Though the day’s original plan fell miserably apart, I’m all about the improvisation. Okay, I’m actually more about getting into the car at the spur of the moment and driving with only a vague idea of direction and intention. The light caught up with me and I had perhaps the last patio dinner of the year. It was a good day.
From Grand Manan Island Tuesday, September 28, 2021
From Grand Manan Island, Monday, September 27, 2021
Well, we know where we’re goin’
But we don’t know where we’ve been
And we know what we’re knowin’
But we can’t say what we’ve seen
-David Byrne
Take a look to the left of the map up top and if you look real close you’ll note that I call this a non-linear blog. Nearly two weeks away from Grand Manan and I still have to sort through photos from then until now.
Today, I had to return some pants. Not the usual start of a Saturday adventure, but hey, lesser things have motivated me. You see, I only packed jeans. This is no surprise to anyone who knows me.
If I’m ever going to appeal to a woman who likes a man in uniform, she’s gonna need to have an appreciation for jeans and black v-necks, for that is the uniform of Shpak. Throw a sport coat over it and I’m sometimes accused of being fancy. In fact, I simply need the pockets.
As a privilege of my acquaintances in Saint John, I discovered the secret handshake that will get me dining rights at the Union Club, rumoured to be the home of the local illuminati, literati, or mafioso. Once again, my flaky hearing kicked in, so I’m not quite sure. However, I’ve been by it several times and it’s quite swank.
Now, if I were an actual rock star rather than a pretend weekend version, I’d just walk in with my usual uniform and if anyone made a fuss, I’d have made a bigger one, craploaded with entitlement. You know, just for fun.
In fact, in the right mood I might do that anyway, fakestar though I am. However, the keeper of the secret handshake has gone all out for me so besmirching my own tattered reputation is all well and good, but it would not be smirched in a vacuum. The secret handshake would reveal my benefactor.
This is where the pants come in.
I ventured forth last night to repants myself in keeping with the Union Club dress code. Now, the corona plague has put change rooms off limits in retail establishments, making return policies far more important to me than they’ve ever been before.
As it happened, the dimensions that serve me well regardless of the source of jeans failed me when translated into dress sizes. There was no way the usual size was going to work in grey wool. I didn’t find this out until I got back to my suite and, standing there with no pants on, I wasn’t inclined to return to the store right away.
Instead, I pulled pants on today and went to the store after buzzing around Uptown, intuiting the way back to the provider in question. A straightforward exchange ensued and I was suitably upsized.
Then, instead of turning left, I to-hell-with-it turned right and drew upon many map viewings. I was vaguely aware of Kingston being across a ferry so I went thataway. The photos that follow were gathered along the way. Along with some fish cakes and a beef short rib, this year’s Thanksgiving protein. There’s no end to the blue skies in this province, and they’re setting off the emergent fall colours in a lovely way.
It was a good drive, even if I can’t say what I’ve seen.
Though shot first, this series was the second one I edited.
A local tourism map suggests that the ghost lighthouse on Gannet Rock is some 14.5 kilometres southeast of, one assumes, the southern tip of Grand Manan Island. Without a compass and map, it’s difficult to know precisely how time, speed and direction conspired, but arguably, the Zodiac boat I was on departed the Bay of Fundy and entered the Gulf of Maine or perhaps the Atlantic Ocean itself. I’m not up on how these things are defined.
Let’s call it a long way from frikkin land, because it felt as though we proceeded past Gannet Rock about another 14.5 km or so. On a gray day, the horizon between sea and sky was just a suggestion. That, in itself, wasn’t an issue.
Nor were the seas themselves, no matter which body of water was technically surrounding me. The captain estimated swells of less than one metre. Oh, there were drops of two or three metres that rattled the coccyx, but these were occasional. Even a lake tripping canoeist like me knew this was a gentle day in a stable boat, well within its design parameters. This wasn’t an issue.
I resisted the urge to yell, “thar she blows!” when I spotted the first of the humpbacks to port and the captain turned in the direction of the finger that I could not resist pointing. We’d found our pod. This, too, was hardly an issue.
Calm-ish sea or not, there remained plenty of motion and as I raised camera to eye, there was a bit of struggle to keep the telephoto lens trained on the aquatic mammals that were surfacing to clear their blowholes. On top of this, I was keeping my non-camera eye open to spot other groups. This is where the issues began.
The human ability to detect its position in space depends on a coordinated effort. The inner ear holds three balance organs that detect and track the head’s rotation and others to report on its movement.
That information is sent to the brain, which then compares it to information gathered by the eyes. This is a sort of inner redundancy check. Your brain expects to see a field of vision that matches the motion information put forth by the ears. Muscles and nerves provide tertiary-level input.
As long as the brain reconciles the reporting of these body systems, all is fine, as it was all the way to the imagined point, 29 km or more from our starting point.
However, my spatial sensors were having a rather heated discussion. Muscles and nerves were fixed in position within the Zodiac. One eye was tracking whales through a long lens. The other eye perceived a more or less normal field of vision. My ears were reporting every gentle roll along every gentle axis.
In short, my balance systems were calling each other liars.
The net result became apparent as the whales began to lose interest in us. Given the internal struggle that was now creating storm surges in my stomach while a great wooze did its thing from ear to ear, I was losing interest in them.
Forget whales. It was indignity prevention time. All I needed (not) was to hang over the inflatable side of the Zodiac pumping bacon and eggs into the bay/gulf/ocean. The telephoto went back into the camera bag and out came a GoPro that I simply engaged and held high, hoping I was pointing in the right direction. Usable footage? Well, no.
As the cetaceans dwindled and the captain turned back toward the harbour, I was not at odds with his decision. Along the way, I saw my first in-person puffins, pulled the long lens out and suddenly remembered why I put it away. More meditational breathing.
By the time we were back in Ingalls Head, my eyes, ears, bones and brain were once again on civil terms and the shelter of the harbour was both literal and figurative, and I maintained my breakfast.
It was, in the grand scheme, a tiny battle. The images were worth it.
Whenever you need to take a ferry across to an island, see if you can arrange for weather like that on September 27, 2021 out of Black’s Harbour, New Brunswick. This was autumn at its very finest: rich blue skies, fresh sea air with a hint of the cold yet to come and a positivity impossible to ignore. It felt like each time I raised the camera, there was a postcard waiting to be taken.
It’s one thing to be sightseeing, and quite another for those 2,000 on Grand Manan Island who depend on the ferry for connection to the mainland. Perhaps it was only the tourists on the deck in the sunshine, but on days like this, it’s got to be a good ride for anyone, no matter how routine the crossing.
For my fellow travellers on the Lambert Zodiac tour out of Ingalls Head, Grand Manan, this is the right place. More photos will be posted here once I get back to Saint John to do the editing. Head to the Contact Scott link to pass on email requests for copies of photos.
-Scott. 09/29/2021 Grand Manan
Itinerant Impressions 