Southern Comfort

Day 42

Six am is early for us. And, we have not so much as thought of setting an alarm for well over a month. Suffice it to say, the experience of remembering what day it is, waking up at the right time and getting ourselves on this ferry is jolting.

This particular inn is kind enough to set out a light breakfast for ferry riders, of which there are six in their dining room this morning. We sip grainy coffee through a sleepy haze, and then head over to the ferry building. We have to be there at 7 for the 8 am crossing. This ferry only runs twice a day, so we have to be a bit more organized than we were crossing from PEI to Nova Scotia. This ride will take 3 hours and costs about $110 for the two of us and the Girl. Once you're on the ferry, it's cush. There are big upholstered seats that you can stretch out in, and they play a movie for those who are interested. The ride happens mostly in the fog, so we are content to curl up on each others' laps and snooze.

We arrive in St. John, New Brunswick, which seems to be sort of run down and slow. We head toward the border, anxious to have this crossing over with. In preparation, we eat a big lunch, get our remaining four ounces of whiskey where it's easily confessed to and found, and get the Pirate's pipe and tobacco nearby as well. Honesty is the best policy, and we're squeaky clean for this crossing.

This crossing is the antithesis of the other. We pull right up to the booth, an officer looks at our tag and our passports, asks us a few questions, then hands the passports back and says “have fun!”. We are relieved, and also happy to back in our good ole US of A. It feels good, knowing that we will not be charged 15% on everything, and that our currency will not be in question (even though almost every place we were in Canada took American cash). So, here we are, in the United States after being away for over a month.

Tonight we are headed to Lubec, the eastern most town in the U.S. We are staying with the parents of one of my former massage students/current friend, Dean. He got wind of our route through the blog, and arranged for us to stay. I don't know a thing about these folks, other than they must be wonderful if they are Dean's parents. I call them from a gas station when we are across the border, and once I'm off the phone, the Pirate asks me how it went. “Fine” I say. “She has a southern accent”. We both smile, realizing that, though we are way up north, we are about to have some much missed southern hospitality.

Room with a View

When we near the abode of the Jackson's, a thick-as-pea-soup fog envelopes us. We can hear the ocean, but we can't see a thing. We glide down their long drive way, lined with native grasses and electric violet wildflowers, and come upon a shake-sided home with a steeply pitched roof. A sweet buttery colored dog, Grace Jackson, comes out to greet us, followed by Dean's mama, Amy, with her arms outstretched to hug these friend's of Dean's whom she's never even met. We are guided straight to the porch where we sit in rockin' chairs and listen to the sea splash against the rocks just below. We're in heaven.

Amy Jackson is a six foot tall silver haired goddess from Greenville, Mississippi. Though she and Dean's dad, Harold, have lived in Maine 18 years, they have retained both their southern accent and charm. Amy is a school teacher, Harold is a retired contractor and Grace is an 11 year old puppy.

Amy leads us upstairs to settle in. We can hardly believe our guest quarters: a big four poster bed, soaring vaulted ceilings and a view of the bay and Grand Manan, Canada (when the fog clears). We settle in and end up taking a two hour nap.

We are up just in time for cocktail hour, where we meet Harold for the first time, and are joined by Chris, a whale expert from Georgia. We are having ourselves a gathering of southerners tonight! Over drinks we share stories of travel, Maine, whales and adventures. Chris invites us to join him for a boat ride tomorrow. We could not feel more relaxed and at home. Soon we are feasting on pasta with creamy clam sauce, green salad and bread in candlelight. The evening is cool, but the warmth we feel from these people in their home is unmistakable. We sit around a cozy fire in their fire place until we're all yawning and sleepy, and then this Mermaid and her Pirate crawl into a tall bed made up in white linens and drift off to the sound of waves crashing against the coast of Maine.

Miss Grace Jackson