The Last Twelve Miles to The Point

I miss the peace of the ocean.

My happiest days from childhood into my teens were spent near or around it. Nova Scotia's rocky coastlines were my playground, her tides as inevitable and natural as breathing. Whether exploring or pretending or hiding, the ocean brought comfort and serenity. To watch the tide coming in or going out was to watch God at work. Each time we rounded the final curve at East Ferry and the small village of Tiverton came into view, my heart seemed to stop. The anticipation of the ferry crossing was almost unbearable, and them we pulled up and onto the breakwater and began the last twelve miles to The Point.

Aunt Pearl would have homemade fish chowder and fresh bread waiting and it made no difference if the day was pure and sunny or dismally wet with fog. I was home, back to the ocean and the open fields and the dazzling blue water streaked with sunlight. Toward evening the boats would be at rest, the sun would begin it's slow descent over Westport, and I would sit and watch, at home and at peace.

Linda's photograph, though of Maine and not Nova Scotia, brought those feelings back in a rush of nostalgia and I ache to make that trip just one more time. To stand on the breakwater and look over into the sea, to watch the boats riding the water, to walk around The Old Road and come upon the cove, shadowy and lonely in the early evening. To have ginger ice cream from Frank Thurber's little store or toffee from Uncle Bernie's, to play hide and seek with the fishermen laying out the salt fish on the slatted tables in our front yard, to wake to the factory whistle and dance once more with Johnny to "My Special Angel".

I will always miss that childhood as well as the peace of the ocean.