Day 44 – Pubnico to Yarmouth
We headed out of Lower West Pubnico as the ebb tide ended, and rode the flood north towards Yarmouth. We chose a route through the islands off Big Tusket, which gave us lots to look at as we glided north.
The first was the Principality of Outer Baldonia, a fishing lodge turned micro-nation where angling and the production of empty rum and beer bottles was constitutionally mandated. Unfortunately sometime after declaring war on the Soviet Union the nation collapsed, for unrelated reasons, and the Prince of Princes sold the land to the Nova Scotia Bird Society for a single loonie.
Not long after came Pease Island, an abandoned house staring ominously, blankly into the sea. We passed between Johns Island and Harris Idland, Johns was home to half a dozen small structures in various states of disrepair.
Next was Owls Head Island, another abandoned house there, the massive windows in the stone walls revealing blue sky through the other side. Smoke rose from the little village on Deep Cove Island.
Murder Island was last in the archipelago, the steep shore rising up to the silhouettes of murderous sheep standing watch. On the northern point a fishing trawler sat wrecked on the rocks, the crew long since devoured by the blood thirsty ruminants.
It wasn’t the only recent wreck we had seen. There had been five boats stranded on rocky shorelines, pushed far out of the water by the largest waves, and as usual we wondered if whatever had befallen them was about to surprise us in a similar manner.
The remaining motor into Yarmouth Harbour was smooth and the busy waterfront was soon in our sights. The engine died as we navigated the channel; Andrew quickly poured another five gallons into the main tank. I pushed the starter, but Isla refused to start back up. We had failed to notice the temperature gauge was extremely high. Postponing further investigation for calmer waters, we raised the headsail and sailed a reach to the moorings outside Killam Brothers.
I turned Isla upwind towards the first and let the breeze decelerate our six tons as Andrew grabbed the mooring line. Below deck he pulled out the stairs and sink to reveal the Atomic 4. He inspected the impeller, which pulls in sea water to cool the engine, it was fine. The oil level, however, seemed a bit low. It was hard to tell. We hoped a cool motor with fresh oil would be a happy motor.
We rowed into town, walked past the tents for the weekends music festival and started searching for auto parts stores. We found the nuts we needed to replace those we lost to the bilge, off the shaft seal. The local hardware store did not even bother charging us. We spent several minutes in Walmart making sure 10W-30 would be a fine replacement for SAE 30. An employee, who could not fathom that our 1960s leaded gas engine did not at all resemble a small outboard, tried his best to help.
We returned to Isla, Andrew filled her up with fresh oil and tightened down the plate on the shaft seal. He hit the starter and she rumbled back to life. Reassured for the moment, we headed into the gas dock, filled our gas and water tanks, and started laundry. Andrew returned Isla to the mooring and rowed back in, we drank beers at the cafe up the street while we waited to turn the laundry over. We’d wagered a beer over whether the old brick facade would still be standing, bowed as ever, Andrew owed me a beer.
We kept the laundry moving, made dinner back on the boat and returned ashore to shower afterwards. I debated whether to stay up for the Mayweather McGregor fight at a nearby bar, but we needed to get moving early, with the tide. Back on the boat I went to bed, but struggled to sleep. I discovered the Wi-Fi reached all the way out to the mooring, and wound up watching the fight anyway.
