Why am I even here?
Grand Bruit trip pays off
It’s somewhere between Rose Blanche and La Poile that I start questioning my existence.
The unforgiving rocking of the Challenger One is causing me undue amounts of discomfort as sheets of sweat slide down my face.
We’ve only just started our trip to Grand Bruit and I’m already regretting it. This ride from hell is also making me question every decision I’ve ever made up until now. Why did I become a journalist? Why would I ever suggest doing this story?
How come I never kissed that girl when I had the chance?
These are all questions that popped into my head like a mental game of Whack-a-mole. I knocked one down and another decided to mess with me.
The continuous inner monologue only halted when seasickness took a firm hold of me.
And things then got messy. After that, my mind metronome was at it again.
I became a bit of a La Poile legend that day. There were people telling their friends about the city slicker from Corner Brook who couldn’t handle the ferry over. All I could do was flash them a sheepish grin and promise I’ll do better next time.
When I got back to La Poile, I was assured the ride back to Rose Blanche would be that much better.
They remembered me. Of course, they probably don’t see many strangers going to Grand Bruit. Still a legend, though. Things never improved when I hopped aboard the 22-foot boat meant to bring us the rest of the way.
My stomach still quivering from its earlier adventure, never quite got settled for the remainder of the trip to our final destination.
It never reached the same horrific levels of the ferry ride, but they were rough.
Still it was hard not to marvel at the unforgiving shoreline along this stretch of the south coast.
My mood started to brighten and I remembered why we were there.
It was going to be an adventure of a lifetime.
And you know what?
It kind of was.