I was almost home. The black hills of Labrador rose distantly off the starboard bow, and off to port snaggle-toothed Cape Bauld, the northeastern tip of Newfoundland, thrust out of the sea. As the bleak indentations of Château, Red, and Forteau bays along the Labrador coast slowly fell astern, the Strait of Belle Isle funnelled us into the mediterranean sea that fifteenth-century whalers knew as la Grande Baie and we now call the Gulf of St. Lawrence. We continued unhurriedly into the estuary of the great river which would take us another thousand miles westward, deep into the vitals of the continent. Blommersdiik was bringing me home, not with the ferocious abruptness and soul-shattering immediacy of a jet airplane but gently, gently, giving me time to become aware of just how far I had gone astray. Our voyage ended on November 15, when a tug nudged Blommersdiik into a berth in Montreal harbour. Canada was indifferent to our arrival. Although I had not expected a hero’s welcome I was a bit chagrined that nobody was on the dock to welcome us.
