The red sand North Rustico beach lays at the mouth of the harbor of the town, on Prince Edward Island, Canada’s smallest province. The crescent shaped island is tucked into the shoulders of New Brunswick and Nova Scotia, across the Northumberland Strait. On the far side of the Gulf of St. Lawrence is Newfoundland. Europe is the farther landfall across the Atlantic Ocean.
The small town of North Rustico is on the north-central coast, on Route 6, between Cavendish and Rusticoville. Some of it can be seen from the deck of Pedro’s Eatery, where Route 6 dips and curves through the middle of town, the market and gas station, the bakery and the credit union, the lobster restaurant and the post office. The rest of it is within a few minutes, down the harbor road and up side roads.
Frank and Vera Glass, staying at the Coastline Cottages just outside of town, drove the mile-or-so from their cottage along the coast road, past Rollings Pond to the parking lot at the back of the beach, where a creek empties, up the dirt road to the other parking lot, parked in front of a sign saying the beach was unattended by life guards, walked up and then down the path to the beach, and made fast at a nice spot on the sand not far from the shoreline.
It was sunny and fair, the sun behind them, as they unfolded their low-slung blue canvas chairs, plopping into them, pulling books from their Pedro, a yellow and black re-purposed bicycle messenger bag.
Vera was reading an autobiography of Agnes de Mille.
Frank was reading “The Durrels of Corfu.” He interrupted Vera every few minutes with something funny he had just read. Vera thought, you’re slowing me down, dude, even though she was a slow reader, anyway.
“Did you see that sign?” she asked Frank.
“No, what sign?”
“The sign beside the lifeguard cabana, the one that said, ‘Caution! Attention!’”
“There are no lifeguards, not until next week,” said Frank. “I saw that sign when we parked.”
“It’s the North Rustico Beach welcome sign, the big red and white sign when you walk onto the beach, the one that says rip currents, strong offshore winds, beware of large surf, and don’t use inflatables.”
Frank looked out at the flat quiet water, the spaghetti surf, and the wide sky dotted with puffy clouds standing still.
“No, I didn’t see that sign,” he said. “Anyway, it seems beside the point today.”
“It does, doesn’t it,” said Vera, smiling at her husband.
They read their books, watched couples walking by barefoot, children running, and a head down in a cell phone shuffling past. A family set up camp nearby, Vera took a nap, and Frank rolled out of his canvas chair and practiced a half-hour of yoga on the warm sand. He didn’t have a mat, but it didn’t matter. He turned and pulled and released and twisted one way and the other.
When he was done he rolled back into his low-slung chair.
“That felt good,” he said.
“I’m glad, honey,” said Vera. “What was that last thing you did, the twisty thing? I haven’t seen you do that before.”
“It’s called Lord of the Fishes,” he said. “It’s supposed to be good for your lower back.”
Vera didn’t do yoga in any of its forms, although she was glad Frank did. He had a bum back and the exercises kept him on his feet. The thinking behind the practice – Frank liked to call it that – also seemed to be good for him, keeping him on the tried and true straight and narrow.
“Do you remember the last time we had dinner with Barron at Herb’s Tavern, and he spent coffee and dessert railing about how steady as it goes has gone big top high wire?” Frank asked Vera.
“Yes, I do,” said Vera, remembering the carrot cake she had not been able to fully enjoy.
Barron Cannon owned and operated and taught at a small yoga studio near where Frank and Vera lived in Lakewood, Ohio, an inner ring suburb on the shores of Lake Erie, west of Cleveland. He was between young and middle-aged, married but divorced – what woman could stand living with him, Vera wondered – a post-modern sensibility with a PhD in philosophy, but a yoga traditionalist. He taught the exercise poses, but always in the context of the other arms of yoga, which he considered the essential parts of the practice.
Whenever he was in high dudgeon he complained about the 21st century western emphasis on the physical aspects of yoga.
“Everywhere you go, everywhere you look, it’s asana on the mat, in a hot room, an hour of hard work and it’s back to whatever else you are up to. When did yoga become work hard, no pain, no gain? When did it become just another something on the checklist, getting fit, staying ahead? When did it become competitive, a race to the finish, another rat bastard in the rat race?”
Barron was Frank’s friend. Vera tolerated him for her husband’s sake. She didn’t dislike Barron, but she disliked it when he said things like, “Nobody worth their salt is nice.”
“I was going to tell Barron about Eric Young, mention his ideas, but I didn’t,” said Frank. “We would never have gotten out of Herb’s, at least not until after closing time, if then.”
“Who’s Eric Young?” asked Vera.
“A Baltimore guy, a lot like Barron in some respects, teaches some yoga, aerial style, a big fan of the Baltimore Orioles, which is too bad,” said Frank.
“Why were you going to bring him up to Barron?” asked Vera.
“Because he’s on the other side of the teeter totter,” said Frank.
“What’s too bad about the Orioles?”
“You don’t want to know.”
“Competitive yoga started in India, not the west, but that’s a minor detail,” said Eric. “I am curious, though, at the idea of the physical becoming the more dominant focus, and so many people feel the need to tell other people that’s not yoga when there is no agreed upon definition. If we are all properly practicing an inward journey, shouldn’t that remove the need to be concerned what others do and what they call or label the activity in which they are doing it?”
“That makes sense to me,” said Vera.
“There’s more,” said Frank.
“Setting aside the definitions of yoke and some of the more deeper translations and interpretations of yoga from the Upanishads, the Bhagavad Gita, and setting aside the atman and seer ideas, for the average practitioner they will have no understanding, or care to,” said Eric.
“In my yoga teacher training class, I would say half had no idea there was anything beyond the physical. To many, yoga is a down dog, a bird of paradise, with a glass of wine after, and for some, a puppy or a baby goat wandering by. I say more power to them, for at least two reasons. First, if they are truly in the present, they are doing a lot of the work, even if not labeled as such, and if they do it enough, the work will pay off one way or another. Second, if I am doing my yoga, in whatever form that means to me, then I should not be bothered one way or another. As no one owns the term and there are so many different facets, it’s arrogant for me to say you’re wrong.”
“I’m not sure Barron would be good with that,” said Vera.
“You know how Barron is. He would have plenty to say,” said Frank.
“I will concede if your business is teaching, and I set up shop next door spouting I know as much and am as good a teacher, which I don’t and am not, you have every right to be bothered by this, but that’s business, not yoga,” said Eric. “I don’t think the gurus of yore were bothered by what another one did on the other side of the country. But for those who say because it’s not four thousand years old, only two hundred years, and it’s not authentic, I call that bullshit.”
“He speaks his mind,” said Vera.
“There is wisdom and there is gray hair,” said Eric.
“I wouldn’t put Eric and Barron in the same room,” said Vera.
“I don’t know about that,” said Frank. “They’re both on the same yoga planet.”
“What planet are you on?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, don’t put them in the same room, for God’s sake. They may be on the same planet, but they’re not coming from the same place. That would be a head-on collision.”
“I wouldn’t argue with Barron,” said Eric. “It doesn’t bother me. That’s the beauty of yoga.”
Vera and Frank heard a sudden loud squarking from the shoreline, and when they looked towards the sound, they saw a seagull dragging a rock crab out of the surf. When the bird had the crab out of the water it began to peck at it, killing it, if the crustacean wasn’t already dead, dragging it landwards whenever the surf rolled it back towards the ocean.
“I thought their shells protected them from birds,” said Frank.
“Maybe the shell was cracked already,” said Vera.
“One of the guys at the harbor told me that gulls will pick up shellfish, fly them up in the air, and drop them on rocks so their shells crack when land.”
“I didn’t know seagulls had it in their pea brains to be able to think that out,” said Vera.
“It’s a dog eat dog world,” said Frank.
They watched the seagull rip legs off and pull goopy innards out of the crab, until there wasn’t anymore left to be had. The big white and gray bird arched its neck, cawed several times, and flew away. The remains of the crab slowly but surely rolled back into the ocean.
“What time does Doiron’s close?” asked Vera.
“Six,” said Frank.
“What time is it now?”
Frank looked at his iPhone.
“Quarter of six,” he said.
“Drive me over me there” said Vera. “You can drop me of and I’ll walk back to the cottage.”
“All right, maybe I’ll drive up the parkway, go for a walk around Orby Head, and we can meet back at the cottage,” said Frank.
He dropped his wife off at the fish market.
Doiron Fisheries is on the wharf on Harbourview Drive. It’s been there since the 1950s. It’s a small storefront with a big sign over the door, a long shallow front room chock full of haddock, hake, halibut, salmon, mackerel, oysters, mussels, scallops, and cooked crab.
Frank drove up Church Hill Road, past the Stella Maris church and the graveyard, and down to the National Park kiosk. They had a seasonal pass attached to the stem of the rear view mirror of their Hyundai Tucson, and when the attendant in the kiosk glanced up and waved him through, Frank swung the car to the left up the hill into the seashore park.
He had once stopped and asked the teenager in a National Parks shirt behind the drive-through window, “What do you call this building?”
“We call it the gate,” she said.
“That’s it, yup, the gate.”
Frank drove past Doyle’s Cove and the Coastline Cottages. The cottages are in the Prince Edward Island National Park, but aren’t a part of the park. The Doyle’s kept their land, in the family for a dog’s age, not selling it to Canada when the park was established. There are a handful of their houses, one nearly a hundred years old, another one newly built last year, within sight. They are the only homes in sight.
He drove the two miles-or-so up the Gulf Shore Way, pulled off the road at Orby Head, and went for a walk along the red sandstone cliff. He lay down face forward on the other side of the rope fence and looked down at the waves churning and breaking on the narrow rocky landing far below.
A group of cormorants in a v formation flew past, nearly at eye level. He closed his eyes and breathed evenly for a few minutes. He heard a car pull in, its tires crunching on the gravel. He opened his eyes, got up, and walked back to his car.
When he stepped into the cottage the lowering sun was lighting up the kitchen window, and Vera was at the stove.
“What are you making for dinner?” he asked.
“Crab cakes,” she said.
Click here to see more writing between fiction and non-fiction by Ed Staskus.