And What Will the Morrow Bring? (16)

The Long and Short Of It

4. And What Will the Morrow Bring?

When I promised to bury my father at sea we didn't shake on it, sign a promissory note or write up a legal document together. He passed away in February 2003 and, a month or two later, after I'd constructed a box for his ashes (for a spring interment) and discovered it was too small for the job, I said something to the affect that I would take the remaining ash and bury him at sea as he had requested in the 1980s. I said those words aloud, spontaneously, while I stood - a bag of ashes in hand - in my basement workshop. I said those words to my father. I said those words to me and there was no need to write anything down. My promise was a matter of the heart. I'd remember.

One day, about seven years later, and out of the blue, the penny dropped. I confidently felt I would cart my father's ashes on my own to the Atlantic Ocean on the back of my motorcycle. It sounded like a grand adventure - oh, trust me, it surely was - and I decided to do it, and after much careful planning I was on my way on June 8, 2010.

I biked an average of 465 kilometres a day and frequently cooked meals along the side of the road. For example, I heated up more than a few tins of Puritan Irish Stew - with those famous preformed chunks of meat - and cups of Mr. Noodle soup at the side of the road. Admittedly, I also splurged on occasion. I spent a fair bit of my birdhouse money on the grilled pork tenderloin with apricot sauce at Isaac's Way restaurant in Fredericton one pleasant evening, and it was superb.

"Quick lunch on the way to Fredericton, N.B."

I took major highways and numerous secondary roads, stopped here and there and everywhere to take scores of photographs, stayed overnight in pre-booked hostels (e.g., in Kingston, Trois-Rivieres and Riviere-du-Loup), loaded and unloaded my bike every day, and when I finally reached Halifax on Saturday, June 12, the fifth day of the trip, I'd covered about 2,300 kilometres. I was exhausted and exhilarated in equal amounts and I hadn't even reached my ultimate goal yet. I still had to bike another 30 kilometres or so to Pennant Point, a place south-west of Halifax that would provide me access to the Atlantic Ocean, with father's ashes in hand.

But that short trip was for the morrow, Sunday. On Saturday night I found Rogues Roost, a good pub, and penned 600 words for an upcoming newspaper column entitled ‘From Halifax: Fulfilling an Old Promise to a Navy Vet’ (published in The Londoner, June 17, 2010). The last few lines reveal I didn’t really know how this whole thing was going to turn out. 

  

Five days ago I loaded luggage and a homemade wooden boat (aptly named 'S.S. Silver Walnut,' after dad's favourite wartime vessel and home for several months in the 1940s) onto my motorcycle, headed toward the 401 and hung a left. And now I'm beside the Atlantic Ocean with dad's ashes safely sealed - thanks to four coats of Super Spar varnish - inside the lower deck of the Walnut.

From my perch at the Rogues Roost I'm wondering what tomorrow will bring. Will I be able to find a friendly cove? Will the wee boat float away - gently and carefully - on a final adventure?

From where I sit now, about five years later, I know the answers to most of my questions. I also know a very distressing, dramatic part of the morrow’s story line by line. It jumps out at me when I reflect on my adventure and goes something like this:

Lord, I just wanted the day to be over. I stood facing the end of the deadest of dead ends in a thick part of a woods near Pennant Point, close to the Atlantic Ocean, about 30 kilometres out of Halifax. I didn't know which way to turn. The S.S. Silver Walnut, a wooden boat that I'd built in my basement a month before to hold my father's ashes, weighed over 100 pounds. My motorcycle boots weighed another 50, my clothes were also heavy and sticky with sweat and I could hear (but not see) other hikers on some trail not far away, but exactly where I couldn't tell. So I decided to toss the damn boat into some brush and go home, that's if I could find my way out of the woods and back to Halifax.

I said, “No one will ever know.”

And I didn't say it sweetly.

"And what will the morrow bring?"

More to follow.

Link to We Were As Two Ships 15

Photos from June, 2010 by GH