The Cruise: New Brunswick, the Bay of Fundy and the case of the reversing waterfall

Caves on beach at Bay of Fundy

Day 8 arrived, and Barbara and I splurged on room service coffee, tea, oatmeal and yogurt, watching the sun swell from the Atlantic horizon, adding color to the gray scale of dawn.

The good ship Anthem of the Seas had arrived in the night at Canada's third-largest port and largest ship-builder, St. John, New Brunswick. Of greater interest to us, however, was the Bay of Fundy, home to the world's highest tides . . . and the prospect of seeing the St. John River reverse its course, and its falls flow backward with the Atlantic pushing into the bay with such force that the tides rise more than 40 feet during a roughly six-hour cycle.

Sue: best guide ever

Our colonial dress-clad, moose hat-wearing guide, Sue, was proud of her Scottish-Irish heritage, and an avuncular, (fast) walking encyclopedia of facts about her "town" of 67,000 souls.

Historically, St. John's is Canada's first incorporated city; when the British lost the American Revolution, it also became refuge and new home for loyalists fleeing the fledgling U.S.A.; riots in the 1840-60 era, between Protestant Scots, Anglican Brits and an influx of Irish Catholics were rampant; and the Fire of 1877 blackened 40 percent of the city.

Today, St. John is a city amid revitalization downtown, and slow, considered suburban growth further out. It seems, with its garden-quality medians, clean streets and thriving arts community -- and some uncharacteristic (these days) community pride -- a great place to live.

One (I suppose) tartan-wearing fly in the chowder would be its high tax rates. The Canadian government's social welfare and single-payer national health insurance comes with a price, and the Province and municipality add their own demands. All told, more than 50 percent in taxes on income, Sue told us.

As for the culinary brand of chowder, we had the best we ever tasted at the tiny Bay of Fundy village  of St. Martins. Then we took a long walk on the beach to some ancient caves; nearby colorful fishing boats rested on wooden cradles in the low-tide mud, awaiting the rising of the inbound Atlantic to get them afloat.

Our Irish balladeer

Back in St. John, we stopped at an Irish pub, packed with customers and welcomed as guests with glasses of golden,  Moosehead lager while a middle-aged Irish balladeer sang folk songs imported from the Emerald Isle itself.  (Sue, fueled by her own ale and her moose-antlers hat firmly affixed to her gray locks, laughed and danced behind our Hibernian crooner.)

The outing concluded with the promised incoming high tide. And sure enough, there it was: the St. John River reversing its course, its many waterfalls disappearing to flow upstream as the Bay of Fundy swelled.


So, sometimes, boys and girls, water does run uphill.

And that is kind of encouraging for those of us unwilling enlisted by the unrelenting passage of time within the ranks of the malodorous, yet revered Scots Order of Auld Fairts.

(*Next: Back in the Big Apple, on the way home)