On the ferry from PEI to Nova Scotia there was a short man with the Boston Bruins logo tattooed on the back of his calf. Slightly grizzled and with unpredictable teeth, he was probably about 15 years younger than his appearance. He looked like he’d been on the losing end of a couple of fights during his 40 odd years, and when he moved he swung his body in a defiant, challenging swagger that was simultaneously defensive and aggressive.
Ashley was the girl working the little cafeteria on the boat. She had pale skin, thin red hair and a hole just beneath her lower lip where she would normally house the piercing her boss makes her take out for work. I asked if the chilli was a good choice and she looked at me blankly, paused for an unblinking moment or two, and then as unadorned and blunt as wood, said, “It’s okay, I guess.”
Our destination was Sheet Harbour, a community of about 800 people. The road we drove on felt like little more than a paved trail. We passed one other vehicle on the journey and overgrowth obscured road signs, giving us the feeling of moving toward a place that existed between points, a place free of time.
In the town we heard stories of Hurricane Juan. It tore the town up in 2003 and people were without power for weeks, but when three massive trees went down in the small, densely populated cemetery not a single tombstone was touched. What do you make of that, eh? You could get a good meal at the hospital cafeteria for $5, but the doctor was a drinker. Every home we passed seemed to carry with it a story involving the tragic death of children, of some tipping point when things began to fall apart.
Sandra wanted to travel to Nashville, Tennessee. “I’ve always loved Elvis and would just like to be able to look around his home. That would be a dream to me, but the truth is that anywhere would be nice, just to go on a trip and see something different. I’ve never been anywhere.”
Later, at the one local pub, the one open in the summer for tourists, we talked about tattoos with a young waitress. She had three of them, each one, she proudly told us, acquired in Oshawa– one of a Canadian flag, another a silhouette of a girl and a moon and the last one the word Serenity, which she had on her foot. She was going to be starting at Guelph University in the fall. “ I can’t wait,” she said, practically bouncing up and down, “It’s going to be so exciting to leave here, you just have no idea, it’s just going to be great.”
Comments
3 responses to “Sheet Harbour, Nova Scotia”
I went to Sheet Harbour once, with my parents, at 13 they had to drag me kicking and screaming to backwards Nova Scotia. My only lasting memory was of going to the local grocery store. You paid for your food and they packed it in plastic bins and wheeled it down a long rail outside to where you would pull up your car, much like the old beer store. A guy was there to unload the groceries right into the trunk of your car after they rolled down the ramp. It was weird. When we got to our relatives, they helped us unpack the car. Well, it seems as though something was misaligned in Sheet Harbour, as the bags that had come down the ramp were not our bags of bread and cereal and fruit, instead, they were bags of meat. I watched as they picked out package after package of shrink-wrapped bloody meat. Our Nova Scotian relatives celebrated like it was the dawn of 649, I quietly wondered what the fuck I was going to eat for breakfast.
Yup, that’s Sheet Harbour. The PEI ferry has many childhood memories for me, but it’s not the same now.
Well captured, Micheal.
Hey, thanks Kevin!