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)

The Cruise: A day at sea, and perspective from on high

The North Star gondola in action (Royal Caribbean)

Day 7, a full day at sea for Barbara, me, and 5,000 or so our of shipmates on the Anthem of the Seas.

This is a day for us to catch our travelers' breath, and inhale, full-lunged the breezes coming off the Atlantic. The ocean is choppy this day, its energy stirred by the vestiges of yet another tropical storm further to the south. The play of white, gray and slate clouds, darting seagulls, the roar of the water as the ship plows onward, and the intermittent sunlight dancing on the whitecaps are mesmerizing.

Barbara and I get in our Fitbit steps, and then some, walking the top deck circuit, joyfully exposed to the elements. By late-morning, we queue up for our reserved ride in the ship's North Star observation gondola.

North Star: 300 feet up

The glass-enclosed capsule fits about a dozen people, including our host, a tall young Scot who amiably chats with us.

He also gives us the facts: Adding in the 150 feet or so of the ship itself from ocean to top deck, the North Star -- rising on its steel arm above the deck -- will give us a view of the ocean from 300-feet plus above sea level.

 Heights are not my thing. Elevators are fine, as long as it doesn't involve looking through a glass floor; observation decks on tall buildings, which sway in the wind, or the precipice of the Grand Canyon, however, again -- not my thing.

Heights: Barb loves, me not much

The things we do for love. And Barbara loves this stuff. So, there I was, gripping the handrails and moving ever-so-carefully as the North Star growled to its apex. The view from on high was impressive (when I was able to suspend visions of cracking glass, a wailing, hard, short fall, and the crunch of spine and skull just before The Darkness).

Barbara? All smiles,"ooohs" and "ahhs." Had the gondola been open, she'd have been leaning out and laughing.

Back on deck, it was another stroll, pausing to claim deck chairs for quiet and the Atlantic horizon. Then we took a few minutes to watch other seniors relive childhood behind the wheels of electric bumper cars.

Seeing a silver-haired octogenarian burst into laughter after hunting down and slamming into another bumper car driver is . . . uniquely amusing, as it is something of a tear in the Time-Space Continuum.

Dinner, conversation with others in our group, a leisurely amble back to our room, and sipping a glass of red wine (that was for one; Barb does not imbibe) on the patio as darkness fell.

I watched the light fade to where only the white caps fluttered into view, touched briefly by moon beams. Such are the moments best expressed with a simple, deep sigh.

(*Next: New Brunswick, the Bay of Fundy and the case of the reversing waterfall).

A day at sea

The Cruise: Halifax and Peggy's Cove, Nova Scotia

Day 6. So quickly have we passed the midpoint of our Royal Caribbean cruise of the Northeast Coast, having arrived in Halifax, Nova Scotia.

Halifax is no small city, with a population in excess of 400,000, and it is a major economic and commercial center, benefiting from its shipbuilding and deep harbor (or, "harbour," in their Queen's English parlance). But it is Nova Scotia's stubborn grip on its (surprise!) Scottish heritage culturally, its maritime history and prominence, and mesmerizing. beautiful coastline that brings in the tourists (and cruise ships).

Halifax also has its share of historical tragedy. Consider that while the survivors of the 1912 Titanic disaster were taken to New York, the recovered dead were taken to Halifax. One hundred and twenty-one of them were buried at the Canadian city's Fairview Cemetery, another 29 buried in other grave sites within Halifax.

Then, just five years later, in December 1917, a French munitions ship collided with a smaller supply ship in a narrow harbor passage. The munitions ship blew apart in an explosion said to be the largest man-made blast until the testing of nuclear weapons. Two-thousand people died and 9,000 were injured in Halifax, where all buildings within an 800-meter radius were leveled.

All of this sad history was shared by our tour guide, and we came to appreciate his pride in "Haligonian" (nope, not Halifaxian) resilience. Thank God, the somber bit soon gave way to the present, vibrant city, and then a leisurely stop at Peggy's Cove, a tiny (year-round population of 30) fishing village with world-famous lighthouse and eye-popping North Atlantic scenery.

Unresolved is how Peggy's Cove got its name. Some say it comes from St. Margaret's Bay, of which it is a part; another is that it simply got it's name from an early settler.

But most popular is the legend conveyed in Felix LeRoy Perry's poem,
"Peggy of the Cove."

There’s a lighthouse on the coast

about a hour’s drive from here

Built on the famous rocky cliffs

Familiar to those far and near.

Tis sad but true that many a ship

Have floundered on her treacherous reef

Some even say those silent gray rocks

Are washed with widow’s pure grief.

Now in this a wee fishing village

The people simple, hardworking and plain

Frustrated watched one such shipwreck

Helpless hearts filled with pain

It seemed no one could have survived.

But in the morn’s first dismal early light

They heard a little girl crying

She was such a wee pitiful sight

Though no one knew her name

She became one of their own.

Someone called the child Peggy

The village gave her a home.

Now friends when the waves crash,

To this very day across that cold rock

Some say you oft hear the spirits voices

Of that girl’s poor parents talk.

They smile at the kind fishermen

Who in deep waters must rove

God bless all the good people

In the village of Peggy’s Cove…

The Cruise: Bar Harbor (i.e. "Bah Hah-bah"), and Acadia National Park by horse drawn wagon

While Portland was a welcome segue to a slower, friendlier and more pleasant travel experience after the urban madness of NYC and Boston, Bar Harbor (that's "Bah Hah-bah" in northern Maine) was the epitome of New England charm, scenic vistas and an early, idyllic autumn.

Bar Harbor would be the only port of call that required "tender" boats (passenger ferries/excursion craft) to take us from ship to shore, where we had booked a combination bus and horse-drawn carriage tour of Acadia National Park.

Barbara and I were agreed: that Monday, when the weather broke to breezy, sunlight and clouds amid the lush forests and rocky coastlines of the North Atlantic, proved a perfect day.

On the back of an open-air carriage, the pine-scented air blessing us with rivulets of nature's perfume, the sight of the swaying branches, and rhythmic jostling of the ride, the sound of the horses hooves in a relaxed clip-clop . . . what a way to explore the beautiful forests, lakes, streams, and stone bridges of the region. (Video below)

Our guide and narrator was well-versed in local lore, happy to engage in light-hearted banter with the riders. The carriage roads, nearly 60 miles in all, were the brainchild of avid horseman John D. Rockefeller Jr., who wanted to retain the peaceful transit free of the encroaching automobile. The whole system, employing hundreds of engineers, stone masons, quarrymen and other laborers, began in 1913 and wasn't finished until 1940.

Almost all (45 miles) of the crushed-stone road system, still car- and bus-free, now belongs to the park, donated by the Rockefeller family. Our carriage ride hosts (Wildwood Stables) operates as a private business with a long-running concession to run the carriage trips on the park land.

(*Next up: Halifax, Nova Scotia, and Peggy's Cove)

The Cruise: Maine's Portland and lighthouses

Portland, Maine: Casco Bay

Day 4 found us in Portland, Maine, quickly chasing the rainy, humid and rushed tourist hell of Boston (almost) out of mind.

Maine is supposed to be part of New England, too, but except for the peculiarity denizens of the region have for screwing up the "R" sound (it's a pronounced, "Ahr," and they know it's odd: even saw street signs outside bars and diners boasting of "Clam Chowdah" and "Lobstah Rolls"), I'm not getting the comparison to Britannia. Maybe there's a dialect there in the U.K. somewhere similar? Dunno.

For sure, though, the courtesy and approach to life (slower, friendlier and even in the urban settings cleaner, far less crowded) of the Pine Tree State is to Boston what a bottle of Perrier is to Flint, Michigan's tap water.

Barbara and I opted for a three-hour tour by bus and walking, leaving the ship's gangway about 8:30 a.m. The theme: lighthouses, structures than have long enchanted Barbara, and eventually made me a convert as well. Three representative lighthouses were on the agenda: the so-called "Bug Light," the "Spring Point Ledge Lighthouse," and the "Portland Head Light." 

Careful: A rocky walk to Bug Lighthouse

Even had a "lobstah roll" for lunch. *Thing about lobster, that big spider of the sea, is that unless it is slathered with butter, lemon and garlic, or in this case all those ingredients AND about quarter cup of mayonnaise on a toasted, split-top bun. . . it's pretty much tasteless by itself.

But that said, and with the savory, albeit unhealthy additions, it was tasty. And personally, anything that involves flash-boiling ocean-bottom crawling arachnids? That really doesn't bother me much. (Too big to step on or spray with Raid? Boiling is just fine!)

Back to the lighthouses. Their history of keeping sailors safe from wrecks, and the engineering involved, make them noteworthy enough.

But throw in the breathtaking scenery of ocean waves, rocky beaches, the feeling of salt spray on your face, and the scent of brine and kelp carried by fresh air . . . well, that's a sensory experience rivaling a doggone epiphany.

Spring Point Ledge Lighthouse

Our tour also included the Liberty Ship Memorial. The shipyards at South Portland built nearly 300 of these WWII cargo and troop ships. The fleet of these mass-produced, no frills ships (about 2,700 in all) were launched on a British design by American industry, likely saving our British and Soviet allies while supplying and ferrying our G.I.s fighting the Japanese.

(Next up: Bar Harbor (a.k.a. "Bah Hahbah," Maine).

The Cruise: Boston,the tour bus from hell, still a history buff's delight

Boston Massacre marker

On our entire 10-day cruise and touring at ports of call, Boston Harbor will forever be an experience both interesting (my degree, after all, is in History) . . . and abysmal.

The came down the gangway to a bus, and . . . waited. Oh, our octogenarian (?) tour guide was FULL of information and (extremely) trivial comments for the next five hours -- once he allowed us to get rolling, about 45 minutes after our departure time.

The late start -- due largely in part to the guide's inability to keep the right luncheon count for "SCROD" (stands for "Special Catch Right of the Dock," and is generally one of many white fish species).

So, he took the count, of the 27 people on-board, FIVE times. Two people wanted chicken instead, if it matters . . . and apparently, it did.

The first stop was supposed to be the Old North Church, where Paul Revere and assorted rebels lit lanterns in 17575 to warn the Minutemen the British were coming to Lexington and Concord. But, remember, we were late . . . so that got moved to the last of the day's itinerary.

Lexington Green

Other stops became looking through windows of the bus as we crept by, mostly architecture. Every now and then, we'd exit for 10 minutes, snap pictures like a bunch of aged sheep (like a spot of pavement where a marker noted the Boston Massacre took place), and then here hustled back on board. Lexington and Concord came and went, with a brief stop on the Lexington Green (site of the fabled "shot heard 'round the world) . . . snap, snap, look at a monument, back on the bus.

Lunch was better, at the historic Union Oyster House in downtown Boston. We crammed into a small dining room up two flights of stairs. The Scrod was good, by the way. The bus was AWOL, however, when we were herded back onto the streets, leading to a meander through a market area until we were reunited.

Trinity Church, reflected in skyscraper glass

Harvard was next. HARVARD? Really? A HOUR there, stuck mostly on the "old" Harvard Yard (there is a "new" Harvard Yard nearby).

The guide talked about the yard's history, and then walked us over to the massive Widener Memorial  Library, an impressive structure to be sure, with its 3.5 million volumes, 57 miles of shelves on 10 levels . . . none of which we got to see, since our tour did not include access.


Finally, the Old North Church! 

But again, it turned out the tour did not include admission to the site itself, so we had to be content with taking photos from the sidewalk, trying to peer into the interior.

Old North Church. Revere, lanterns, etc.

It's too bad, really. I wanted much more from Boston's historic offerings, having crossed a continent to see them.

The Scrod was good...

One bad experience does not a cruise make, though. And it was the only bad experience we were to have. So, there's that.

. . . and did I mention, the Scrod was good? Even the coleslaw was tasty . . .

The Cruise: Casting off, a first day at sea

"Twenty years from now you will be more disappointed by the things that you didn't do than by the ones you did do. So throw off the bowlines. Sail away from the safe harbor. Catch the trade winds in your sails. Explore. Dream. Discover."

                                            H. Jackson Brown, Jr.

 

And, so we did. Well, not setting sails in the true sense, and hardly the wooden ship buffeted by the winds Brown likely had in mind. 

 

View from the top

A mall . . . at sea

After all, the massive, diesel-electric powered Anthem of the Seas is 15 stories high, draws nearly 30 feet of ocean, comes in at just under 1,140 feet long, and is more than 160 feet at the beam.

 

In other words, with 5,000 souls on board, it was a city afloat, and it would take the fringe waves of a tropical storm late in the cruise for us to even be aware of the Atlantic's motions. But it was still adventure for us, 21st century seniors' style. 

It was our first day "at sea," having left NYC en route to Boston Harbor. Barbara and I determined to start at the bottom deck, and work out way up through several levels of restaurants, shops, esplanades,and theaters to the top, 15th level. At the top was where a quarter-mile plus walking/running path wound around the railings and deck chairs (and bars, pools, a climbing wall, skydiving simulator, and the North Star -- a 300-foot-above-sea-level elevated, glass-enclosed observation platform) were features.

 

 In other words, we easily topped our "steps" goal that day, roughly 4 miles worth. Indeed, between roaming this sea-going world and our tours at our ports of call, we did well with the exercise . . . and good thing, too, since it helped burn off the steak, lobster, and (once, never again) escargot, and associated culinary decadence cruise ships are (in)famous for.

Barb, feeling her Norwegian Cheerio-Os

It was all overwhelming, at first, and fascinating. 

 

The crew hailed from no less than 65 countries; our waitress was a Ukrainian woman -- who spotted my Orthodox Christian prayer rope bracelet and greeted us with a smile and friendliness (it seemed a bit more than the expected to me, but who knows). 

 

We would learn she and her husband worked on the ship, entrusting their two young children to her mother back in Odessa during their shifts.

Sunrise, from the 13th deck

 

Impressive as all this was, for me one of the best features was our cabin on the 13th deck, with a small balcony. 

 

From there, watching sunrises and sunsets, or just letting the sounds and sites and salt air of the ocean waves soothe mind and spirit, were priceless.

The Sun now rose upon the right:

Out of the sea came he,

Still hid in mist, and on the left

Went down into the sea.

                 Samuel Taylor Coleridge

 

 

The Cruise: A bumpy flight, a New Jersey bus, and a ferry to Liberty Island

It's a four-and-a-half hour flight, Delta says, from Salt Lake City to JFK International Airport. Add on early check-in on our departure date (9/11) for heightened security, several luggage and body scans, and time on the tarmacs and it was more like nine hours.

That's air travel in the U.S.A. 18 years after Islamic jihadists killed more than 4,000 Americans by turning three airliners into terrorist bombs that blasted New York City, Washington, D.C., and a Pennsylvania field.

But this is not a complaint. It is the new normal for us, and Barbara and I, along with 25 other Utahns signed up for a 10-day cruise along the northeastern coast of the United States and Canada, accepted all this as part of what likely will be a once-in-a-lifetime vacation.

Lady Liberty

We had saved for years with this in mind. The idea had been to celebrate our 45th anniversary with the cruise, but the failing health of my parents, so evident as 2018 drew to a close, convinced us to hold off. When we buried my mother and father within five months of each other, we decided it was time.

Time to leave mourning for life, to mark our 46 years together. While we could. Because when you get into those so-called "golden years," they can be few, as well as many. Health can be fleeting; there are no guarantees that what one can do today, one can do a year later.

So, our luggage loaded onto a bus that waited for us while we took a ferry destined to Liberty Island; we churned to Ellis Island on the way, a brief stop for photos and exploring where Barbara's forebearers from Norway first landed en route to North Dakota. (Mine had arrived earlier at Jamestown, Virginia, indentured Welsh farm labor in the hold of a 1658 British landowner's ship).

Ellis Island train terminal

We saw the massive immigrant sorting halls, dormitories, and now-abandoned train lines from where those cleared by doctors rode off in cattle cars (we were told) to their American Dream.

Ellis Island

Liberty Island was next. Lady Liberty looked small against the New York City skyline, until we landed and walked beneath her 300-foot shadow. Barbara and I settled for the view from the monument's pedestal, roughly 140 feet up -- still impressive.

I wondered, even as I registered awe at the monument's architectural immensity, if Lady Liberty truly stirs the hearts of newcomers to our nation as it must have done for Barbara's ancestors? Or, have we become too complacent, jaded even, about the freedoms so many Americans shed their blood to protect?

I let the internal debate fade, as Barbara took my hand, and we walked down the steps to our ferry back to the New Jersey shore and our hotel room.

The next morning would be an early one, another bus ride to the Port of Bayonne and our home for the next 10 days: Royal Caribbean's Anthem of the Seas.
(To be continued)

A 9/11 World Trade Center girder

The Cruise: On countering a year of loss, with celebration of life

Death and loss had become an unwelcome companion in 2019. First my father, then three months later, my mother.

Never mind that for both -- one afflicted with severe arthritis and dementia at 96, the other with Alzheimer's and in a near vegetative status at 91 -- the end of life on this planet was a blessing.

It was still . . . death. It was emptiness, where once resided the breath of parents who had loved unconditionally for 66 of my years on Earth.

While I firmly believe we will be reunited in God's light and love, But until then,  I must live in the here and now. And now, they are gone.

So, having saved up for several years, Barbara and I booked a 10-day cruise along the Northeast Coast, from New York City to Boston, Portland and Bar Harbor, Maine, and Nova Scotia and New Brunswick, in Canada.

We chose to break the cycle of mourning with celebration of life, of seeing places and people we had never seen before.

New Jersey, New York and Boston were fascinating for all the usual reasons -- their mere size, density, skyscrapers, and historicity. And, they were confirmation that we would never want to live there . . . and underscored our appreciation for less crowded, more amiable and beautiful for raw outdoor variety of mountains, forests, rivers and deserts of the West.

I'm going to take my time recounting our cruise and excursions over the coming several blogs.

It is a time of life, and set of experiences, worth tasting in full.

Stay tuned.

Kicking social media: There's a real, scary and rewarding life of actual humanity out there

Earlier this year I finally, after a furtive earlier attempt, ended my personal account on Facebook.

Social media can be an addiction. For me, it was certainly a distraction from doing meaningful things -- reading good books, actually talking with human beings and nurturing friendships, and picking opportunities to give back to my community of faith, and community at large.

I chose a sort of nicotine gum approach to this breaking of the Facebook habit: Twitter.

Big mistake. Kind of like leaving Oxycodone for heroin.

So, I suggest this: Best way to leave social media's artificial "social" community -- and the cesspool of extremism left and right politics, and self-righteous, only-we-are-right types (and if you disagree, you are a homophobe, Nazi, "mansplaining," anti-woman for being anti-abortion, hater of whatever new gender identity fad has come along, etc) -- is cold turkey.

On Twitter, I found the same idiocy and anti-intellectual, intolerance-couched-in-"progressive" politics mindsets on Twitter, albeit within a (now 280) character limit.

Fewer words just makes the whole thing more crass. And, the temptation to call out bigots, both right wing and those digital Antifa and the self-defined "woke," is still just too much to resist for a journalist.

And, it is a killer for the humility for which Eastern Orthodox Christian folk are urged to struggle.

Here's the key point: you never, ever convince anyone to consider another viewpoint by arguing with them on social media. This is the realm of the echo chamber, of stating fictional facts to back up morally and intellectually bankrupt declarations.

For someone familiar with logical fallacies, social media is the place where reasonable people risk schizophrenic breaks.

So, today, deactivated my Twitter account.

While I will still have sources on Facebook and Linked In I occasionally need to contact for my freelance editing and writing work, that's rare and all business. The personal involvement is over.

Blinking into the light of reality, I wonder, what awaits.
:)