Placid. Placid Winter Cove. They don’t call it a cove for nothing. It looks a lot like an excellent sheltered anchorage for boats so no one should be surprised about the yacht club. Yacht club sounds rather grand but what do I know?
And there’s always a boat or two anchored out in the water. I often wonder, sitting in front of the fire reminiscing about my numerous trips around Winter Cove, when exactly the old, home-made, shake sided, hulky looking craft with the grey hull that vaguely reminded of a Zodiac, that was anchored for years in the middle of Winter Cove, got torpedoed.
When did that old girl go down? One time not too terribly long ago I looked out and the beast was no longer. She was a tough one. I never saw the craft move or saw anybody anywhere near it. What was the story with that derelict, miserable old scow? That picturesque, derelict, harmless old hulk, when did it disappear.? What I mean is I don’t miss it, but it had its time. I guess it’s belated good-byes then.
Everything moves on. That’s whether you’re at Winter Cove or anyplace else. The tide is high at Boat Pass. The water is flowing through but it’s not a devilish run right now. The thing I’ve always saw as fascinating about any place around here really is that’s it’s here whether you are or not.
That sounds obvious but I think there’s something in it. Even when you’re lying in your burrow, as the poet said, in a snit of slow, vegetive misery, everything is always out here. It’s here if you want it and whether you want it or not. It’s painful to think of just how long it’s been here and you haven’t.
Right now you can hardly see the Belle Chain Islets or Belle Chain or Belle Islets. Those bumps of rocks out there. They’re there though and they’re the Belle-ist islets around here. That’s enough geography for now.
There used to be a well at Winter Cove in the park area that you could pump fresh water from. We used to use it when the living was a bit rough on our patch of ground. There’s nothing like fresh water. No more thirst. But the well was capped and now you wouldn’t even know where it had been if you didn’t remember. Pumping water out of the ground this way was like joining hands with the past.
The parking lot at Winter Cove. It’s hard to leave there’s so many memories of lying on it. I had help lying on it and sometimes lay down on it myself. I was my own man and that’s the thing about gravel too. Gravel only always seems the same. It’s never the same. From what I remember, and that isn’t much, it all happened in the parking lot. Life was timeless and endless.
Meanwhile if anybody can help out with solving the trash problem.
It would be greatly appreciated. It doesn’t matter where you go it’s like it follows you around and it’s irritating. Why does junk exist and if we could just unmask who’s responsible maybe we could persuade some responsibility into them. The thing is spambots can be slippery. They don’t even know themselves what they’re doing. Some little bug somewhere in some hovel is churning this refuse out.
I mean, you go for a little walk along the shore and there it is. As one of my reformed alcoholic former workmates used to say, “One is too many and a thousand aren’t enough.” If the beach is to be littered by even one piece of trash like this how does it end? Is the garbage supposed to win? Start hauling it in here then and let’s see what happens. Maybe we can get down to what is really wrong. The vandals have stolen the Heritage Archives. I don’t know myself what this scrap of paper is because I’ve never used the contact form.