The weather on Wednesday was happily a bit better. It was a mix of clouds and sun with the blend favouring the daystar. Baby Girl had been agitating for a chance to try surfing at the world famous (?) Point Michaud beach, so it seemed like a good day to try it out. I took an utterly ineffectual surfing lesson there a few years back. After about 6 hours in the water the best I had managed was about 3 seconds on my feet, although I wouldn’t call it standing so much as falling terribly slowly. It is astonishing even to me that I can ride a unicycle, and keep a boat upright in anything short of a tsunami, but can’t stand on a surfboard. All my talent is obviously in my ass.
Nevertheless, the surf beckoned, so off we went. As we drove, I became aware of a curious odour in the car. At first it was just a whiff, a scented tendril that tickled at the back of the nose, but it grew in strength as the car warmed up in the sun until it was a full bore olfactory insult. It was the smell of a ripe cheese, or the socks of a teenage boy. It was body odour freshened up with a hint of old seaweed. It was the contents of a sealed race bag that you discover rotting forgotten in the back of your car. Naturally I blamed Those Johnston Kids and castigated their lack of foot hygiene and general affinity for dirt. They protested ineffectually.
We discovered the actual culprit when we arrived at the beach and piled out of the reeking car. As I pulling our swimwear out of the back, I realized that the rank stank was emanating from our trunks. We had hung them to dry after our kayak on Monday, but they still smelled terrible. Something dark and monstrous lives in the cold water of the Bras D’Or, and it smells like parmigiano. It couldn’t be helped though, so we put on the rotten suits anyway. Short Pants complained bitterly, but isn’t into skinny-dipping. Yet.
In the parking lot at the Point Michaud beach, there is a small hut that houses the lifeguards and surfing instructors. You can arrange a lesson, or just rent equipment, at exceedingly reasonable rates. On this day, they didn’t recommend a surfing lesson because the wind was blowing up choppy, unpredictable surf. They did rent us boogie boards, a metre-long oval of painted foam, for a mere $5 per hour. The staff were very friendly, but they may have just wanted to get the strange cheese-smelling people out of the close little shack.
Those Johnston Kids are legendary for their seal-like ability to swim in anything short of solid water, but Short Pants isn’t much of an eater and is skinny like a rez dog. I don’t know where he gets it. While Baby Girl was immersed before we boys even hit the water, Short Pants found the water entirely too cold for his liking. I think maybe he was having an off day because he was showing symptoms of a head cold as well. After a few forays into the Atlantic up to his waist, he finally gave it up as unreasonable and went to sunbathe instead. That meant lying fully dressed on a towel in the sun. Practical if not traditional.
Baby Girl and I in the waves, some of which were respectably large. Things got a lot more fun when she finally caught a wave with her board and surfed it into shore on her belly. We spent two hours in the water with nary a break until even I started to get chilly. She would never admit such a weakness.
On our way back to the cottage we stopped at the dock in the tiny village of L’Ardoise, which is apparently not pronounced in French as you would expect. It’s pronounced in English, with a heavy east coast accent. That’s not very specific, I realise, but whatever pronunciation you come up with based on my description will be closer than the French. We went there to buy live lobsters for Granfa. He loves him some ocean-dwelling arthropods. Lobsters were out of season in the area, but there is a fishing company there that has some in tanks all summer. I don’t know if fishers save them from their catch during open season, or if they ship them from areas where the season is open. Probably the latter. Live lobsters are pretty easy to transport on ice because they just go dormant. Anyway, we picked up 3, one each for Granfa, Bobby, and Baby Girl. I don’t mind lobster, but I wasn’t in the mood for all the live-killing and tearing apart required. I think Short Pants was on the same page as me, but Baby Girl was already whispering “kill, kill, kill, kill” under her breath like Jason.
Back at the cottage, Granfa fussed about in a pleased fashion, getting ready for a lobster dinner, the kids GameBoyed themselves silly, and I took a nap. You know those dreams when you’re being chased by zombie raptors? I hate those.
Come dinnertime, Granfa covered the table with plastic and newspaper and taught Baby Girl how to disassemble a lobster. It was like watching a biology class dissection. I participated long enough to secure Short Pants a set of empty claws. We put them on the deck to dry out and ate our leftover spaghetti with relish.