Top of the Island

From Baddeck we went along the east coast of the Cabot Trail, north to a place called Bay St. Lawrence - a very small nook near the top of the island.  It was here that we were to challenge the whales once again.

Call me Paul.  The skies were threatening to punish us, but we were too eager to seek out the cetaceans to listen.  A zodiac would not do for us this time.  No - only a boat that could cut through the waves would be allowed to carry this crew.  As we left the harbor on the Oshan, I looked back and saw the dark clouds snicker.  Blinded we were.  Blinded to reason.  Blinded by our obsession for whales.

We rounded Meat Cove, the northern-most settlement on Cape Breton, and continued further north still to the cliffs that signaled the end of the island.  I would have believed that it was the end of the world if the captain told me - the black shear rock that glistened in the rain.

From a pitter patter to a strong shower and back again, the rain would deter all but the most foolhardy from capturing the rugged terrain on digital film.  For several hours we roamed the open sea huddled in the small cabin, escaping the wetness and looking for the prize.

Could it be that we would be denied once again?  Were we so loathsome that the whales would refuse to show themselves?

It's a long winding road to despair, full of false hopes and hollow promises.  Only the money-back guarantees are real.  We were well on our way to this unintended destination when we were intercepted by a pod of pilot whales!  Beautiful they were - synchronizing their dives and singing for the audience.  The captain engaged the underwater microphone.  Nina echoed their song.