A small unmarked driveway lead us from the road. It was short and circled a round military ruins tightly. It ended abruptly at the cliff on the far side, with no path to turn around, I knew it would be a cautious exit. As with so many other places in the area, the ruins seem starkly out of place with the houses across the street and broaching the cliffs near by. Looking back west you can see the Newfoundland ferry readied for voyage.
Off the edge of the driveway was an aged luxury car, perched on a precarious angle, as if the front tire was sitting in a depression deep enough to make the tire look flat. A young boy, I would guess at nine or ten years old and wearing ragged clothes was pacing impatiently around the car. A man, the father I assume, was on his knees by the back wheel, rooting through the grass. His hair was messy and his shorts were an old pair of blue jeans, cut off. His shirt was off and I could make out the tattoos down his arms.
Standing atop the debris, I looked down into the barracks, where red, blue and green spray paints were the choice colors of the graffiti. The kids must party here, a lot! Names and paintings cover most of the navigatable surface, and off in the buried rooms garbage litters the corners. I think to myself, it is a shame no one cares to restore or memorialize these sites. There is one across the bay, Fort Petrie, that is maintained as a museum, but it gets little funding from the government and is really only cared for by the locals.
I shimmy down the rocky and steep bank and take a look down the beach to the east. The old outlook's, half fallen and looking unsafe, span the cliffs, still watching and waiting to protect the harbor from that German uboat that never did arrive. They stand like ghostly monuments to a time of fear and uncertainty. I guess the look of war changes, but the thoughts of why do not.
A large group of houses overlook this spot and once again the contrast of the generations is confronting me.
I climb back up the cliff and when I arrive at the top, Sonny has the metal detector out scanning the ground, while the tattooed man tries to jamb a flat screwdriver into the trunk lock. He twists it with a sharp jerk, but nothing happens. "You loose yer keys?" I asked.
"I had a flat and had to change der goddamned tir...don know where there's at, but I mustta dropped em in the grass.", he replied with the Cape Breton accent and in a frustrated manner.
Sonny gave up the the detector and as he was back over loading up the truck, tattoo buddy pulls a huge jackknife out of his pocket and opens it up. The thing must have been three or four inches. He plunged it into the lock again without success. The he opened up the rear door of the car and started poking it around under the seat. The doghair covered the black leather seats and made the black carpeting almost look grey.
When Sonny had returned we decided it was time to go. Sonny looked over to him again and said, "hey buddy can I call someone for you?","no", was the last reply.
"Alright", Sonny mumbled as we turned back to the truck.
With the slam of the door and a turn of the key the trucks engine roared to life, and I smiled and asked,"How are you at backing up?"
While I stared at the cliff just feet away from the tires on my side, he smiled and said, "I guess we'll find out..."
Once back out on the road, Sonny put the truck into drive and we started to head east again. I picked up my Tim Hortons coffee, took a sip and said, "Did you get a load of that knife or what?".
