Little Gull Island
Noah's Ark and its company had a bumpy ride to Shad Bay. The sea was sloppy, with random waves from several directions. Also the light was intermittent. They would be in the shadow of towering clouds and then the sun would break through, looking silver for once rather than golden. Snow flurries accompanied the shade and then tapered off in the brightness like handfuls of flung coins.
"How fine," said Little Mac, loud enough for his words to carry from his deck chair in the back of the Cape Islander to his wife Big Bertha at the wheel. "I haven't been so entertained since last we chanced upon the northern lights."
In his lap was Sir Barksalot, who was uncharacteristically still and quiet after having fallen overboard when the boat was rocked suddenly by a wave while he was leaning too far over the side peering into the sea. Mac had caught him by the collar with the Ark's boathook and hauled him back in shivering and whimpering. Now he lay wrapped in a blanket, content to look out from its folds at a more removed scenery. With Bertha in the pilothouse was the boat's namesake, her little grandson Noah, whom she was holding and teaching how to steer.
"I hope you can convey your sense of entertainment to poor Sir Barkie," Bertha called back.
"Young Barkie is a novice sea dog learning important lessons. So he's having a fine day too."
"I'll take your word for it. Our young novice captain is learning too. He's steering us into the lee of Little Gull Island so we can take a little break from all this entertainment. A body can only stand so much entertainment, you know, before it upchucks its breakfast."
In the lee of Little Gull they anchored and relaxed. Sir Barkie recovered his equanimity enough to want out of the blanket and back on deck so he could stand with his boy Noah while the breakers on the opposite side of the island threw up tremendous clouds of spray the fading aftermaths of which drifted over them and made Noah whoop with delight.
"I don't know how much longer this indian summer of mine will last," Mac confided as they sat there, he and Bertha side by side now and holding hands. "But whatever season we're in, Bertie, I can think of no better way of spending it than with you and this crew."
"Here's to your indian summer then," Bertha said, passing the thermos. "Now, please, let's talk about something else. You're going to make me cry. And then the tears will freeze and won't that be entertaining? No sir, not at all."
"No ma'am," agreed Mac. "Not at all. Not at all."
Noah whooped and Sir Barksalot barked with a renewed excitement as, from time to time, the faint spray drifted down. High above and far away the cautionary cries of gulls were like exclamation points made with almost invisible ink. Against the hull of Noah's Ark, the waves slapped idly.
11 March 2018
Texas Jim
Shad Bay, Nova Scotia
www.granitecoast.ca