After those hair-raising passages through the Thoroughfare at Roque and up the Lubec Channel under the Campobello Bridge, we made it to St. Andrews, New Brunswick. The village is iconic, as you will see below.
This is taken from the St. Andrews website, so the picture quality is not great. Also, this is high tide. Low tide reveals expansive tidal flats and seaweed. There must be lobsters crawling around there somewhere, but lobster season ends at the end of May.
St. Andrews is a classic British outpost from the early 18th century. Its streets are laid out in a grid pattern. It has defensive positions at its perimeter for protection. Within the grid are public squares for a sense of openness and for gatherings. All in all, it gives a sense of orderliness.
Canadians are incredibly polite, curious and well-meaning. One shopkeeper we met, a tour operator whose husband serves in Border Protection at a land crossing, enjoyed our conversation, wanted to know all about us and where we were going. Perhaps she was the local eyes and ears for CBP? The next morning as we walked up the Town Wharf to the Town Hall to pay our mooring bill for the night, she appeared at the roadside, asking if we had been able to find the diesel we sought. Not yet, we reported.
Starting at 6:30 a.m. (Atlantic Time), we started asking fellows on the Wharf how we could get diesel for Brio. She was thirsty after her run from Bar Harbor. Character after character suggested various sources. Esso and Irving could supply us from their trucks (by gravity feed down to Brio), but, "Oh, that's right. They were here yesterday and won't come again until tomorrow." Increasingly feeling desparate, we went to the Wharfinger. We didn't know what a wharfinger was, but he is the source of all local knowledge. In fact, the sign on his office door informed us that among other services, he would arbitrate disputes ... right there on the wharf.
Again, taken from the Internet. This is the Wharfinger's office. You can see how long the wharf is as it stretches off to the right towards town. Tom is the wharfinger, a town official with great intelligence and to whom townspeople show great deference. The wharfinger suggested that we talk to BB. He was in a position "to make things happen" for us. As it turned out, BB had just entered the scene and had walked down the steep ramp to his outboard boat. He had a twinkle in his eye when we had a brief encounter a few minutes before.
I described our situation. We needed fuel. We wanted to get to St. John's that day. We were ready to leave, but couldn't find a way to get a delivery. He looked at me with that twinkle and said, "Well I guess they've got you" as he motioned with one hand grabbing at me. I acknowledged that that was the case.
BB told me that he could bring 100 gallons (actually, it was denominated in litres) of diesel. He'd charge me a $35 CAD service fee, he warned. After all, he had to go back to his house, load the tank into the back of his truck and then fill it. Fair enough, I said, for I knew he knew he had me. "Oh, I nearly forgot," he added, "the government is working on the road in front of my house and I don't know if I can make it back." My New Yorker said, "Whatever." But actually I kept the New Yorker well hid. I said I hoped it would all work out. After BB left, the wharfinger assured me BB would be back. It was too much for him to pass up an easy $35 CAD.
BB did come back with a full tank in the back of his truck. He handed Steve the diesel hose and the fuel was gravity fed from the top of the wharf down to Brio, all 100 gallons or 400+ litres. BB, ever with that endearing twinkle, presented me with the receipts for the diesel he had just bought and that he had now delivered to Brio. "And don't forget the $35!" he reminded me. I only had USD, but I had a calculator and I had just checked the currency translation rate. 78 cents on the US dollar. BB winced, and said he didn't understand such things. But he agreed to the calculated translation as long as it included his $35. Thus he was paid in USD.
We then cast off the St. Andrews Town Wharf, bidding adieu to our Dame Angela friends. Off we went through the L'Etete Passage and on towards St. John's. But that's another story.
Cheers,
Brio
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