Joseph arrived at the Bar Harbor, Maine, terminal just after midnight. He slept in the car until daylight.
The Bluenose entered the harbor and delicately docked.
In less than two hours, he had boarded and stood at the rail, looking at the shore getting smaller and smaller as the ferry began its sail
across the Bay of Fundy to Nova Scotia.
By his side, an old man well into his eighties said, “We won’t see land for five to six hours.”
Five more minutes and a thick mist covered the ship like a wet blanket. The ocean swells grew larger and the ferry rolled and humped
the waves like a twig in a country pond.
The old man said that they might be in for a rough sail. “The Bay of Fundy can be cruel, full of surprises, especially in the spring.”
On his way to the lobby, Joseph held the rail. He wondered about the old man who reminded him of vintage fishermen in Chebec who
started fishing the ocean young—twelve, thirteen, or fourteen—assisting their fathers who were called, “Old Salts.” Hard working,
good family providers, liked to drink a bit on weekends, rum their favorite. They would be on rough seas for days, or stay a week at a
time in shanties on islands and come home on the weekends.
Joseph sat and scanned the passengers. The ship’s motion had already rattled their stomachs and sense of balance. Droopy eyes stared
out of ghostly faces. In the seat in front of him, a little girl put her hand over her mouth and leaned forward. The mother grabbed the
child and headed for the toilet. When they returned, the ship rocked so hard that they could hardly stand up. They slumped onto the
seat. The girl lay across her mother’s lap.
A woman sat on the bench, her head on a man’s shoulder. She let out a grunt and vomited on the man’s chest and lap. He, oblivious
to his surrounding, did not try to get out of her way. He just sat there, head back, groaning.
A young couple with a boy who looked about five sat next to them. They leaned forward hacking and holding their guts, the boy on
the floor, motionless, white as snow.
Old Salt, swaying with the ship came and sat next to Joseph. The old seaman positioned his cane between his legs and overlapped his
hands on the handle. He said, “It’s going to get rougher. I feel it in my bones. Neptune’s wrath. You’re hanging pretty good, young
man.”
The ship’s nurse tried to attend to the passengers, especially the old folks, but the rocking threw her about. Several times, she fell on
her butt.
Waves slammed the lobby windows thirty feet above the ferry’s waterline and submerged the bow.
What if one of the eighteen-wheelers in the hull got loose, hit the side of the vessel? It would punch a hole, for sure. There were
lifeboats, but could they hold all the people and withstand the storm? What would Madeline and the children do if he got lost at sea? A
thud interrupted his thoughts. A massive swell swathed the ship’s broadside. Twists and screeches reverberated throughout the lobby’s
walls and frame.
Sour gas rose in his throat. His stomach gurgled. He palmed his mouth and zigzagged to the toilet. After what seemed like an eternity
of hacking and empting his belly, the sickness subsided. He returned. Another huge breaker slapped the ship and jerked him sideways.
He wondered when the final blow would come. Would I be brave?
In a couple of hours of anguish and uncertainty, the ocean swells became long and low. The rain tapered to a drizzle and then to a
heavy wet fog. Sighs of relief and exhales rustled in the lobby.
The sea smoothed and rolled like a cradle. Children perked up. Many stood on the benches at the windows looking at the sea as if
hypnotized by its power.
Old Salt sat in the same position. In a slight turn toward Joseph, he said, “I guess it wasn’t time.”
Joseph shuddered and went outside, leaned on the rail. The fog had lifted. On the horizon, a jagged outline began to emerge. The sun
beamed on Yarmouth’s low landscape. Then the tide-marked and rustic wharf colonnades became clear. The Atlantic Ocean musk of
sea-weeded coastline emitted a familiar scent. Sounds of gulls and sandpipers, some in flight and others perched on dock posts,
clacked and trumpeted a homecoming. With grace, the Bluenose snuggled to the main terminal dock.
Joseph descended in the ship’s belly to his car. A large door opened on the side of the vessel. Daylight flooded the hull. A ramp
bridged the ferry to Nova Scotia.
The Bluenose entered the harbor and delicately docked.
In less than two hours, he had boarded and stood at the rail, looking at the shore getting smaller and smaller as the ferry began its sail
across the Bay of Fundy to Nova Scotia.
By his side, an old man well into his eighties said, “We won’t see land for five to six hours.”
Five more minutes and a thick mist covered the ship like a wet blanket. The ocean swells grew larger and the ferry rolled and humped
the waves like a twig in a country pond.
The old man said that they might be in for a rough sail. “The Bay of Fundy can be cruel, full of surprises, especially in the spring.”
On his way to the lobby, Joseph held the rail. He wondered about the old man who reminded him of vintage fishermen in Chebec who
started fishing the ocean young—twelve, thirteen, or fourteen—assisting their fathers who were called, “Old Salts.” Hard working,
good family providers, liked to drink a bit on weekends, rum their favorite. They would be on rough seas for days, or stay a week at a
time in shanties on islands and come home on the weekends.
Joseph sat and scanned the passengers. The ship’s motion had already rattled their stomachs and sense of balance. Droopy eyes stared
out of ghostly faces. In the seat in front of him, a little girl put her hand over her mouth and leaned forward. The mother grabbed the
child and headed for the toilet. When they returned, the ship rocked so hard that they could hardly stand up. They slumped onto the
seat. The girl lay across her mother’s lap.
A woman sat on the bench, her head on a man’s shoulder. She let out a grunt and vomited on the man’s chest and lap. He, oblivious
to his surrounding, did not try to get out of her way. He just sat there, head back, groaning.
A young couple with a boy who looked about five sat next to them. They leaned forward hacking and holding their guts, the boy on
the floor, motionless, white as snow.
Old Salt, swaying with the ship came and sat next to Joseph. The old seaman positioned his cane between his legs and overlapped his
hands on the handle. He said, “It’s going to get rougher. I feel it in my bones. Neptune’s wrath. You’re hanging pretty good, young
man.”
The ship’s nurse tried to attend to the passengers, especially the old folks, but the rocking threw her about. Several times, she fell on
her butt.
Waves slammed the lobby windows thirty feet above the ferry’s waterline and submerged the bow.
What if one of the eighteen-wheelers in the hull got loose, hit the side of the vessel? It would punch a hole, for sure. There were
lifeboats, but could they hold all the people and withstand the storm? What would Madeline and the children do if he got lost at sea? A
thud interrupted his thoughts. A massive swell swathed the ship’s broadside. Twists and screeches reverberated throughout the lobby’s
walls and frame.
Sour gas rose in his throat. His stomach gurgled. He palmed his mouth and zigzagged to the toilet. After what seemed like an eternity
of hacking and empting his belly, the sickness subsided. He returned. Another huge breaker slapped the ship and jerked him sideways.
He wondered when the final blow would come. Would I be brave?
In a couple of hours of anguish and uncertainty, the ocean swells became long and low. The rain tapered to a drizzle and then to a
heavy wet fog. Sighs of relief and exhales rustled in the lobby.
The sea smoothed and rolled like a cradle. Children perked up. Many stood on the benches at the windows looking at the sea as if
hypnotized by its power.
Old Salt sat in the same position. In a slight turn toward Joseph, he said, “I guess it wasn’t time.”
Joseph shuddered and went outside, leaned on the rail. The fog had lifted. On the horizon, a jagged outline began to emerge. The sun
beamed on Yarmouth’s low landscape. Then the tide-marked and rustic wharf colonnades became clear. The Atlantic Ocean musk of
sea-weeded coastline emitted a familiar scent. Sounds of gulls and sandpipers, some in flight and others perched on dock posts,
clacked and trumpeted a homecoming. With grace, the Bluenose snuggled to the main terminal dock.
Joseph descended in the ship’s belly to his car. A large door opened on the side of the vessel. Daylight flooded the hull. A ramp
bridged the ferry to Nova Scotia.
Crossing the Bay of Fundy
by
Bill Boudreau, Feb. 2008
by
Bill Boudreau, Feb. 2008
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| ~ Other Shore ~ |