Buoys and Ghost Trees on the Nova Scotia Shore

Nova Scotia threw off the ragged coat of winter last weekend and Himself and Queenie were lucky enough to be down on Long Island to see it.

Queenie skipped out of work on Friday afternoon at three thirty, having been hard at it since eight am, and we hit the road and headed into the sunset down the long steep slope to Cape Blomidon; then through the valley to Digby and down the Neck to the ferry. We had Himself’s nephew Branden with us, so we enjoyed ourselves making him squirm with embarrassment at us elders and our views on things and our goddamned embarrassing taste in music. Although I had my recently purchased Sleator-Kinney album so I could lord it over him a little.

We got the five thirty ferry and headed to his dad's house for a couple of beers before dinner. Then we watched some godawful movie that had Nicholas Cage wandering around Liberia pretending very unsuccessfully to be a big shot at smuggling guns.

Man, that guy can’t act his way out of a paper bag. His face is permanently stuck on ‘where the hell am I?’.

Queenie was tired after a hard week slogging over air emissions and sulphur dioxide limits and acid rain and all kinds of exciting environmental issues, so she was in bed asleep by one.

It was worth it though, because next day the sky was blue blue blue and we had breakfast early on the deck and planned a trip to the shore.

We walked up to the lighthouse in Tiverton and then cut down through the woods to the shore. The sun dappled through the birches and the spruces and shone on the winter grass, warming it up. It was a steep slope and difficult to manoeuvre, because the tree trunks were often rotten from the wind and sea salt; we had to take our chances with each grip. But we made it down with no problems except for the lower branches sweeping my hat off my head as I ducked under them.

The shore was exhilarating. The waves pounding the rocks, some snow drifted into dark crevasses, and the sun glaring down on us with a white, flat light that truncated the shadows. The sea was a lovely deep blue. We walked along the rocks to find the buoy that Himself had seen from the boat the other day.

A walk on the shore in Nova Scotia is a geologist’s dream. The rocks are a deep, dark brown, with seams of quartz and amethyst that run along like the joins in a patchwork quilt. The flatter rocks look like some giant’s children’s hopscotch game, crazily zig-zagging across the shore. In between the rocks, there are little pockets of purple amethyst and white that glisten beautifully in the sunlight.

We came across a birch tree that had had its bark completely stripped off by the wind and waves. It was a ghostly white, its skeletal remains stark against the sky and sea. The base was knotted and gnarled, the roots having been pulled up by the wind I suppose. It glistened like alabaster in the sun.

We found the buoy eventually. It was like an iceberg; two thirds of it is under water. It leaned against a big chunk of basalt, towering over it. There wasn’t a mark on it, despite being washed up on the strand for three weeks.

We weren’t the only ones there, although we were there first. The first gathering of this year! A chance to talk and laugh and enjoy the wind and sun in our faces. Queenie came home with sunburn and a big smile.

Himself had thought to bring a few Schooners in the knapsack, and I sat there nursing one while he wrestled a huge brass nut off the buoy bell as a keepsake for me.

Spring’s a comin’, boys and girls!