Day 33 – Northwest Arm to Halifax Harbour
For the third consecutive morning we walked into Halifax, this time in search of groceries. We loaded back up on our staples, bananas, apples, trail mix, cheese, sardines, crackers, chips, and beans, among other things. We flustered another cashier with an American debit card, which runs as credit card, evidently. Back on a fully provisioned Isla, I grabbed a ride on the marina’s launch to the gas dock to pay for the second night on the mooring. $25 Canadian for anything less than twenty tons displacement.
We sailed out of the Northwest Arm among kids sailing a fleet of Optimists, Lasers, and 420s. A boy rolled his Opti in front of us, but his sailing coach motored over and pulled him to safety before we could run him down.
We circled around into the channel between Halifax and Dartmouth, and sailed a run past the lighthouse on Georges Island. Halifax looked wonderful as we took in the waterfront from our new perspective on the boat friendly side of things.
Our run, and an effort to avoid jibing as long as possible, pushed us close to shore. As we passed, arguably, a little too close to a Navy destroyer, a shrill whistle sounded on deck. “FIRE! FIRE! FIRE!” announced a coincidental fire drill over the loudspeaker, not our impending deaths at the hands a comically overpowered Canadian Navy, to much relief.
We continued under the green arch of the MacDonald bridge, suspension cables safely holding the roadway above our mast with 100 feet to spare. We turned around at the Irving Shipyard, where the stern of a navy boat sat half built.
Strong gusts of wind kept the sail back to the maritime museum docks interesting, and we pulled into our berth for the night behind an immaculately restored schooner, The Hebridee II, perfectly stained wood and spotless gel coat below her two elegant masts. Across from us sat the HMCS Sackville, the last seafaring corvette, now museum property, decks occupied with museum donors mid high class function.
We were both craving Chinese food; we walked a block from the dock and ordered take out. A side excursion to an, unfortunately closed, liquor store failed to replenish Andrew’s whisk(e)y supply. We ate above deck on Isla. Andrew accidentally punished his unsuspecting palate with far too much, genuinely hot, hot sauce.
Sunset bloomed behind the Haligonian sky line and I hopped onto the wharf to take a picture. Meanwhile, Andrew went to take pictures of the children playing on the wave sculpture outside the museum. Doing this, as it turns out, is either always tolerated by the local parents, or at least when one is dressed like a German tourist with an affinity for the color black, an antiquated film camera, and a solid mustache. Presumably a Leica and anything past underwear would also do the trick.
We walked over to the beer garden, or Biergarten rather, and the bouncer let Caly in despite her age and tail. As we sipped summer brews we watched the bouncer ID folks who looked considerably older than us and wondered why we had not been checked. More German privilege? We walked past a not yet deaf bagpiper on our way out, and a waitress stopped to pet Caly and laud the personality of beagles. Canadian beagles must really have it good.
