New Brunswick

woman looking at camera from inside the glass of a lighthouse

Aug 17 2012

Morphing Miscou Beach

It was really different this time and I’m still not sure if I like all the changes. We hadn’t been to Miscou in two years and arrived on a hot, windy August day to find that the lighthouse site had been developed as a tourist destination. Pros and cons, pros and cons, I thought. But the island would surprise me again.

The massive lighthouse itself had been refurbished and was open to the public. It was now possible to pay $5.00 and climb the 96 stairs to the light and observation deck of this giant and experience a god’s eye view of the shimmering island. It’s pretty high and you have to climb through a hatch to get to the open air of the deck. So high that I only stayed out there a few minutes before vertigo drove me back inside to grip the handrail and nestle beside the huge glass lens of the light.

But I was glad I went up. I was determined not to let arthritic knees stop me. I wanted to experience the reawakening of this colossus with the giant orb. The lighthouse has been reanimated and that is good. He is the watcher and protector.

The gift shop/snack bar was another new addition. Tastefully constructed and sided with wooden shingles, it offered souvenir knick-knacks (not so tasteful), ice cream and take-out food. It seemed like a popular spot and I told myself that all of this was good for the local economy — really there isn’t much else on this island of 800 souls. Nothing original about the shop, though. It did not reflect the soul of this place.

view from the lighthouse at Miscou Beach

Our first pilgrimage to Miscou

The first time we came to Miscou Beach there wasn’t anything there except the lighthouse and it seemed as if we had discovered it. The sparkling water, beautiful stones, rhythmic frothy surf and salty air delighted and heightened our senses. It made us want to fill our lungs with the wild wind. It was magical and sacred and it had a presence. It didn’t need any gift shop or scurrying tourists. We now call our almost yearly trip to Miscou a pilgrimage and we mean it.

Which brings me to the third new structure there, still under construction. Looks like it will be a small chapel. OK, I thought, something to inspire reverence. I walked over, took a peek inside and experienced something uncanny. I heard music. It sounded like an organ, then voices singing, then chanting like the kind that Gregorian or Tibetan monks do with low, resonating tones. It was beautiful.

The chanting of the wind

The wind at Miscou is relentless and it took me a few minutes to figure out that it was the wind blowing through the steel scaffolding that was making these eerie sounds. Still, it seemed as if the island’s spirit was singing to me.

Then I remembered something called Aeolian Harps developed by the Ancient Greeks. I Googled it when we got home. Aeolius is the god of the wind and the protector of an island. His harp is an instrument played by the wind. It is a wooden box with a sounding board and strings stretched across two bridges. It is placed in a partially opened window so the wind can blow through.

The character of the sound depends on the material that the strings are made of and also their length and thickness. They can be tuned to various notes or pitches. The nature of the wind and the resonating body also influence the music.

Curiously, An Aeolian harp plays only harmonic frequencies. With so many disturbing and disruptive sounds in our modern environments, these sounds can be like a balm to our jangled senses.

Wikipedia says about the harps: “Their vibrant timbres produce an etheric, almost mystical music that many people find alludes to higher realms”. Ahhhhhhh, so the spirit of Miscou did speak to me.

I am now in the process of composing a letter to Miscou Tourism suggesting they build some structures, some “Miscouian Harps” to give the wind, one of Miscou’s most dominant features, a voice to sing, a voice to carry us to higher realms.

woman in a large room of a wooden lighthouse

By Elaine • First Page, lighthouse, Miscou, New Brunswick

shadows of two people on a beach boardwalk

Aug 15 2011

It’s a love story

Exploring the Acadian coast together was a love story

I grew up on Long Island Sound where the summer weather was sultry and the Sound was extra salty. I learned to swim there. It was easy. The extra salt makes you more buoyant. You could see Long Island out there, if it wasn’t too hazy. It’s very similar to the way you can see P.E.I. off the coast of New Brunswick, giant windmills and all.

Archie grew up in North Bay, Ontario, on the shores of the ocean-like Lake Nipissing. There are giant waves, sandy beaches and big ships and you can’t see the opposite shore, it’s that big. It seems like the ocean, but there’s no salt in that water.

So we come by our love of beaches and surf naturally. We seek them out. We’re like salmon trying to get back to our origins.

The Bouctouche Bay Inn

Our exploration began at the Bouctouche Bay Inn, 1999. That’s ten years ago now. It was a quick holiday in the Fall away from our respective kids, romantic and passionate. We must have left a few sparks smoldering – the place burnt down. But really, that was four years later, and it was probably a deep fat fryer that led to the demise of the old and beautiful Inn. It still makes me sad whenever we drive by the grassy rise where the inn once stood.

Caissie Cape Cottage

The next year we rented a cottage at Caissie Cape for a week and explored the whole time. By the following fall we had purchased a cottage in Cocagne. It’s definitely our happy place. We met and came together later in life and that has posed some challenges, but the cottage in Cocagne became our first home together, our first shared space. It gave us privacy, sunny sensual surroundings and a place to breathe and relax. A slow pace and a place where love could bloom.

The Coast is Always Changing

A coast, where sea meets shore, is a place where a lot happens all the time. Water, wind and sand constantly interact and change shape and rhythm. Of course everything is always changing from the subatomic level on up to the macro expansion of the universe. But on the coast, you can see it always changing, all of the time. That’s the difference and that’s why it’s so compelling to watch and enjoy. The elements come together and act on each other, sometimes gently, or sometimes with gusto or even violence. But the result always seems to be something beautiful — the stones, patterns on the sand, seaweed, twists of driftwood, the sudden lifting grace of birds, the rippling sea grass, the parade of clouds.

A landscape can be a backdrop, a mirror or a metaphor for a state of mind . Or, for a relationship. Why do we love this coast so? The deeper we go into this place, the more we learn about each other. It allows a dialogue. It makes room for us to create together.

I ask Archie, “Why do you love going to the cottage so much?” His one word answer, “Escape.” Why do you love me? “You are my companion”. I take this to mean that we are a perfect pair to travel the road of life. Counterpoints and complements.

woman holding heart shaped stone on her heart

Why do I love going to the shore? Simplicity and freedom. Why do I love my husband? Because he is always in motion and that motion is always toward something good.

We feel openness and expansion at the shore. When we’re ready to go inside, by contrast the small cottage doesn’t seem cramped, but cozy. It’s a place of gestation, it holds and contains.

Auberge le Vieux Presbytère in Bouctouche through trees

We were married four years ago at the Auberge le Vieux Presbytère — an old rectory now reborn as an inn. I could feel that many prayers were said in that space. It’s in Bouctouche, right on the water. As we said our vows we could look right out at the water through stately maple trees. It was a blustery, rainy September day. Perfect, though. We can weather storms.

Sometimes we jostle and unsettle each other like the waves, sometimes we polish each other, like beach glass. Sometimes we surprise each other, like seeing a red spider on white beach sand. Sometimes the right words to say just come, in an instant, like the punctuation of birds taking flight.

We come here to the shore to find each other, to push, to polish. How beautiful. How full of discovery, motion and peace, all at the same time.

stormy weather clouds while woman walks on beach

By Elaine • First Page, New Brunswick, Uncategorized

beach scene with lagoon looking formation and woman walking beside it

Jul 9 2011

Cape of light and emptiness

Seek the light — good universal advice. We’re heading to Cap Lumiére, one of the most beautiful and empty beaches around. It’s on the Acadian Coastal Drive which stays as close to the coast as you can get and has good signage. To get there, we hug the coast from Cocagne to Bouctouche, go through the village, past La Dune, up to Chockpish, then onto Route 505. This last leg is like driving on the edge of a cliff in spots.

We go past the dock, busy because it’s the height of lobster season, until the road turns to a sandy beach road, we park and walk. From here you can walk for miles.

A high, white place

This is a high, white place to me even though it’s sea level. It’s a holy place, a place to go to be alone with my thoughts. It faces east, the direction of new beginnings.

When I’m here, I find it hard to believe that it is so beautiful, yet so undiscovered. There even isn’t much on the web about it, or about the lighthouse, built in 1864, which sits squarely on the roadside just before the beach.

There is a whole world at your feet waiting to be discovered.

It’s baffling why so few find and venture out to the Cape of Light. Perhaps the information highway doesn’t reach here. Perhaps it’s a place that you have to find serendipitously, the road leading you there when you’re ready to find it. You go when you feel the magnetic pull of the place.

Topographic art

To me, the beach at Cap-Lumiere is one of the most magnificent beaches along the Acadian Coast. It’s actually called South Richibucto Beach on the topographical map I have up on my wall. It narrows and reaches to almost touch the other finger of beach reaching down from Kouchibouguac National Park, North Richibucto Beach. It reminds me of the Michelangelo’s fresco in the Sistine Chapel. A white-bearded, windswept God reaches out a finger to a muscular, reclining Adam, giving the gift of life. In my mind, they’re Finger of God Beach and Creation of Adam Beach and all this is Eden.

Behind the beach at Cap-Lumiére sits a large, boggy salt marsh. Maybe that’s what keeps the beach from being over-developed and overrun. Bog makes bad real estate and mosquitoes keep away all but the most determined walkers and seekers of beauty. What’s left is a strip of sandy shore and luckily the wind often keeps the pesky insects away. But maybe there are bog fairies there that are the keepers and protectors of Cap-Lumiére. I wouldn’t doubt it one bit. After all, I haven’t seen too may four-wheelers there.

This whole shore is riddled with inlets and small streams that all meander their way to the ocean at this particular spot. Wind and water do their job shaping and reshaping the sand dunes as well as the sand bars that lie a little way offshore. Every time we come here, the contours of the beach have changed some, the forces of weather here being powerful and sometimes downright wrathful making the interface of sand and water sculptural and dynamic.

A lot of a beach’s spirit is determined by its waves and here they’re vigorous and loud. This is a beach for people who are kinesthetic, who like to feel the invigorating force of the elements. But on a hot summer day at low tide Cap-Lumiere has a gentler side. The water is warm, and the waves are strong and can massage, are therapeutic, and the hot sun casts a sleepy spell.

woman taking pictures of things on the beach

A world at your feet

We only visit, but what lives here? Birds, seaweed and sea plants, insects, little fish and crustaceans all populate the beach. There are different kinds of seaweed, more than I’ve seen on other beaches —long thick brown pieces that have ruffled edges like lasagna, seaweed that looks like shredded paper and seaweed that has little air-filled bladders that pop like bubble wrap when you press on them. After a storm, all of these are washed ashore in a jumble, like some tangled salad.

You can make a day at Cap-Lumiére be whatever you want it to be, and wander along its shore as long as you want to. There is no interpretive centre, no signs, no boardwalk. It is a rare find and a gift in this day and age of development gone mad. Make of it what you want. Make all of the discoveries yourself.

Empty of human imprint

It gets me wondering, though, what’s so good about solitude and lack of human imprint? Sure it’s fun to be packed onto a sandy shore with sunbathers, running and laughing children and sometimes their pets. You can people watch, smell the sunscreen and catch the tide of excitement and activity like a ride on Coney Island. That’s a different kind of beach, a different state of mind. Emptiness offers something else.

I read an article recently about the over-scheduling of our children. Nowadays, you’re considered a bad parent if you don’t fill your child’s free time with activities, lessons, sports and play dates. The article went on to say that kids need unstructured, alone time to regroup and tap into themselves otherwise they become overstimulated, scattered and ultimately shallow with no inner resources to draw on.

We grownups need that too but get less and less of it all the time. That’s why a solitary walk on an empty beach becomes so important. At Cap-Lumiére Archie and I go our separate ways, following or pausing to observe what attracts us be it low flying plovers feeding in the seaweed, tiny hermit crabs you can pick up in your hand, interesting shells and rocks, beach peas or the view that’s just beyond the curved shore ahead. Later, our paths merge and we’ll continue along together, the rhythm different now.

A place for solitude

Solitude gives an opportunity to explore our connections with other people by their very absence. We have a social identity, a way of being when we’re with other people. In solitude this persona fades, we see more clearly other aspects of ourselves, a more authentic self. Being alone is not the same as being isolated or lonely. It can be healing and delicious.

When alone on this beach and in other remote natural places, sometimes prickles come on the back of my neck, like there is a presence. Like the place is saturated with spirit. It can be felt, but not so easily described. It makes me feel expansive and connected.

In art, defining shapes is important, but so is defining what is between those shapes, the empty space without which the work would be meaningless, chaotic. My time at Cap-Lumiére is that space in between that helps me define my life. It gives me clarity and an awareness of what is and what isn’t.

By Elaine • Cap-lumiére, First Page, New Brunswick

Jul 9 2011

Baie Verte and the Five Chinese Brothers

What caught my eye, as we were driving about the Baie Verte area, was a single row of colourful cottages by the sea just across a lush field of grain. On a different day, in a different light, the colours of the cottages would have been vibrant, the scene like something out of a children’s storybook with a title like Nancy’s Day by the Sea. Maybe that’s what my obsession with the ocean is all about; maybe I’m trying to relive some storybook that was read to me when I was a kid.

Funny thing is, I don’t remember ever being read to. I mostly remember me doing the reading and what I remember most about a lot of books were the covers. If a book had good artwork on it’s cover then I’d stare at if for a long time, taking it in, not trying to figure out what the story was about, but just enjoying the artwork.

But there is only one book I remember from my childhood and I remember it so vividly that it’s like the story happened: The Five Chinese Brothers. Politically incorrect by today’s standards, to be sure, but I loved that book, and still do. It was written by Claire Huchet Bishop in 1938. Comically cringeworthy, the assumption is that since they’re Chinese you can’t tell them apart. The story doesn’t say they were quintuplets, just that they were brothers.

Five Chinese super beings

Each of the brothers has one unique and extraordinary ability, a superpower, really, and the one that got himself into trouble was the one who could swallow the sea. A little boy nags the brother to swallow the sea so he can run about and pick up the helpless fish off the ocean floor. The brother relents, swallows the sea, but the boy won’t come back when signalled; the brother, unable to hold the sea any longer, lets go and the boy drowns and the brother is arrested and condemned to die.

The townspeople try several ways of executing the brother but fail each time because each time they are unwittingly trying to execute a different brother with a different ability.

When my kids were growing up I made sure I found The Five Chinese Brothers to read to them. I read a significant proportion of the library’s children’s collection to my kids, so I doubt it had the same impact on them as it did on me. But for me, I couldn’t read it often enough and I measured other books by the magic I got from it.

Hoping for a story as good as the Five Chinese Brothers

I would leave the library with huge armloads of books that I would read over the next three weeks and then go back for another load. I spent a lot of time in libraries looking for children’s books, sitting in those little chairs, checking out the covers and the stories and being excited about getting home to read them to my kids, always hoping I would find other stories as great as The Five Chinese Brothers. Now I spend a lot of time with Elaine exploring the Acadian coast ― Acadie― and stopping when we see a great scene and hoping we’ll find a story as delightful and magical as the The Five Chinese Brothers.

By Archie • Baie Vert, First Page, New Brunswick

Sep 20 2010

Baie Vert

I was hoping to be surprised by a trip around Baie Verte to where New Brunswick meets Nova Scotia at Tidnish. I was hoping it might be like rounding the Cape Horn where we might discover some bird found only there, or that the customs were strange and exotic.

The only strange thing we found was a woman sitting in what looked like a toll booth with a Do Not Disturb sign on her door. No doubt she was “eccentric” and “intriguing” but she just looked silly sitting in that re-sided toll booth. And she wasn’t even in New Brunswick.

marsh What we saw was a lot of marsh. Baie Verte is a small, narrow bay which means the shores don’t take the kind of pounding needed for beach so there were only a handful of places where the water was accessible. We were determined to find something so we explored a couple of them.

Mason Beach was a cottage village hidden in the woods much like Treasure Island (Surrette Island) up the coast near Cocagne. What these wooded points of land have in common is that they seem like secret hideouts, like the forts my friends and I would build in the alders near our home when I was a kid.

I can see the appeal of these hideaways, though living in such close proximity with your neighbors—the cottages in these places are always packed close toether—is not for us. But we all need something different to keep our lives balanced. Hidden away in the trees with a group of people is probably good for some people.

Hicks Beach up the road, on the other hand, was almost treeless, with dead end roads running every which way. We were pursued by a backhoe the whole time we were there. He was repairing potholes and everywhere we turned he was either in front coming at us or coming up behind. We might have gotten out and explored but I’m sure anywhere we parked would have been in his way. Each time he passed us he had a friendly smile and wave for us.

In between these two beaches is Port Elgin. This village is like so many villages these days. Prosperity, centralization and improved roads have meant anything that holds a community together has been sucked away to places like Moncton. Standing in a parking lot by the bridge we looked around and saw nothing to draw us to explore. If we asked around I’m sure someone would have told us, “That’s where the mayor used to live and that’s where the bank was. That was the pub.” There was a beautiful bed and breakfast, the Veranda, but why would we stay? What would we do? Port Elgin, like so many small communities has been reduced to being a suburb.

By Archie • Baie Vert, First Page, New Brunswick

Sep 1 2010

A cottage for two

Our cottage has become so Elaine and me that I can hardly get up the energy to go without her. She was out of town this past weekend so there was none of the synergy that creates the momentum during our preparation: “we need the lawn mower this week”; “I’m picking some vegetables from the garden”; “I’ve got the tools for working on that shed”; “I’ve got the laundry…” So it goes on and before we know it we’ve propelled ourselves out the door, into the car and down the road, dog and all. All with the excitement of an annual camping trip. Listening to us on the way there, you’d think it was our first trip to the cottage.

Once there we fly into a well-rehearsed choreography of unfolding as the car is unloaded, things are unpacked, chairs set out on the porch, the dog taken for her first cruise of the ‘hood to check her pee-mail. Within a half hour we’re sitting on the porch with cold drinks on the coffee table between us, looking out at the water, happy to be together, discussing what we hope from the weekend. But what is there to discuss when you’re alone?

Phoning home

On Friday night I phoned my dad. I’ve been calling him a lot more often since my mom died last month. Conversations with my dad have always been lively because he’s so good natured and filled with life but lately there is the added richness that sadness adds to the soul. Conversations get taken to deeper levels. He worries that I’ve lost my mother. I worry that he’s lost his sweetheart, friend and wife. I’ve been at the cottage without Elaine before but this is the first time since my mother passed away which might explain why I felt like some kind of amputee. This weekend I understand a little better what my dad is going through.

The most alone place I know

Without Elaine there on the weekend, the cottage isn’t the cottage. It’s a half-empty little house with a half-empty bed, an extra toothbrush and one lawn chair too many. I’m often alone at the house in Moncton but with our student tenants there has always been so much coming and going there that alone is a relief.

But the cottage is us. It’s us being us alone together. We plan together, drive together, are entertained together. We go to bed together, we get up together. I feel slightly lonely when we do anything that’s not together, even if we’re in the same room. That’s what the cottage is to us. So this past weekend not having Elaine there was like not being at the cottage at all, but like drifting. I slept too much, movied too much, drank too much. I brought way too much stuff that I didn’t touch.

If I ever need to be alone, the cottage would be the best place, because without Elaine there, it’s the most alone place in the world I know.

By Archie • First Page, Florina Beach Cottage, New Brunswick

Aug 19 2010

Chockpish — Elaine

There is a lobster processing plant here and this time of year lobster canning is in full swing. All of the workers have arrived, their cars crammed into the parking lot. We drive past the red buildings, as red as boiled lobster, and park near some sheds, away from the activity.

A little grey weathered footbridge is the magical passage way to Chockpish beach. It’s open water, big waves, especially since it’s windy, and you can see the wind turbines on Prince Edward Island’s coast off in the distance. I imagine them spinning like crazy.

On our side there are upscale, widely-spaced cottages perched on the shore. Windows face the sea, like eyes looking out toward the pencil-line blue horizon and cottony white clouds. Actually, our favourite cottage of all time is here, and I’ll tell you, we’ve done a lot of exploring and looking at cottages as we’ve travelled the Acadian Coast. We’ve been lusting for it for the past ten years. It’s grey shingle with a stone chimney, two stories, a filigree screen door that lets in the sea breeze. Roses are climbing up the side. Some folks from Ontario own it, we think. Someday, we fantasize, it may have a “For Sale” sign on it. And we’ll have truckloads of cash after we win the Lotto to buy it.

“Chock-full-o-fish”

Chockpish — what does it mean? Sounds native, but we’ve never been able to find any information about it. “Chock full of fish” is what I think about.

The sand on Chockpish beach is fine and warm this day, even though a stiff, cool breeze is blowing, ruffling the grass and churning up whitecaps.

A formidable stone breakwater says “Danger: No Trespassing on Rubble Mound Structure”. I wouldn’t dream of it.

Closer up, the waves are ink blue with undertones of rootbeer brown— sand stirred up as the waves break on the shore. I study some subtle patterns in the sand close up. They’re fine line drawings made by hidden hands in the waves as they advance and recede.

Chockpish is all about motion

A seagull hangs in the air. Three cormorants dart from the other side of the rubble breakwater and fly low, just skimming the water. The gulls like the wind, they play with it, hovering and diving, letting it lift and drop them. The more agile terns use it to change direction like acrobats. One seagull perches on top of a pole, watching for a long time, like he owns the place.

The sea grass twitches like a horse’s flank. Like a horse that has been spooked.

I am praying that the Louisiana oil spill doesn’t make it up here. Chockpish is pristine, virginal and pure, up to this point, anyway. It’s a treasure. One of the nicest beaches around, it seems like not many people know about it. Even at the height of the summer, we never see many visitors here. Today it’s just us.

We walk back over the footbridge to the wharf. There are interesting, colourful boats bobbing next to it. A metal bridge spans the Chockpish River that widens here and empties into the ocean. The cars going over it make a muffled thunk thunk sound.

Today, Chockpish is all about motion. Motion and clarity, everything is in sharp focus.

By Archie • Chockpish, First Page, New Brunswick

Aug 19 2010

Chockpish — Archie

Chockpish. I keep coming back to the photo of the wooden walkway to the beach at Chockpish. It goes up and over the dune before the breakwater and down to a short path through the grass leading to the beach proper. You can’t see the beach from the wharf side but you can from the platform at the top.

We love beach access. That’s what we’re about. So many times we‘re disheartened to see signs reading “Private road” or there are obstacles that make it impossible to get to the beach, or you feel like you’re trespassing once you’re there. This walkway says, “Here’s the beach. It’s yours to enjoy.” Mind you, there are no toilet facilities and not many places to hide if the needs arises which means to truly enjoy it you should do your business at home first. But I like what that walkway says.

Who built the walkway? It was probably the Chockpish Harbour Authority which is made up, like all the other 550-some harbour authorities across Canada, of interested local parties like commercial fishermen and business people. All of them volunteers. They probably made the walkway for their own families and anybody else that visits their little corner of Cote Sainte-Anne, about 20 minutes north of Bouctouche.

I always forget about the walkway, though, probably because you can’t see it until you drive through the one lane bridge (if you’re northbound). Turn right off the road and go between the red buildings of the lobster processing plant, to the end of the long storage shed to where the breakwater begins and you’ll find it. There are other paths to the beach, but we always use the walkway. It’s just more fun. A little more magic.

And it’s all there. The wonderful sand, the beach grass, the weathered snow fences, the driftwood, the shells, the diving terns, the cormorants and ducks, as well as the seagull perched on top of the light on the pole at the end of the breakwater, facing into the wind. It would all be cliché if it weren’t so authentic.

I’m sure Parlée Beach by Shediac is authentic too but it’s crowded. When I was young the beach wasn’t the beach unless it was standing-room only and mostly girls. Now, the only girl I want with me is Elaine and finding a beautiful beach we can have to ourselves is better than any trendy hot spot.

Beach at Chockpish with old timber in the sand and grass

By Archie • Chockpish, First Page, New Brunswick

Aug 10 2010

Cocagne Island — A not so distant shore

We returned to the island last Sunday, Cocagne Island, that is, not Prince Edward Island. This time after rowing the 1.5 or so kilometres across from where our cottage is, we were not chased off by a hoard of mosquitoes because a breeze had come up on the trip across. That breeze, however, grew stiffer and, along with some nasty looking clouds, worried us before the crossing was over and even more on the way back. But when we arrived we were happy to be there.

This was our second trip to the island with the little 14 foot car top Elaine bought from a neighbour so we didn’t consider ourselves seafarers yet; but once we had weaved our way through the maze of oyster cages and landed, we were proud of ourselves as we walked along that distant shore.

We followed the shore for about a kilometre until we got to the marsh at the southeast tip. We might have gone further after a break, but the calm, sunny day we had when we got up that morning had turned grey and windy quicker than you can say “you’re such a landlubber” or “next time check the marine weather forecast.” We were blissfully happy for a while, though.

Islands Are Just Different

Despite the island being in our front porch view for almost ten years, the shore felt strange like only an island can. Everything was vivid — the rocks, the sand, the driftwood, the flotsam washed ashore. We saw deer tracks. And all the time we were aware that we could not just walk home, that there was a large body of water between us and the mainland. But it was beautiful.

Our first reconnaissance

On this first reconnaissance along the shore we saw many wonderful places one could camp. There were many small clearings in the birch and oak woods up on ledges eight feet above the sand. But hoping to cut across country on some future trip we were discouraged to see just how much underbrush there was; maybe there are more accessible patches elsewhere, we thought. The aerial photos from Google Maps didn’t have the resolution to answer that question definitively, but it didn’t look encouraging.

What we do know is that the island is, sadly, not remote. There were empty coffee cups, spent fireworks tubes, the odd lost shoe and other evidence of a nearby civilization that doesn’t value wild spaces as it should. Nevertheless we were happy with the little corner that we had discovered and explored and were already making plans for exploring the whole island.

When we shoved off we were none too glad to be on our way, the weather being what it was; but at the same time we were left wanting more. Perhaps there are other islands we can find and explore, we thought, once we were safely back on our front porch. We might need something bigger and steadier than an aluminum car top boat and a pair of oars, but other islands we’d seen in our travels seemed to be much closer now that we’d had one voyage to our credit. We were explorers now, true adventurers.

By Archie • Cocagne, Cocagne Island, First Page, Florina Beach Cottage, New Brunswick

Jun 20 2010

Florina Beach, Cocagne Island, Carmel

Maybe it’s the first day of summer

It’s the 20th of June. Maybe it’s the first day or Summer, of maybe it’s tomorrow. We don’t have a calendar here that tells us. But the day starts out overcast and then the sun comes out, humidity building. Just before we set out for a beach excursion, it starts to sprinkle, so we decide not to go anywhere, but to stay home at Florina Beach. It’s our beach. It deserves some attention.

It took me two times looking at this place to see the possibilities. The first time that I saw the sign “Florina Beach”, I thought it said “Florida Beach”. How silly, I thought, comparing this place to Florida. But Florina is the woman’s name who used to own this land. She’s in her 80s now and still lives somewhere nearby.

Our beach

The beach here is a small triangle. It’s much nicer and there’s much more of it when the tide is out. The water is shallow and warm and the sand is fine. Little fingerlings jump at the water’s edge and flash in the sunlight. There are tiny hermit crabs here that live in snail shells and there are lots of clams, too. Tiny oyster shells from the oyster farming cages are scattered on the beach. It seems like a gentle place where baby sea creatures are given a chance to grow and get a foothold on life — a place of gestation. After a storm the beach is often piled high with seaweed that looks like shredded packing paper.

Is the island splitting in two?

From Florina Beach, looking across to Cocagne Island, we are noticing a curious thing. Until now, Cocagne Island has been two distinct forested clumps of land with a low, marshy neck connecting them. But this year we can see blue water and sailboats on the other side of the neck — like it’s thinned. Carved away by the action of the surf? Rising water levels? Eroded by the increasingly violent storm surges and changing currents?

Surette Island, nearby, didn’t used to be an island. My friend Jeanette told us that. She grew up here 70 years ago and at that time it was connected to the mainland. Could be that this whole coast is more dynamic than one would think. It’s taken us a while to notice.

So what if Cocagne Island is cut in two? Will we get bigger waves? A better beach? Or will the beach that we do have be washed away? Will the oyster fishery in these gentle waters be ruined?

At one time there was talk of “developing” Cocagne Island with high end homes, a golf course and a bridge. But the locals were against it. The island would be forever changed. So reports of vicious mosquitoes were circulated. Actually they are quite aggressive and bloodthirsty — so this was no lie.

The island is a living thing

To me it’s important that the island stays wild with its oak forests where the herons nest and with great, untouched beaches on the ocean side. I even want to keep the mosquitoes. They’re food for the fish. They’re part of the abundance of life here. We need a repository of wilderness as a balance to all that is developed and changed by human activity.

But the island seems to be a thing alive. Alive and changing. Not only is it thinning in the middle, dividing like a cell, but the sand spit on the north side seems to be coming closer to the main shore. Left to its self-determination, and going at an island’s pace, it may yet willingly connect to the mainland.

woman on beach looking at distance island

My friend Carmel died this week

My friend Carmel died this week at the too young age of 59. I was waiting for her to arrive in these parts for her summer residence any day now, as she does every year. Instead I got an email from her daughter, “Mom died today.”

Things seem like they will always be the same, until suddenly they are no longer the same at all, like an island cut in two. We often don’t notice the subtle changes, and the slow erosion until in one dramatic and startling moment everything is different.

Carmel, we spent time here together. You were a part of my life. You helped me give birth to my daughter. You were a good friend. Today I see that our lives, our souls, are built moment by moment, grain by grain. And all of the grains are moved by forces like the tides and the wind, pushed, gathered, eroded, divided, scattered and reconfigured. We can resist or ride the currents with grace, flow and generosity. We can welcome the reshaping. We can become something else. I think that you would understand. We can reach toward connection with another shore, familiar yet unknown.

By Elaine • Cocagne, First Page, New Brunswick

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