At my next port of call I visited briefly my kind friends the 
     
     Warrens of Stanhope Beach Inn. Eager to cover ground, or perhaps 
     
     I should say water, and feeling safer and free from the old tension, 
     
     I drove Tota along the sandy beaches of Brackley and Robinson’s 
     
     Island, chatting briefly with a number of “tourist” bathers along the 
     
     way, crossed the mouth of Rustico Harbour and beached the canoe 
     
     at a Cove to the westward. Here I was greeted warmly by the Michael 
     
     Doyle Family. One of the Doyle girls, Margaret, being a student of 
     
     mine at P.W.C., it was almost a class reunion. 
     
    
   
   
    
     Next morning I stood away, rounded the cape, and by late 
     
     afternoon was directly opposite Cavendish. As the white-water had 
     
     during the day extended farther and farther from shore, and, as 
     
     explained earlier, it was necessary to stay outside of it, the canoe 
     
     must have been barely discernible from shore in the twilight. 
     
    
   
   
    
     A bit wary of after-dark paddling, I turned and rode the 
     
     breakers in. As I stepped ashore I was surrounded by a group of 
     
     people one of whom, Dr. Kennedy from New York City, greeted me 
     
     with the not-unfriendly saluation, “Are you the damn fool that 
     
     was out there trying to drown himself?” (Some weeks later I received 
     
     through the mail a number of snapshots of the canoe, which this 
     
     same, kind Dr. Kennedy had taken on the occasion.) 
     
    
   
   
    
     After sound slumber on the sand softened by my cushions and 
     
     protected from a damp chill by my ground sheet, I continued early 
     
     next morning my “Westward Ho!” As I crossed the mouth of New 
     
     London Harbour, a large lobster boat came alongside. To the fisher- 
     
     man’s offer to give me a tow inside the Harbour, I answered, “No 
     
     thanks, the water in there is too shallow for us!” and paddled on, 
     
     leaving the fisherman shaking his head sadly. 
     
    
   
   
    
     Before me the green water, which here must be very deep, rolled 
     
     back and forth into dark caves cut into the base of the cliff, while 
     
     Tota bobbed about like the proverbial cork. 
     
    
   
   
    
     Along the slopes of Cape Tryon about 115 feet high white with 
     
     bird droppings and, I believe, the highest cliff along our Island shore, 
     
     the roosting Cormorants (or “Shag” as the fishermen call them) 
     
     stared down at the little craft passing so close just below their 
     
     hundred or so nests. This was the only Cormorant Colony I observed 
     
     on the whole coast. 
     
    
   
   
    
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