This morning, all becomes clear…and not clear.
What becomes clear is the irritated eyes and sauna-like cedar smell yesterday was because of forest fire smoke blown in by the north winds. What becomes unclear is the air – today there is a thick smoky fog cutting visibility but casting a beautiful orange haze over the landscape. We push off the dock at 7 am and motorsail for two hours to the entrance of the Murray Canal – a 5 mile waterway that cuts through the west end of Prince Edward County and provides access to Presqu’ile Bay and Lake Ontario. We have transited this canal two or three times in the past, and while it is a beautiful and quiet little jaunt, there is a catch; there are two swing bridges, first the Carrying Place bridge, then the Brighton Road bridge, and at the second one you are required to pay a toll of either $4.90, $5.35, or $6.25, depending which government website you Googled yourself into. How do you pay the toll, you ask? Not by e-transfer. Not by tap. And not by cheque. You pay the toll by dropping cash into a long-handled basket, held precariously over the water by a smiling summer student (previous dog catching experience an asset, but not strictly required). The first challenge is finding the money (try digging into the crevices of all wallets, purses, shopping bags, drawers, baskets, chart tables, cushions, and envelopes on board). The second is actually getting it into the basket as you pass by at four knots (this requires the precision of a teenage gamer or a champion cornholer).
In preparation for the exchange, I collect all coins on the boat and, miraculously, assemble a total of nearly seven bucks in a combination of quarters, dimes, nickels, and pennies cut across three currencies – Canadian, American, and Bahamian. I also found a Cuban peso and a battered Portuguese Escudo which I included as tokens of good will. There is not a single coin left on the boat and I am happy to be handing them over.
The first swing bridge lets us and another sailboat pass through. We continue on and are soon met by a large trimaran, taking up most of the width of the channel so we ease to the right and skim by the rocks on the shoreline, just keeping in the deep water. Shorly after that the sailboat ahead of us begins steering haphazardly and his speed is erratic. He waves at me to pass and as we do he tells us he is having engine issues and needs to turn back. As we approach the second swing bridge I get a call from the bridge operator on VHF channel 14.
“Sailing vessel approaching, what happened to your buddy? Over.”
“You mean that other sailboat? He’s not my buddy, but seems like a nice guy so I suppose we could develop a friendship in the future if I ever see him again. Over.”
“Right. And what did you do with your potential future buddy? Over.”
“Ah yes, he turned around and went back the other way when he realized he had to pay a $6.25 toll and had no cash money. Over.”
“The toll is actually $5.97, which is a 2.23 percent inflationary increase from last year. But you guys are both in luck. Well, maybe just you now, but anyway ever heard of the Canada Strong program? Over.”
“Yes sir, that’s where Mark Carney created a $25 billion dollar fund out of imaginary money created by his old buds at the Bank of Canada. Over.”
“You’ve been keeping on top of the news. Anyway, the fund is paying everybody’s tolls this year. Mark Carney’s henchwomen showed up here in May with a whole Brinks truck full of scrap pennies, nickels, and dimes and dumped them in a big pile over by the septic tank. Every time a boat passes through we grab $5.97 of currency shrapnel, roll it up, and send it back to Mark via a daily high priority courier bag that gets flown back to Ottawa by helicopter. So this is your lucky day my friend. Over.”
“Well that all sounds great, but what am I supposed to do with this plastic baggie of coins that took me 90 minutes to find and count? Over.”
“Program ends in October. Bring it back then and I’ll be happy to take that money bag. Have a pleasant journey. Swing bridge out.”
“SeaLight out.”
We clear through the channel and emerge in Presqu’ile Bay, my least favourite part of Lake Ontario. I don’t like it because it is shallow, tricky to navigate, the charts are wrong in a couple of key spots, it’s weedy, and the goddamn wind is always blowing like stink. Also, I don’t like the name. Too French. And that misplaced apostrophe really gets on my nerves.
Soon (but not soon enough) we are back on Lake Ontario and discover that yesterday’s heavy winds have flipped the lake, and the surface water which was a balmy 25 degrees just two days ago has plummeted to 13 degrees. Ana is crushed to learn this, but happy she at least got a couple of lake baths in. The combination of the cold water and breeze has us wearing sweaters and long pants to keep warm – a drastic climatic u-turn from yesterday’s sizzler.
We arrive in Cobourg at around 2:15 pm, making it a 7-hour sailing day. We slide easily into our slip, check in and pay for dockage at the main office, then walk the short distance to the main street. Cobourg is one of the best stops on Lake Ontario. The marina is excellent and well-maintained and they even allow anchoring in the protected harbour for the cheap assed sailboaters. Within two blocks of the marina is a marine store and an LCBO, the only two things you ever truly need on a boat trip, food being an optional third. King Street is busy and thriving, and this must be where everybody in Ontario comes for a haircut as we count no fewer than five barbershops, all of which specialize in fades, but god help you if you can’t grow a thick, luscious, hipster beard because you will never come out looking like the coiffed dudes in the pictures plastered over the windows. There are also at least half a dozen cafes and small restaurants, plus a classic joke shop called Lolly Gags, which I didn’t need to visit because I already have a electronic fart machine, sneezing power, dog vomit, snapping chewing gum, a rubber chicken, whoopee cushion, joy buzzer, exploding cigarettes, and the lapel flower that shoots water in the smeller’s face. I’m all set.
We find a pub, order a Harp lager for me and a Blue Moon for Ana, then watch the terribly boring first half of the England/Argentina World Cup game which ends up nil nil. We don’t particularly care who wins this one so we leave and walk around until we find an ice cream place then enjoy a cone as we watch the homeless folk socializing in the pretty park across the street, which is far more enjoyable than the soccer game.
We continue our walk along King Street. The smoky air has created a beautiful sepia reality filter, which makes the magnificent downtown Victoria Hall look even more magnificent. The visual effect has turned back time about 80 years and I feel like I should be wearing a top hat, trousers, and granddad skivvies.
Back at the boat we squander time while Ana awaits her 7 pm Newport Board meeting. When the meeting begins, I move out to the cockpit with a glass of wine and a book and remain there for a long, long time. There are many other transient boaters here, providing ample socialization opportunities, but I keep the canvas down and antisocial eyes on my book, relishing the solitude.
Ana emerges like a beautiful monarch from a boring cocoon and calls me back into the cabin where we eat chicken rice soup, watch Deep Water (airplane crash/shark movie – not bad), then retire.
