Sakamoto’s Seventh Sojourn

Sakamoto came for her seventh odd-year sojourn at the Cape Breton shack-ri-la, demonstrating a loyalty to the program unmatched by any other visitor from away. Pals since she was just 20, Judith and I have a good deal in common, not least that we are well and truly animated by Arthur Godfrey’s mortally sound advice: Get it while it’s hot – it’s going to be cold for a long, long time.

With Jan and me Sak shares unfettered affection for nature, wild things, and lots of movement – in rain or shine. We rode the bikes in drizzle across the Calabash, collected mud stripes the whole length of our spines while accentuating the positive: summer showers are a blessing if you want to stay cool.

We hiked the Mabou hills on a sunny hot day. Six kilometres in, I discovered that I had left my water bottles in the truck, providing further evidence for those ardent to seize upon it that the window of my sentient life may be closing faster than I care to know. The Mabou vistas are entirely worthy of comparison to the celebrated Cape Breton Highlands further to the north: grand headlands, riots of wildflowers, plenty of birdlife. I stirred up a crowd of ground-dwelling wasps and earned several stings for my efforts. No problem: it is said that wasp stings alleviate the aches and pains that accrue to ancient knees.

We made our way to MacKinnon Brook Cove in the late afternoon, hoping that we might have it to ourselves. Alas, there was still a party of four lolling on one of the big sandstone blocks common in the cove. Keen not to be deprived of a swim, but without the proper bathing attire decorum requires, Sakamoto and I scrambled along the boulders and dipped in birthday suits at the first available watery nook. Back at main cove Jan stayed cool in a boulder’s shade, eventually hearing one of our fellows say to the others, ‘The old guy’s in.’ How quickly sixty-six years fly past, how quickly a young buck morphs into an old guy.

We dined and ate heartily during Judith’s stay: an Indian feast here, a plateful of scallop-pesto pasta there, and plenty more beyond that. The highlight of the six-day stay arose on the final Friday. I have a fantasy harim of five. I got to hang out with four-fifths of my imaginary concubines: Jan, Judith, Lynn & Louise. I grieved only that Mary was absent, far away in Alberta, conquering yet another mountain. For all the pleasure she extracts from the Rockies, I had no doubt that Mary would have relished the cabin’s Friday bill-of-fare, the cutthroat bananagrams skirmish, the rousing round of Dictionary-Game that capped the evening.

The Sak interlude passed too quickly, as good things tend to do. I console myself with the knowledge that the next odd-year summer is only two years away. If I follow the immortal wisdom of Satchel Paige – keep on moving and don’t look back – perhaps I’ll still be around by then.