Adventures with teens in Newfoundland July 2024
“Do you think it’s creepy that I’m taking a picture of a stranger’s wedding?” asked my daughter, her phone poised mid-air.
Typical Newfoundland wind gusts were in the process of tying our hair into knotty nests.
We’d hiked across an isthmus, barely wide enough for the County of Avalon’s pickup loaded with picnic lunches. We trudged along a path littered with rocks big enough to concuss a minke whale. After about a kilometre the squat balsam firs twisted themselves back into one another, revealing a lichen-covered hill and Ferryland Lighthouse.
It was only due to my running partner’s pushes that huffing and puffing were avoided as we had made our way up the steep incline.
And now, salty sea scented the scene as a bride in white lace appeared around the side of the 154-year-old lighthouse. Holding hands, a group of four gingerly stepped along the gravel path. The bride was flanked by a man who looked like he would be more comfortable wearing a lumberjacket and steel-toed Blundstones. Her other hand was tightly gripped by a bouncy-haired kid who smelled of Roblox and skibidi toilets. Their matching tuxes were the shade of rare blue lobsters found off Newfoundland’s Southern Shore.
On the other side of the youngster was a second woman, also in white, a full-body shawl whipping about her solid frame. The shade was identical to that of the tuxes and it made me think of Cuban seas and August skies in Ontario and the spiky lupin currently sprouting everywhere in Newfoundland.
“Nah. Not that creepy.” I whispered, thinking briefly about how many “creepy” photos I’d taken.
“Do you ever wonder how many photos you’re in the background of?” I asked thinking about the ones other people had taken with me in them. “Like, people all over the world who don’t even know you and yet you’re in the background of their photos?”
“Yeah,” she responded, pulling strands of hair out of her mouth, “that’s kind of weird, right?”
We continued to stare as the four settled into places around a bible-carrying officiant. Then four became two. Two women in white standing before a bible and an officiant.
“Wow,” I admitted out loud, invisibly slapping back my biases. “I called that wrong.”
It was clear why a lighthouse was necessary in this part of the world. We wandered to the nearby masses of rock jutting up from the ocean. Between ogling tide pools and rock formations, we could still see the ceremony on the slope above. Fog invited itself in just as commitments were shared and slowly the wedding party and guests disappeared into a cloud.
Near the cliff’s edge, a group of four retirees had dug their folding chairs down into the crevices between the wind-rounded stones. They were all in black: shoes, pants, belts, backpacks, neck scarves. Their camera lenses were larger than the birds they were photographing and their chatter was louder.
We noticed them noticing us. They watched us precariously tripping across the angled shale and granite exploring tide pools that ranged in colour from copper shades to slimy, seaweed-filled depths. Some were shallow and hosted shrimp-like creatures. Some looked and smelled like humpback toilets.
“Hey, Mom, you gotta come see this!” I happily heard over and over for almost an hour.
Afterward, as we pulled ourselves back up toward more stable ground, the quartet was gathering lunch remnants and camera cases. We joined the path just behind them in what would’ve been their shadow had the sun overtaken the fog. Suddenly, as if an invisible conductor had violently swept their arms upward and down, the four of them began harmonizing an Irish-sounding ditty. Their tune accompanied us up the hillside to the base of the lighthouse.
“I wonder if this place means something to them?” My daughter asked on our hike back to the vehicle. “I mean, why get married here?”
“Maybe it’s sentimental?” My son offered.
“Where would be sentimental for YOU?” I was curious as to their responses.
A conversation about meaningful spots wound its way around our trek and followed us on the whole drive back to the cabin. Trips to Florida, the timeshare in Collingwood we get invited to every year just before school starts again, and Grandma and Grandpa’s previous and new house. Memories were tossed around almost as fiercely as the typical Newfoundland wind gusts that continued to tie our hair into knotty nests.
