Eve of Canada Day

The Toke (updated)

Bought J a Newfoundland took (pron. tooook), he being mightily pleased with same. In Rhode Island, it is called a teeeeek.

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“Vegetables!” exclaimed J, recoiling to the far reaches of the saloon, and viewing the pretty heaps of chopped pepper, celery and scallions for supper’s Spanish omelette in horror.

So I wrote him his own menu:

St John’s Special – Meat and Muffin Omelet

and placated him by adding ham and cheese.

Today I bought some broccoli aboard….

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Tonight went to Nautical Nellie’s for supper with Alan and his wife Laura. Had only met Alan once before (and prior to that, only through his helpful advice on the internet) and I had assured him I would be my normal quiet self. I reckon I frightened him yesterday, with a massive attack of manic verbals. He looked sceptical … It was such a pleasure – A and L’s company, and the meal. And they did suggest meeting up again when we get to Conception Bay, so must have behaved.

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Smuggled a cake aboard today, for J’s birthday in a week’s time. It’s now cowering at the bottom of the fridge, trying to avoid detection. J doesn’t know I know about the b’day.

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The waters of St John’s Harbour are the same milky turquoise of the Caribbean. A young woman walked to the end of the jetty to wash her hands. It had only been the day before, when we tied up, that we saw we were sailing through shit. I suggested she wash her hands again, somewhere else, and rather thoroughly.

This local phenomenon is known as the Bubble, a cute euphemism for discharging the sewers directly into this enclosed bay. Although matters are being addressed, I have forbidden J to let any of the lines touch the water, or HE has to wash them.

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Took a taxi to The Rooms, the archive, museum, art gallery do-it-all on top of this rock. It’s not quite a year old, very modern architecture, and is suspended over the cliff below. Called The Rooms, from the old cod fishing days, when the catch was dried and processed along the bays’ edges, each section being called a room. The view from the top is stunning – a panorama of the Harbour and the Narrows, today in sweltering sunshine. After a strong dose of culture, we sit in one of the windowed walls over coffee and juice, just staring out, and talking of beliefs and non-beliefs. Set him on a subject close to his heart, and J will talk, and I will listen. He’s a very interesting man.

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Then it’s downhill all the way, blown on by the funneling wind. We stop at a restaurant for lunch. I’m not going to name it for reasons you will read later. Anyway, we’re seated upstairs in the gallery – old deep magenta clapboard on the outside, tres moderne inside, with menu to match. The waitress comes to take our order, hands clasped behind her back, dark curly hair pulled back in a low ponytail, hornrimmed glasses, slim, wearing a pair of jeans and a snug black teeshirt – covering the BIGGEST TITS I’ve ever seen. Can’t tear my eyes away and order soup via her chest. So this is what men do. It’s a first for me …

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The little park next to the boat, with the two dog statues, has a band playing – black and white musicians – the audience sit cooking gently on the grass round the little amphitheatre. Loud and groovy. This place is great for live music of all sorts, at all times, all through my sleepless night last night, writing. Mind you, when someone yells “Ahoy!” at first light, and you think it’s next door, and you stick your groundhog head out of your burrow, to be asked by a chatty local drunk how many stars are on your ensign, the pleasure of broken silence is smartly diminished.