TubaOrNotTuba

Sitting in a small café, too late for breakfast so resigned to BLT purgatory; we’re sitting watching a clock slowly tick toward the moment where our dream is realized or rationalized away. Mustn’t forget the time zone difference, which in this case does make a difference. Too late, there’s been no reply. Head on down the road to town.

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After the wonderful electrical display from out over the water last evening, there’s little that can top such a production. Forget the pyrotechnic displays of quadricentennial birthday parties, because Mother Nature at Basin Head will win every time. We did get a little wet during egress, but that’s part of the deal. Oddly enough, back at the campsite there had been nothing. No rain, no noise, no flashing lights. Nothing.

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Once the family history disease (which is not the same as a history of family disease) has taken hold, a relapse can occur at any moment. Something as simple as visiting the family leaves your body racked with spasms, in need of more and more detail. Talking to someone about the relative behaviours of dogs in the family; same result.

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A slowly deflating air mattress is a great incentive to get up and about. Our backs are starting to bump at inopportune times, so we may have to find the air pump and try to restore our temporary bed to its former firm state. Since we were already up, we gave that extra push and headed into Souris before the urge to eat breakfast became unbearable. In to see the realtor, if you know what I mean.

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We spent the afternoon hanging around the train station, watching the two passenger trains come and go. Only one derailment while we were around, due to an enthusiastic gentleman in the last car, but the crew simply lifted the trucks back on the rails and off they went, down an impossibly steep grade. Son #3 made the trip, and reported new infrastructure. I was too busy chattin’ up the ladies in the waiting room to get on board, but I caught up on all the local news.

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Last evening we were out at what some call the “witching hour”. That time, around midnight, when the moon is rising and you see wonderful sights, the sort that can be spun into a great tale with a bit of patience. Not here and now, but years from now, when the story has been told enough times to pick up some colour. I’ll check back in a few to see if the evolution has begun.

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Life should include new and exciting experiences, so today we visited a factory outlet store for the first time. I know, I know, for those that live in the industrial heartland, or near an international border, such things are common practice. I am on the Island.

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We’re about to have a mutiny from one of the team members. His personal inflatable boat mattress has lost its form. No more shall he put to sea for a night of dreams; even with a last minute air transfusion, the bed is bust. We’ve tried. It spent the day out on the grass, and collapsed. We put it back in the tent, backed the van to within reach and found the missing adaptor nozzle (which required a housecleaning of row two and three in said van). It faded away to nothing useful.

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There is something very zen about waking to the sound of a good surf. Lay back, allow your ears to resonate with thousands of tiny subharmonic notes. White noise, in the original version. We had no rain overnight, but the campground is running on a low note right now, as the fairweather campers have all gone away. I feel like someone caught in a last man on earth movie.

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Sometimes we go to a restaurant based purely on the reputation. Location doesn’t really matter (even when you are very hungry and you are standing just in front of the doorway). The menu seems interesting, and the price isn’t an issue, (especially when you are very hungry and you are standing just in front of the door). Besides, at the critical moment, no lineup to form an inpediment is worth a great deal on the grid of the “should we or shouldn’t we?’

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