headed further east and turned up a fjord called Hare Bay. It is difficult to convey in words the majesty and vastness of these places. And I think I should give an even poorer rendition were I to turn to watercolors. I never knew rock could be so beautiful. When the slanting rays of the sun lands on the cliffs it reveals a great range of hues (pinks, greens, grays, reds) and textures. Sometimes the fog drapes around the peaks like a gauzy shawl constantly rearranging itself. Other times the fog is so thick you can’t see the wall of rock which you know is fifty meters off your beam. But we were lucky. There were only a few occasions when we sailed in fog so dense we could only make out the edges of the boat and the wave about to pound into the hull of Mary T.
In Hare Bay there was one other boat at anchor. A fishing boat turned into a pleasure craft with a young happy couple aboard. We jumped into our dinghy to explore further up the bay and came upon a most gorgeous waterfall set in pink stone. We tied up to it and climbed among the rocks. It was so perfect, it almost didn’t look real but rather something created by Disney.
The following day the sun shone bright and the winds were favorable, so we could not resist the idea of sailing to France. We headed south off shore for the mystical Gaulic islands of St. Pierre and Miquelon. It’s all that remains of the French empire in North America, but that’s more than the English can boast. Although Great Britain finally triumphed over France in the war for north American territories, America and Canada soon became independent nations. St. Pierre and Miquelon, however, are still part of France. Vive la France!
After a beautiful sail from Hare Bay (55 nautical miles), we pulled up to the yacht club dock in St. Pierre and tossed our lines to the customs and immigration agents, who just happened to be there. They came aboard and we quickly went through the formalities. They were more than affable and spoke French with French accents, not like the Quebecois whom I sometimes find difficult to understand. We cast a glance around for Challenge, but she was nowhere in sight.
Later we went ashore in search of a Basque restaurant which had been recommended. The town is laid out on the slope of a hill ascending from the harbor. The commercial center of town only takes up a few blocks. The houses are mostly wood and brightly colored. Though the town was much bigger than the tiny Newfoundland outports we’d visited, it was dead. There was hardly a soul on the streets.
Unable to find the place, we asked the only locals we saw standing outside someone’s home. They directed us there and highly recommended it. The restaurant called Ongi Etorri, or something like that, was a bit more formal than we expected, so we chose a discreet table on the fringe of things so as not to distract from the ambiance with our slovenly dress and sailor talk. Although the place was nearly empty when we entered, by 10 p.m. it was full. The St. Pierrais are not early diners.
Kenny ordered the salmon and I the scallops drenched in a sinfully rich cream sauce. As is our custom, we exchanged dishes midway through the meal. Both were delicious. Because we didn’t yet know the exchange rate of euros to dollars we thought it a bargain. Ignorance is bliss.
The following day we decided to breakfast at l’Hotel Robert, famous for its display of Al Capone memorabilia. The croissants at l’Hotel Robert were decent, but the cafe au lait was disappointingly prosaic. Not what one expects in France. There was a little room off of the hotel’s restaurant proudly devoted to St. Pierre’s important role in the rum running business. Al Capone was a frequent visitor to the hotel and owned a warehouse in St. Pierre where he stockpiled alcohol to be shipped to the USA during the prohibition years. The display which treated the murderous thug as a kind of hero included a large photo of Al and his trademark boater. I suppose to thousands of alcohol consuming Chicagoans, old Al was also a hero.
We visited another museum in St. Pierre which was primarily devoted to the history of cod fishing on the islands. Like Nova Scotia and Newfoundland, these little islands came to be populated by Europeans because of the vast amounts of fish and whales to be found in their waters. My favorite thing in the museum was an honest to God guillotine which was used only once in St. Pierre.
In the latter part of the 18th century, a man found guilty of murder was sentenced to death. The island was not in possession of a guillotine so one was shipped from the Caribbean Island of Martinique. Why they couldn’t have just hung him, I don’t know. Then came the problem of choosing the person who would let the blade fall on the condemned man’s head. Although a fairly hefty sum was offered for a volunteer, no one would step forward, so a convict was pressed into the position. It was decided that they should test the machine on a calf to make sure it worked. The blade failed to severe the head of the calf completely so it was sharpened before the real event.
On the day of the beheading the town’s square was full of onlookers. The condemned man admitted before the crowd that he took a man’s life and now as a consequence his life would be taken. He bravely went to his place without struggle and stretched out his neck so the blade would make a clean cut. The man appointed to let the blade fall suddenly froze. Finally, the condemned spoke up. “C’mon, make it quick.â€
The blade wobbled and descended. The cut was imperfect. The volunteer had to finish the job with his own knife. The crowd shrunk away in horror. Never again was a man condemned to death on St. Pierre. Vive la France!
Our last day on St. Pierre we took the dinghy around to a deserted cove and had a lovely picnic lunch with red wine on a cobblestone beach. Lunch was followed by a brief constitutional clambering over rocks to achieve a summit with a rather lovely view. Then back to the dinghy which we rode over to a tiny island called Grand Colombier which is home to seals, puffins and other assorted sea fowl. Puffins are very tiny and fly quickly, so it’s hard to appreciate their cuteness in person. They are easier to see in photographs.
On our way back to Mary T, we made one more stop at Isle des Marins, which lies just across the harbor from St. Pierre. It was the site of much cod fishing activity back in the day. The cobble stoned beaches were once covered with cod put out to dry. Now it has a few habitations, beaches, a cemetery, and strewn rusty remnants of a shipwrecked freighter. There little museums devoted to different aspects of fishing — the lines, the hooks, the dories…. We hiked from one end of the island to the other until we could no more.
Unfortunately we did not get a chance to visit nearby Miquelon, which is home to wild horses which took up residences when the ships upon which they were borne wrecked on the shoals. Miquelon is also the summer haven of many a St. Pierrais. It’s convenient to have a summer house so close to home.
Although the scenery in St. Pierre was not as breathtakingly dramatic as the south coast of Newfoundland, it was fun to enjoy a bit of French culture in the North Atlantic. Our only disappointments were the lack of sidewalk cafes and boulangeries (bakeries). We didn’t enjoy a single baguette the whole time we were there! Au’ revoir St. Pierre. A la prochaine.
Having spent our last euros on digestifs, we headed back to Fortune near the tip of the Burin Peninsula in Newfoundland. It was as pleasant 25 mile sail from St. Pierre. Fortune is one of the designated ports of entry for Canadian customs. We were able to check in over the phone. No official ever came aboard. Fortune had more floating docks than we’d seen since we’d left the states. The town reminded us of suburban America.
We only spent one night in Fortune as we were anxious to start heading west and then return to Nova Scotia before the autumnal gales set in. Francois was our goal for that day, but the winds turned against us, so we went back into beautiful Hare Bay. This time we were the only boat there. Bliss.
We awoke to pea soup fog, but decided to head for Francois anyway. It was only 10 miles away and the entrance is wide and easily navigable blind. Of course our radar and GPS are indispensable at such times. Departing Hare Bay we saw very little of the rock walls looming up on each side of us, nor could we see the cliffs upon entering Francois. Fortunately we could see the dock.
“Come home†was underway in Francois so the docks were full of boats two deep. We rafted up to a trawler outside of a fishing boat making Mary T the third boat out from the dock. Newfies are accustomed to rafting up and are very accommodating in such situations. The couple next to us were in their eighties and very spry and fit, much like my own mother and her husband. The man used to fish for cod from a dory off a big sailing schooner out of Lunenberg, Nova Scotia. They mostly plied the Grand Banks, which is quite a distance off shore. He was the real deal, but unlike many he did not wax nostalgic about those days. I asked if he had enjoyed. “Not really. We did what we had to do.†He was also an excellent concertina player so it was a treat to be his neighbor.
His wife understood our American accents better than he could and often repeated to him what we said. We had a hard time making out what they were saying, too.
“Got any floys over dere?†he asked.
“Floys?… Oh flies. No not now.â€
In Newfie: bye = boy; foine = fine; toime = time; th = d or t. Basic greeting: “G’day. Noice day.â€
Some people were easier to understand than others. Occasionally we just faked comprehension with a nod and a smile, and they did the same to us.
That night there was a dance in Francois in their community meeting space. It was reminiscent of a middle school cafeteria. We sat at the end of a long table of strangers, exchanging nods and smiles. The place was packed. You could bring your own booze or buy it there. We bought it there figuring it was the least we could do to support the community. After all, the docking was free and so was garbage disposal.
The music at the dance consisted of a one man band playing a combination of American pop and old Newfie favorites like “Coxie Woxie.†Coxie Woxie always get everyone out on the dance floor.
Coxie Woxie, Dixie Bird
How I love my Coxie Woxie Dixie Bird….
Kenny didn’t feel like busting any moves, so I danced with other girls or just by myself. The dance floor was packed for almost every tune. Newfies love to party.
The next day I went for a hike while Kenny worked on the boat. Much to my surprise I found loads of wild blueberries. I dumped out my water jug and used it to collect the berries. The only people around was a young couple enjoying the fresh water pond. It was a bit chilly for swimming for my taste, so I stuck to my berry collecting and just enjoyed the pungent smell of fir trees and the tremendous views which I’ll never be able to paint.
It was in Francois that we learned of Hurricane Bill from our cruising friend, Corning Townsend. We went to the library to get on-line and discovered that the models projected the path of the storm to come right through Francois in about five days. We immediately delved into a healthy cocktail hour and discussed our plan. First we thought we’d head out the next day for Sydney, Nova Scotia and batten down the hatches there. Surely they’d have good docks and a hotel room if necessary… Then we decided, it would be better to head west along the Newfoundland coast and get as far away from the storm’s path as possible.
We departed early the following day and sailed in a total white out until our arrival in Burgeo when the fog lifted. Dropping the anchor in long reach with two other sailboats, we breathed a sigh of relief, until we looked at the weather report again. Now the hurricane was projected to make a direct hit on Burgeo. Great. Westward ho to Isle aux Morts.
Isle aux Morts lies 55 nautical miles west of Burgeo and just five east of Port aux Basque on the south coast of Newfoundland. It was about as far west as we could go. We nestled into the corner of the wharf and waited for Hurricane Bill.
There were two other boats moored there and they belonged to locals. Tom Harvey was one of the boat owners and we became instant friends. He brought beers over to Mary T’s cockpit and we took a break from tying things down. Other men lounged on the wharf and joined in the conversation. Tom’s ancestors were famous in Isle aux Morts (Island of the Dead) for rescuing the victims of shipwrecks. Isle aux Morts takes its name from all the ships that crashed on the rocks just off shore. Although there are many little islands surrounding the town, Isle aux Morts proper is on the mainland.
Neither Tom nor the owner of the other boat were taking the extensive precautions that Kenny and I were. To them it wouldn’t be any worse than a normal blow in the winter months. Nevertheless we decided to prepare for the worst.
Just as the Harveys of the 1800s helped rescue people from sinking vessels, Tom looked after us and invited us to his house to take showers. His wife even gave us a jar of pickled mackerel. They couldn’t have been nicer.
We spent four days in Isle aux Morts and had continual visits from the townsfolk. One man, aged 77, was a foreman at the now defunct fish plant. (Every town on the south coast of Newfoundland is home to a closed and rusting fish plant). He told us, “People came from towns all around to work in the plant and we all made money hand over fist. My wife worked in the factory too. The harbor was full of fishing boats.â€
Then he explained the surgery he’d recently undergone to have a cancerous tumor removed from his liver. Lifting up his shirt, he revealed the giant scar on his abdomen. “Never felt no pain from it.” He was indeed a healthy looking older gentleman without an ounce of fat on him unlike so many Newfies who suffer from obesity.
Weathering the hurricane didn’t turn out to be so bad. The worst of it lasted about three hours. It blew and it rained and blew and rained and we drank rum to calm our nerves. At 12:30 p.m. we went to bed and slept like the dead. The only damage was to our masthead light’s bracket which we later had repaired in Baddeck.
Following the storm we wanted to fill up our tanks with diesel before heading back to Nova Scotia. The only gas station was in Port aux Basque a 20 minute drive from Mary T. We figured we’d stand by the road with our fuel jugs and stick out our thumbs or get a cab if necessary. Turns out we didn’t have to do either. Ward, the harbormaster came by in his car to check on us and offered us a ride. We did top off his gas tank to show our appreciation, but he wouldn’t have asked for anything. Ward had a heart of gold.
In addition to his job as harbormaster, Ward was in charge of allocating cemetery plots, which was a pretty touchy occupation. Often times people changed their minds about where they wanted to be buried as a result of divorce or family feuds. Newfoundland is primarily rock, so burial space is at a premium. Ward told us about his sister with Alzheimer’s a disease to which he’d also lost his mother. He used to fish and be a hunter of caribou and moose, but now his knees were giving him trouble so he couldn’t walk too far.
You might think Ward was an unhappy man, but nothing could be further from the truth. He professed enjoying life and appreciated what he had. Before we left Isle aux Morts, he gave us two jars of moose meat as a parting gift. I had expressed a curiosity about the taste and he hadn’t forgotten. I look forward to our first moose stew.
There were others who came to talk or observe us at the wharf. One man who appeared to be a little on the slow side just sat and watched us for hours. A woman working in her yard one day stopped us as we were passing by. “You the ones on the yacht?†“Yes.†Everyone referred to Mary T as a “yacht†because it was for pleasure, not work. We loved that. The woman then proceeded to tell us of her daughter who lived in America and worked for Southwest Airlines. She and her husband used to go and visit all the time, but now he had health issues relating to his heart and had to be near the blood bank in Port aux Basque. No one complained about the health care system.
As Kenny pointed out, we were the only new set of ears in town. Although people usually expressed a desire to know where we were from, most were more interested in sharing their own story. I enjoyed being able to learn so much about people without having to ask many questions.
Our crossing back over to Cape Breton was swift and lovely. It was a beautiful sunny day and the wind was off our beam. For a few hours we traveled at 8 knots which is fast for us. We reached Baddeck at 2:00 a.m. Only the last part of the trip was nerve wracking as it was dark and difficult to judge the distance of the navigational buoys and pick them out from lights on land. It was like sailing into a Christmas tree.
In our haste to get to Newfoundland we did not do justice to Cape Breton’s Bras d’Or Lakes, which boast many a lovely anchorage. We did stop at two lovely places near the northern tip of Cape Breton on our way to Newfoundland. Both Ingonish and Dingwall are known for their highlands which are often compared to those of Scotland. There’s even a distillery nearby where they make Scotch. We swam in a freshwater lake in Ingonish. The water was glorious — clean and not too cold.
Dingwall has practically no town, a dying resort and huge, beautiful empty beaches. Were it America, they’d be packed with sunbathers and chain hotels. We met an honest to God treasure hunter there, selling fast-food out of a trailer. He talked with the passion of a gambler and told us how he hires several divers to go out with him and systematically comb the waters off the coast where a Spanish Galleon and other ships are said to have gone down. He knew it was a long shot, but he was addicted.
Now at the marina in St. Peter’s we’re poised to head southwest, back to familiar waters. We hope one day to return to these parts.
