I'm on a Boat

This was a big dot on the map for us – Harrington Harbour, Quebec aka 50° 30’N, 59° 29’W. The 3 of us had been sailing for a couple of weeks in the Gulf of Saint Lawrence and hadn't seen people in days. To most, Harrington Harbour would not count as a town, but it had a shop and a post office, so for us, it was a buzzing metropolis.

There were still fishermen milling around when we docked at 8pm. The summer sun fading as they got their boats prepared for the next day. Captain Dave spoke to a couple of them in broken French hoping to get a good deal on some lobsters. We were still in Quebec, but this village was founded by Newfoundlanders in search of fish, so most people spoke English.

It was too late for lobster, but Dave had discovered something even better. Harrington Harbour had a bar! We couldn’t wait to paint the town red; after all, it was Saturday night.

Our First Mate Mike led us across a small wooden bridge towards the village. There were no roads here, people travelled by bicycle or electric buggy to get around on the maze of wooden platforms. To get in or out of here, it had to be by boat. The nearest road was over 100km away.

We scanned the cluster of houses in search of a bar. Mike spotted a couple of girls with drinks standing near a hall type building. He approached them to ask if this was the bar.

It was not there apparently, but across another little bridge.
We all turned to look across the stream where they were pointing. There was a little white house with a dim light coming from it. Dave looked doubtful, but we pressed on.

We walked across the bridge and up to the house. It said ‘Harbourside Bar’ on the side. Well what do you know, it was a bar.

When we entered, every head turned to look at us. Granted, that was only 6 heads, but still.

One of the guys sitting at the bar stood up when we came in and made his way slowly to the other side of the bar. Ready to serve us.

Dave walked up, feigning confidence. All eyes were on him
The man behind the bar nodded. “What’ll it be then?”
“Ummm, what kind of beer do you have?”
“We got bud, bud light and bud with lime” he said looking deadpan.

I felt unwelcome here. Us city slickers walking into their village, their bar, expecting fancy beer and fancy service.

The feeling was short lived. The locals were quick to warm up and soon we were playing pool and swapping stories of the sea.

Because sometimes a bar is just a bar, even if that bar is a house in the middle of nowhere.