Judy P's Tickle Trunk

Aaah, there’s no end to the excitement in my life. Really, what could be more thrilling than almost stepping out of one’s rubber boot after having it anchored in boot-sucking mud while one is disembarking from one’s watercraft to salvage what appeared at first glance to be the ultimate plastic berry-picking jug. It happened on a beautiful Saturday morning when I took Paddle Song out Prospect Bay for her maiden voyage.

Skipper Parsons before

It was still April and so far I had only seen one other boat on the bay. It was calm, overcast but warm, and I was invigorated with the anticipation of my first real day on the water, searching for the treasures washed up on the beaches over the winter. They wouldn’t last long once more boats were in; I would be first come, first served. I untied the painter from the mooring line and rowed straight down the middle of the bay. My flabby arm muscles quickly adapted to that old familiar rhythm: reach, drop, draw and lift. Or in proper rowing terminology; catch, drive, release and recover. There is no better physical sensation than that little rush  as you give a quick tug and the boat accelerates and then glides easily through the water.  

There was very little yet in the way of spring growth along shore and I was shocked to see how ragged some parts of the woods on Purcell’s Island had become. The spruce on the inner end were mostly dead and falling into a grotesque grey tangle. The shoreline had badly eroded over the winter months and I could no longer find the spot where I used to pull the boat ashore to go look at the old apple trees with the hops growing on them. All of this a late legacy of Hurricane Juan – what was loosened then in the wind had finally given in to the harsh winds of yet another winter and were returning oh so slowly back to the soil. I also could not find the osprey nest which for many years graced the top of a dead tree on the outer end of Purcell’s. I did hear the osprey’s sharp squeak and I looked up to see it soaring in big circles, surveying the water.  I didn’t stop but rowed on, not content until I could get a glimpse of the open ocean around Strawberry Island and out past the head of the bay.

Out the bay past Strawberry Island.

Birds were well represented today and it was a pleasure to have their company after a winter spent largely indoors. They are solitary creatures here on the ocean, not like the flocks which can be overwhelming sometimes in the city (I think of the starlings which stalk the Bud the Spud french fry truck patrons in Halifax). I snuck up on a beautiful blue heron which was standing in the shallows and managed to get quite close before it let out a cry which sounded like a large oak timber being pried from the side of a schooner with a crowbar. It took to wing with the grace of a ballerina and I marvelled at how something which appeared so large could be so light and elegant. I heard a blue-jay  gossiping in the woods with its voice like a squeaky clothesline pulley.

Stuck up gull

A gull sat on a rock, glaring sternly out over the water, not even shifting its beady little eyeball to acknowledge my presence as I approached. “You’re some stuck up” I thought to myself. It remained fixed in that position without a twitch, like a piece of folk art on a post, for a good half an hour. It wasn’t really actively ignoring me, rather it was actively listening to a lobster boat which I couldn’t yet hear and as soon as it came into view, the gull let out a shriek and took to wing to see if it could cash in on any stray bait from the lobster pots going over the side. A little later after the boat had gone out of sight again and I stopped to rest my weary arms, I heard a loon calling from White Horse Cove. The pan-pipe whistle of its mournful cry was haunting even in broad daylight. I would have been very spooked had it been dusk.

 I didn’t really get into beach-combing until I was on the outer side of Pig Island. For me, boating at the beginning of the season is not so much about developing sea legs as it is about getting my land legs in under me, or to be more specific, my getting in and out of the boat legs. It is not uncommon to be found with one foot on the floorboards of the boat and the other precariously placed on a slippery kelp covered rock, my toes curled desperately trying to cling through the thick sole of my rubber boot. More often than not at this point, my hip would crack and my thigh muscles would misinterpret it as a gunshot and seize up solid. I am too far out of the boat to retreat so I take my chances and shift my weight and hope that the rubber of my boot grabs the granite, that my trick knee won’t unhinge, and that my reluctant musculature will kick in appropriately. I believe, after making it ashore many times dry and intact, that I have a guardian angel. Each year, as my ankle joints stiffen I find it harder and harder to clamber over the gunnels and onto the beachrocks to get at the loot.  And loot there was.

A fine pair of water jugs.

I brought home several short sections of two by eight, one nice one three feet long, a small brown bottle, two large white plastic barrels, the perfect plastic berry-picking jug, a ball cap with a Dupont logo, and three five-gallon pails; one white, one red, one black. A veritable Yemeni flag of buckets. Later, I was disappointed to find that the berry picking jug was cracked by the handle so it was not so perfect after all and I discarded it. One of the large white barrels was also cracked but might be used for floatation at some point so I kept it. On the upside, the ball cap was adjustable and had a very sturdy brim. (It came through the wash nicely) I also investigated a pontoon which had broken off a shattered catamaran (nowhere within eyeshot) but it was too heavy and water-logged to handle. There was a cluster of blue buoys – too recognizable as being from the mussel farm in White Horse Cove. They looked like a bunch of giant blueberries gathered up in the beach. I rowed past many styrofoam floats. There was a time that I would bring home every single styrofoam buoy I saw (not the ones in use of course). I planned to spray paint them red and gold and use them as giant Christmas decorations on the chestnut tree at the end of the driveway. They are taking up space in the basement, unpainted, not quite enough to have me solicited for an episode of “Hoarders”. The tree was cut down earlier this spring. Now I only salvage retro wooden buoys or intact plastic ones which can be reused.

I almost always have a tune in my head as I row. Today was no different. As I rowed towards Strawberry Island I could feel the gentlest of swells and the song “Let Me Fish Off Cape Saint Mary’s” got a foothold and stuck around for the remainder of the day: “when I reach that last great shoal, where the groundswells break asunder, and the wild sands roll to the surge’s toll, let me be a man and take it, when my dory fails to make it”.

Lunch by the brook.

Lobster boat.

I savoured the feeling of the warm sun on my face and listened to the comforting drone of the diesel engines and the insistent scree of the gull who, like a whining child, persisted in begging for a free lunch. I relaxed and let my tired muscles recover enough for the row back up the bay and home. All in all, it was a very successful and satisfying maiden voyage.

Skipper Parsons after; rested and ready to row home.