Wisecracking Across America - 27. Chapter 27

Tuesday, June 8, 1999

I noticed my credit card was gone when I went to pay for dinner. "Whoops," I said---what I always hope isn't one of my last words. It wasn't a disaster. I had another one. And Tom had several more.

But it took a long moment's thinking, then a couple of phone calls, to track my mistake. "Oh, we have it," the friendly lodge owner laughed when she realized who I was. "My husband went racing after you, but you must really have been making time. He couldn't catch up."

If only the Good Samaritan knew.

The woman arranged to send the card to my mother's house, where we'd be in about a week. And she made a special point of saying, "I'll post it Registered Mail, so it won't possibly get lost." Only when we arrived, it hadn't gotten there yet, and I had to call again.

"I'm so sorry," she apologized. "Town's just such a terrible distance, and the roads are so bad. We don't get in very often."

The card finally reached me in L.A., over a month later.

Meanwhile, after brief explorations, we realized both Prince Edward Island and Nova Scotia were places we wanted to spend a lot more time, certainly more than a day each.

"I'd like to see Cape Breton, too," Tom mentioned.

"I was even thinking about Newfoundland."

And we'd both planned on Peggy's Cove.

But when? We were almost four weeks into the trip and only halfway around the States. I'd estimated seven weeks, but we'd have to rush, something we didn't want to do, not to make me seriously wrong. Plus, we'd already gone seven thousand miles. Clearly, my ten thousand mile guess would strand us in Houston.

So we pushed through Nova Scotia, seeing mainly trees. Big trees. Little trees. Green trees. Pine trees. Young trees. Ancient trees. Finally, unrelenting trees.

"This is like the bridge to Prince Edward Island," Tom told me---we'd been on it the day before. "It just doesn't end."

And we had a ferry to catch. We could've made reservations, but I wasn't sure we wouldn't get happily sidetracked, so figured we'd take a chance. Besides, the booking guy on the phone said, "This time of the year, there shouldn't be a problem."

It turned out we could've brought the whole city of Halifax, and most of its cars, and there still would've been room. "There are two-hundred-and fifty passengers and fifty vehicles," the captain announced as we sailed. But the ferry held nine-hundred people and had a huge parking garage.

The captain also announced we'd be in Bar Harbor, Maine, "In two hours and ten minutes."

"What did he say?" I asked Tom. Who repeated the same thing, adding, "I thought it was a six-hour trip."

"That's what the books said."

At that moment the Duty-free shop just across from us opened, and I went in to find the attendant. "I must've heard wrong," I began innocently. "How long is the crossing?"

"Two-hours-and-ten minutes," she enunciated.

"Wow," I exclaimed, then noticed a postcard rack right behind her. Holding dozens of pictures of the ferry, all labeled The Cat. "Is this a catamaran?" I asked.

"Yes," she smiled, clearly occupied with work. So instead of bugging her, I read the postcards. Then paged a souvenir booklet heralding The Cat's debut.

It was built in Tasmania. After a six-month Australian break in, the boat had gone into service the summer before---replacing the old Bluenose ferry that took six hours to make the trip. My guides weren't wrong, just outdated. The book also pointed out, Now a family can have breakfast in Boston, make the leisurely drive to Bar Harbor, take the ferry, and have dinner in Nova Scotia. It didn't explain why a family might want to. Though it breezed on, While at sea---and presuming they're of proper age---travelers may also gamble in the Floating Casino.

Which might win back the cost of the trip: twenty-nine bucks each, American, plus fifty bucks a car. Still, the expense of driving the seven hundred twisting miles was put at Well past three-hundred dollars---for gas, food, and an overnight stay at a motel.

When I came out of the gift shop, Tom was lounging on his comfortable recliner, writing postcards. The dog was confined to the truck, but was at least riding free. Other passengers gazed at daytime TV, beamed from the States, or toyed with video games, maybe the kid version of gambling. The casino itself was largely functional: blackjack, cafeteria-style. Put your money down. Grin. Lose it. I passed.

Upstairs, the rear deck was wet, the wind blowing up a wide, white wake. The wind also slowed us down, and the captain soon announced we were doing thirty-one knots rather than fifty-five. The trip would now take three-hours-and-ten-minutes.

The front deck was even more interesting, with great views of the glass-enclosed bridge. Sitting at one side, the captain looked mostly bored, though that was possibly a good thing. He and his crew perched silently on hi-tech high stools, watching graphs and figures trail across video screens. As if hoping something more interesting would come on.

Maybe a half hour later Tom found me, also hypnotized by the screens. He was less impressed, even slightly disappointed by The Cat. "It's too clean," he insisted. "There's no history to it. Not like the covered bridges. This is the second new thing we've seen this week."

"What was the first?" I had to ask.

He just stared. "Fundy National Park."

Oh, yeah.

333 miles