The Island, Part II

I am embarrassed to say that although we witnessed a stunning sunset during our stay on the island, our goal of seeing the sunrise over adjacent Moose Island never materialized. We woke the second day, the sun, unrestrained in the absence of curtains, flooding our bedroom and coaxing us out to experience the rest of the island. We drank coffee on the second floor deck, and eased ourselves into the day at a leisurely pace. Paul had been working on a boardwalk, and eventually came over to see how we were doing. Armed with our story of the previous evening and my immediate affection for Egg and Pinnacle islands, Paul asked, “Why don’t you go see them today?” I paused. Paul identified my puzzled look and clarified. “When the tide is out you can walk to them. Just take a radio with you and I’ll call you when you have to start coming in. You don’t want to be stuck out there when the tide comes in.” For people that aren’t familiar with the Bay of Fundy, it’s home to the highest tides in the world. The human mind is incapable of imagining a body of water rising forty-five feet in the course of a few hours, which is why every year without fail, a few tourists are plucked by search and rescue teams from cliff faces that border the basin. The tide is well known, so these individuals that get caught by the rising water are without a sympathetic story to tell, except perhaps, to Noah. The tides are something that need to be seen to be believed, and having already seen the high water mark the night before, the novelty of walking on the bottom of the ocean was not beyond us. We finished our coffee and a couple plums, donned our sandals and started down the trail to the stairs that led to the sea floor. Paul called out to us, “Oh, by the way, you’ll have some company this afternoon—your boss is coming for a visit.” I rolled my eyes. Only I could be so fortunate as to be isolated on a remote island, and still have my boss drop by for tea.

The stairs, we soon realized, were as difficult to descend as they were to climb. Although tempting, the extreme, near-vertical rise of the staircase prohibited us from sliding down the banister. The day before, Amy and I laughed at a document left in one of the cabins for guests to fill out. One of the sentences read, “What additions would you like to see made to the island?” Amy and I had scoffed at the absurdity of the question, as if someone could perfect perfection. It was at this moment I reconsidered adding, “slide to the sea floor” to the vacant space below the query. The rocks that comprised the seabed were more coarse than I would have imagined. Although there were some stones that had their edges worn smooth from the endless ebb of the tides, it’s not a geography I would have felt comfortable exploring without adequate footwear. We walked slowly, watching sandbars rise in the distance as the water of the New Minas Basin reacquainted itself with its mother, the Atlantic. A prehistoric Arc De Triumph loomed in front of us like a flying buttress shoring up the Western cliffs of Long Island. We dragged our hands across the eroding wall of the island, recognizing the tragedy of this majestic tide: that it erodes the island, and that at some point, a thousand years from now, Long Island might be nothing more than another sandbar in the Basin. Thankfully, we’ll be well off of this earth by then, though I wonder whether Heaven has a paradise like Long Island.

Taking our time we moved west, pushing out the tide. The terrain changing from rock to sand, our enthusiasm motivating us to wade up to our knees as we traversed the undulating bottom—furrows of sand created by the determined water. Tide pools gave us pause as we looked at the remnants of crabs and lobsters, which had no doubt been a meal for hungry sea gulls; the life in the New Minas Basin juxtaposed with the fates of the creatures that occupied it, empty clamshells littering the landscape. Gulls barked at us as if we were intruders, though stayed far enough away for us to admire. Periwinkles pimpled the land as we got closer to Egg and Pinnacle, creating a sharp, textured surface, to the soft curves of the water-worn rocks. Tide pools again attracted our attention as we watched hermit crabs carve out an existence. Life can’t be hospitable in climate where sea birds know you only as, “lunch.” We scoured the rocky beach of Pinnacle Island, looking hard, but not for anything in particular. The cacophony of the gulls reminded me to check my watch, and thinking it prudent, we began to head back. By this time the tide had fully receded, and what had been knee-deep water on the way to the little islands, was now a sandy, land bridge. We took off our sandals and walked barefoot, relishing the silty red mud between our toes. We took our time walking back to Long Island, picking up and putting down rocks, skipping stones and chatting. Without the din of a cityscape our ears strained to hear noises that weren’t there. Then, once again, as we had done before and would do again, back up the 188 steps to the main house where our hunger took over, and Amy went to work in the kitchen making deft use of an onion and the bag of chanterelles which she pan fried, and then used as a bed to cook eggs on top of; the caliber of the food the only competitor to the of the beauty of the landscape.

We ate and paused. Wanting to get some writing done, I hung my hammock between two trees and pulled my computer to my lap while Amy took one of the paths to relax on her own. It was the sound of a boat motor that pulled me away from the computer—Amy skipped down the path caroling that we had company. It was Joachim, my boss and his Uncle Rudy, Rudy’s wife, and their Dutch entourage come to see the island. My initial hesitation at seeing my employer outside of work immediately vanished. Joachim apologized for intruding but his presence made me realize how isolated we were, that with the exception of Paul, his was the first face we’d seen in a day. Besides, I consider Joachim a friend before I consider him an employer, and given the scarcity of friendly faces on this earth, his was a welcomed sight. We chatted about our adventure to Egg and Pinnacle, while Rudy toured the island. Paul suggested that we needed to visit Moose Island, next. Joachim looked a little worried; “You know the current is a lot stronger going to Moose than Pinnacle. Just make sure you’re really careful.” I took Joachim’s cautionary tone seriously. Joachim, dressed in canvas shorts and blue hoodie, looked as relaxed as I’d ever seen him. His family had owned a cottage in this area for years; the calm on his face gave strong justification for his frequent weekend visits and Mondays off. The blue stains on his neck, however, spoke of the stress of the hunted. A year earlier at the Stroink family reunion, Joachim had acquired a set of paintball guns that he used on his visiting Dutch relatives. Whether or not his family had been practicing the fine art of paintball upon their return to Holland was never discussed, but it looked as though they’d gotten the better of Joachim this year, and that he’d be lucky to survive another day with his visiting, extended family. Rudy eventually returned from the tour; he was in the long process of carving out his own paradise on the mainland. The opportunity to see another man’s castle was too great to pass up, and he returned from his tour of the island with a twinkle in his eye that made me wonder what Rudy’s next cottage project would be. In a moment our guests would be gone, down the long descent of stairs, back to the boat, and ultimately to the mainland. As the hum of the outboard died-off in the distance I turned to Amy, “is it time for the Prosecco?” She smiled affirmatively, and we went indoors for our bubbly. I popped the cork and poured two glasses. We were still recovering from our expedition, but the smiles had not left our faces. Weary, and without an itinerary, amidst the embarras de riches, we guiltily chose to relax on the couch and enjoyed our Prosecco as we watched a movie on Amy’s computer.

The movie ended and the hour was getting late, sleep would be the logical choice and yet, we felt as though our evening was incomplete. While standing in front of the throne, relieving myself from the effects of the Prosecco, I was able to look out the bathroom window at the cacophony of stars in the sky. I finished my business and informed Amy that I had a plan. We exited the house into the cool night air and walked down the unfinished boardwalk to the boathouse. When the boathouse had been introduced to us, I assumed that it would be a place to house boats. What I couldn’t have anticipated was in the whimsy that defines this island, the boathouse is a cottage inspired by the hull shape of a Mississippi river boat. We climbed the stairs to the top deck and lay on our backs. The crisp air of the early-August night had swept away the clouds, and our gazing was unencumbered save for the gentle swaying of the evergreen branches that framed the night sky high above our heads. Our patience was quietly rewarded by a periodic shooting star that streaked across our sightlines and then vanished. It had been ages since I’d looked at the sky. The pollution of streetlights, high-rises and “civilization” had eliminated the simple beauty of stargazing from my day-to-day life. In the absence of this beauty, first the eyes, and then the mind, forget the simplicity of looking skywards. I grew up in a farmhouse in rural Ontario where nights like this were taken for granted. I would never take it for granted again.

I don’t know how much time had passed, maybe an hour? Eventually, my eyes closing for longer periods of time than they were open, was my cue that it was time for bed. We walked silently back to the main house, up the stairs and under the covers, the cool breath of the summer breeze through the window lulling me to sleep. My eyes shut. I didn’t open them again till the next morning.