We reach Conche at the end of a long day and a 26-kilometer dirt road: Jewels of neat colored houses flung against cove, red blue yellow appear over the crest of the last hill. Marilee’s mother, Joan Simmonds, meets us by car and we follow her back to her comfortable, modern white house just above the bay. The sun is lower and I rush off to snap photos of everyone’s sheds.
When I return we settled into a friend’s house and eat soup and sandwiches with Joan and her family. What amazes us are the sea of icebergs at the mouth of the bay, some have escaped and drifted in and foundered like towering sky scrapers, smaller pieces break off and drift back to the open sea. Through the cliffs in the outer bay a dozen more icebergs drift down the coast like majestic cruise ships. Smaller chunks assume shapes of vehicles: a sea plane, a fishing vessel all ghostly white with azure gashes.
The next day the weather is hot. Alice and I walk a mile or so out on a boardwalk that hugs the hills from neighboring Crouse, we lie on the weathered platform in the sun. Titian haired Mary Foley, the local school teacher, meets us with a friend , their constitutional before Sunday brunch, their husbands have returned from fishing for crab. A shiny black animal, a porpoise, called “puff pigs” by locals, flipper in the shallows, too small for a whale. Joan has seen pods of whales in the evening from the point near her house.