Alan and I tipped off Labor Day in Pleasant Bay, on the northwestern shore of Cape Breton in Nova Scotia. The weather was, in fact, pleasant, so we walked over to the marina and jumped on the 9:30 departure of Captain Mark’s Whale Tour.
We soon realized how lucky we were: the boat (a tuna trawler-cum-research vessel) was sailing for its final day of the season, presumably because the researchers – and their funding – had just returned to their homes the week before. One more day and we would’ve been on a veritable air mattress with a motor. Instead, we – and a dozen other people – chugged out of the harbor with Captain Mark himself at the helm.
Glancing around, Alan gave words to my own observation. “We’re the youngest people on this boat,” he whispered (as much as one CAN whisper over the thrum of a fishing boat’s motor). Awesome. I prefer old people to babies. (But if you’re giving me a gift, I’ll take a puppy over an old person ANY DAY.)
About that time, our guide Brandon covered a few rules, which gave the Seniors a chance to practice their stand-up. “Sounds like we’re in for a WHALE of a good time,” the love-child of Pat Sajack and Chuck Woolery quipped. A French-Canadian woman sporting a long white braid (whom we’d seen at dinner the night before and assumed was drunk) then jumped in with unintelligible jibberish. “Captain Mark! I ride the cock… pit with you!” she shrieked to the amusement/horror of her friends.
Alan and I traded a look and shook our heads. Please, God, bring on the whales fast. Or let someone fall overboard to chum the waters.
We shouldn’t have been so crabby. (<– See? I’m also funny on this boat!) Twenty minutes later we were well off-shore when we saw the first pilot whale. I’m not sure what I expected – a submarine slowly rising to the surface, perhaps? – but was more like Shamu showing off at SeaWorld. We soon had a dozen whales around the boat, including multiple pairs of mothers and calves. Which – despite my not liking babies – were ADORABLE.
It was breath-taking. Don’t believe me? Watch this video from our tour (and see if you can hear the crazy French lady screaming):
As if that weren’t enough, we then followed grey seals hunting in the water off the rocks.
All in all: not a bad way to start a vacation.
I had no idea what to expect when Alan and I boarded a flight for Halifax Saturday. After only a two hour flight, we descended into what appeared to be a forest. There were dense trees – and nothing else – as far as the eye could see.
At this moment, Alan remarked, “Nova Scotia is known as Canada’s Ocean Playground.” Given his timing, and since (to my knowledge) he’d done absolutely no research on our destination, I assumed he was being a smart ass. Until that motto greeted us on the license plate of our rental car. One point for Alan.
We hopped in the car, leaving Halifax in our rearview mirror as we made our way to Cape Breton, where we anticipated gorgeous scenery, a great music scene and a solid dose of Celtic culture.
In case you’re not familiar with Cape Breton, it’s an island that was primarily settled by Scots. There are Gaelic signs dotting the road, advertising square dancing or Ceilidhs – live, informal music gatherings pronounced as “kay-lees.” It also is home to the Cabot Trail, showcasing some of the most breath-taking scenery in North America.
Among the highlights during our first 36 hours:
Sorry, I recognize this isn’t pithy and I should probably rename this blog MundanePants, but I’m just trying to provide a bit of context for the <hilarious> posts that will undoubtedly follow this week. Because if I happen to catch a moose running with a deer in its basket, or a baby seal seal doing a handstand on a whale, I don’t want to have to back-up to explain that these miraculous feats aren’t happening in Washington DC. Are we cool?
Guess what’s on tomorrow’s agenda?
Pretty Much…
Alan and I took his kids to Splashdown Waterpark yesterday. I’m still recovering, so I don’t have time for a full post. Instead, I’ll just share a few pearls of wisdom with you:
First: the Lazy River is actually pretty fun when you’re not sharing it with turds. Seems obvious, but if your only other waterpark experience was like mine, then this actually comes as something of a revelation.
Also: the Lazy River is also a far cry from lazy. It’s more like a treadmill. We spent the better part of two hours playing tag by swimming laps around the lazy river. Not sure about the kids, but I’m wiped out.
Second: Water Slides? Kind of terrifying. I’ve never liked the closed-tube kind because it makes me claustrophobic, so I thought I was wise by choosing the open slide. I should’ve realized my instincts were failing me when I saw that the closed-tube version had a congo line forming to ride it, while the open slide essentially had a wad of tumbleweed milling about on its steps. Instead, I thought, “Suckers!” as I sprinted past.
Then halfway down, spinning wildly in circles and banking like a professional luge athlete, I found myself grabbing blindly at the sides of the slide, trying to slow myself so I wouldn’t go flying off it. And while they don’t have a mirror at the bottom, if Alan’s expression was indication, my face morphed from “Oh shit!” to “Thank the Lord!” as soon as I exited the slide. One and done.
Third: If you have a weave (by which I mean an elaborate hair piece), please don’t go to a waterpark. Or, if you’re going to go, then twist that mess up on top of your head. Otherwise, you look crazy walking around with butt-length hair, trying to keep it dry when you’re at a place called SPLASHpark.
Finally: I could spend an entire day watching people sit on the in-pool water fountains. At one point, Alan’s son was sitting on one and I caught Alan’s eye. “I’m not sure what’s happening,” I whispered, “but I’m pretty sure it’s either going to end with your son shitting in the pool or sporting a boner.”
And with that we left.
You’re welcome, Splashdown.
I shared a sweet photo with my sister on Facebook because I know she likes cats:
And this was her response:
pithypants 
