
Surely the whirlpool on the map of Deer Isle is just a throwback to the days of old when artists drew in sea monsters, right?
“Honey, why is there a whirlpool marked on the map?”
The ferry engines revved as we left the dock and shore behind. Raven joined me looking at the map of Deer Isle, a tiny island between Canada and Maine which boasted a free ferry ride from the Canadian side.
“Um, I’m sure they’re joking?”
Normally, we wouldn’t have been very worried about mysterious whirlpools off tiny islands. Actually on most trips the thought would have been highly intriguing. But this was day 6 of the Trip of Trials and we were already feeling like Odysseus fighting his way to Ithaca. We didn’t want to add whirlpools as a commonality as well.
Turned around in Shediac by cool and rainy weather over PEI, not to mention a microburst that knocked over my bike and broke the clutch lever, Raven had proposed a new route home. It was one that would at least give us some fun again on what was supposed to be vacation after all. Just because PEI hadn’t worked out didn’t mean all was lost. So on a day that jumped from inland sun as we rode along gravel backroads with views of extensive wild blueberry fields to fog shrouded rocky coasts of the Bay of Fundy, we’d meandered south until we reached the line for the free ferry to Deer Isle. From there we planned to jump over to Campobello to spend the night. Lubec and the United States waited for us the next day.
The wait for the ferry had nearly changed out minds for the sheer length of it. But the ferry ran every half hour and the queue moved quickly to put us in sight of the dock. Two motorcyclists, even heavily loaded ones, are fairly easy to squeeze in. We didn’t even have to wait an hour before the bikes were parked and we were happily taking photos around the ship as if our trip hadn’t been a plague of disasters from the get go. Then I’d seen the map.
I went with the idea that the artistic swirl drawn off island was simply done for a laugh. Whirlpools between Canada and the United States? Surely life does not get THAT interesting. The map did provide a pretty good idea of the main road on island and that we had to go from the northeast corner down to the southwest to get the next ferry. We departed the ferry without even a slip and took the scenic route along Chocolate Bay. How could we resist?
Pulling down the final length to where the next ferry was to be had, we stumbled across a campground. It was late afternoon and we didn’t know what awaited us on Campobello. The known seemed far more reassuring than uncertainties ahead, at least in how this trip had been going.
“Let’s check it out.”
Raven and I headed up the steep gravel path figuring a quick drive through would tell us right off if this was home for the night. We’d seen our share of not so scenic places to the rather shady sort, so it wouldn’t take long to sort out if we were staying or going. As we drove through a beautiful woodland with open tent sights, my hopes were fairly high. Then we crossed the grassy meadow that overlooked the ocean and there it was: a small billboard announcing the world’s largest tidal whirlpool!
The tide wasn’t at quite the right stage, but Raven and I were mesmerized. It really existed. We’d found it . . . and a really cool campground. We paid up and headed down a tiny path, barely big enough for a car, with plummeting cliffs on either side to set up tent for the night. But the wind was picking up for the night.
We’d had our full of windy experiences with the motorcycles already. Where we had stopped there was no place to tie up the bikes. We rethought our excited idea to be the only tent sitting on a patch of land above crashing waves lest the morning brought us trying to get the motorcycles out of said waves. We drove back up to the main and sturdy island, choosing a grassy knoll with 200 degree views of the ocean, including the whirlpool.
We tied the bikes to a few sturdy trees with parachute cord for the second time this trip. The dogs remained leashed and close by. It just didn’t pay to not be overly cautious. As the wind picked up, we covered the bikes for good measure hoping it really wouldn’t rain for just one day on this blasted vacation. I ran out the extra lines on the tent and we ended up moving the picnic table to the lee side of the knoll and behind a pine which acted as a windbreak. Happily we found fox berries. I vowed to use them for breakfast pancakes . . . if it didn’t rain. It was an optimistic thought.

Not a bad place to call home for the night. Even if it did rain and gust not to mention the constant sound of the whirlpool!
A belated tour of the campground allowed us to discover two things. One was incredible hike-in sites on the far side of the woods. Quiiet and non-windy, private spots that would have made a beautiful campsite sat untoched on the far shore. The other was a cream colored Westfalia with a big “For Sale” sign on the rear. Raven had been smitten by Westies after seeing them circle like a group of covered wagons at a park in Quebec. Everyone had piled out and had a picnic lunch. Here at the campground, the kind owners, who weren’t sure if they were really selling, gave us a tour and showed us the amenities of their little camping Vanagon. I had to admit, it was pretty cool. As the rain moved in that night while tucked in our tiny tent, that Westy was on my mind quite a bit . . . . When the tent wasn’t blasted by wind, the only sound was rain and the slurping of the whirlpool. I cuddled the puppies closer in my sleeping bag.
Morning was more showers. This campground, small as it was, beautiful and deserted as it was, appeared to be run by a group of teenagers. They meant well but tended to run around or their friends did, on ATVs. The showers were a bit . . . worrisome and not exactly warm. We’d found exactly one covered picnic area. With grey low clouds and more threatened rain, we decided to toss on our gear and try to make the very first ferry sans coffee, tea, or food.
It sounded like a good idea at the time, but as packing became a wet hassle and Raven couldn’t find his motorcycle gloves, the time to departure inched closer and closer. We hurried down to the landing, which was a beach of deep pea stone. The campground exited on the wrong side, so we had to transverse the loose stone beach to then turn around and queue up behind the only other waiting passenger, a small pick-up. Deep gravel is one of my least favorite things and even Raven wavered under the thick wet stuff before he made the road. Somehow, I managed to get through, but it left me with some adrenaline jitters on my empty stomach. I sat watching the ferry’s morning preparations as it backed to the bottom of the pea stone beach with trepidation. Once was enough and now I had to ride back down that thing again?
I was keyed up by the time they waved us to board. Raven had taken his helmet off and took a few minutes when word came. Still, I stayed put. I’d rather have missed the ferry than ride down the beach first. He was my judge of conditions. If he went over, I was walking my bike down the beach!
But he went without a shimmy and I followed suit, finding the stone below the tide line hard packed. We enjoyed the quite crossing to Campobello under clouds that scraped the trees, our world one of promised rain, damp decks, rolling oceans, and a whirlpool hissing off the starboard side. I woofed down a granola bar to reward my sugar aching nerves. The clouds started shedding their weight as we neared Campobello. I was happy to see the ferry docked at what looked to be a very long boat ramp. At least unloading wouldn’t be another pea-stone beach ride.
We’d survived two ferry rides and a whirlpool in between with nothing amiss. If it wasn’t for the fact that our first stop on Campobello was an empty post office parking lot to don rain gear, I’d say our vacation luck had finally changed. A car screeched to a halt next to where we’d stopped. While we figured we were in trouble, instead a very nice woman got out and made sure we were okay. She directed us to a nearby restaurant where we finally got food as it pelted outside with no sign of letting up. I felt bad for the dogs hidden away in their motorcycle bags. At least they were fairly waterproof . . . the dogs and the bags.
As with most things so far on this vacation, we loosened up our plans and let go of the thought of seeing FDR’s house, saving it for next time. For surely with such a beautiful campground that was hardly overused if slightly under run, we’d come back into Canada this way again. Customs even gave us a break, waving both of us under the shelter of their roof where a second Canadian customs agent came outside to take my passport curbside. With nary anything more than a passport swipe and a wave, we reentered the US and rode towards home under slowly clearing skies. A few days break and hopefully we could turn this vacation round by heading further south. And maybe, just maybe, I could even get my broken clutch lever fixed too! Odysseus never had it so lucky for surely we’d get home and find everything improved . . . .
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