Back Harbour

Shruti Raheja

Driving up Route 340 with the windows down, we take a left on Main Street. Directly into a mauzy day in Twillingate. Sleepy houses nestled around the water, tucked into the haze with rooftops peeking through. We wind our way through town and up a steep incline, narrowly squeezing past an oncoming car before arriving at our lodgings. Pale yellow cottage perched on the hill. Notre Dame Bay rustling below us. We punch in the entry code, and Ayla gasps a little as two friendly carpenters scuttle to greet us. I urge her not to kill them, quickly stepping in. She goes to unload the car while I usher the bugs to safety. 

We’ve been dating mere weeks, and seeing each other quite sporadically. Yet I’m charmed by the idea of introducing her to this town, these streets that I haunted in a previous life. The feathered skies and plummeting cliffs. The seamless stitch between land and water as the road slips offshore in Back Harbour. Bingo at the brewery (bring your own dabber) and dinner at R&J down the road.  In truth, this trip is also an attempt to salvage the situationship. I’m relying on the magic here to connect us. 

We climb up Spillers Cove—its bog and barrens the dusty colour of earth waiting patiently to turn green—and over the cliffside roar of the Atlantic, she chatters about radiant beaches on the coast of Spain. Back in the car, I hand her my phone to play songs and she switches from Tim Baker’s east coast indie to pulsing reggaeton. Later, we stumble on live music at the pub. She erupts with laughter—a bit too much—at the man singing “The Shed Song.” This is so Newfoundland, it’s hilarious, she says.

There’s no way I can seriously date someone who doesn’t care for this province. This thought seizes me as I lead her to Back Harbour the next morning. My beloved beach. The hours I’ve spent here rush back to me as I tiptoe around the fluttering kelp. Stones roll into our sneakers, sombre blue and green pebbles smoothed by years spent at sea, the rocks as overcast as the sky. I breathe in algae and salt water. I feel tranquility wash over me. 

  Ayla, on the other hand, is anything but still. She crouches down, her hands tracing sea glass, fingers running over the stories that seep from these stones. She pockets so many that they spill out from her jeans as she crawls forward, on all fours, toward her next jewel. And I laugh, offering to take some in my own hands, which were holding nothing but memories up to now. We remain here a while, Ayla frolicking freely. With her wind-tousled hair and dirt-streaked hands, she almost looks like she belongs.

*

As far as first dates go, ours was average. A Thursday night, and hardly anything was open. But it was nearing Christmas, and I knew they were starting to string the lights downtown. So I suggested we meet for a hot chocolate at the Parlour, perhaps followed by a stroll in the neighbourhood. I was walking on Military Road when I saw her pull up. Rolling down the window, she asked me if she could park in front, which she very much could not, so I hopped into the passenger seat and directed her toward the lot at Bannerman Park, introducing myself as we turned the corner, in the awkward virtual to reality transition of a tinder-match-turned date.

I did a lot of the talking that night as we perched by the window sipping our drinks. Her delicate fingers wrapped around the cup. Nails the precise shade of eggplant. The last dregs of daylight were fading while people strolled by, doing double-takes at the Colonial Building. Outside the shop, a tied-up husky sprawled across the sidewalk, waiting for his family. I chatted about my wandering career, my immigrant parents who had landed haphazardly on this island 35 years ago. I was reaching for words to fill the spaces between us. But she looked me full in the face. Grey eyes with the slightest hint of blue. She even changed seats, explaining, I feel like you’re too far away.

At one point, Ayla started violently shivering, the metal stool clanking underneath her. She laughed through chattering teeth, tugging her crop top over her navel. She told me the weather had always been warm during her year in Barcelona. That she was still getting used to being home. She had wanted to stay, she said sheepishly. She missed Spain every day. But it had proved difficult to find a job after her master’s, and she had family here. Baby nieces and ageing grandparents. So she was back in Newfoundland, trying to make the most of the cold.  I reached into my coat pocket and pulled out my mittens and beanie hat, tentatively pushing them her way. A soft offering.

We don’t have to go for a walk, by the way, I said after an acceptable amount of time had passed. My social battery was fading, my mind running short on things to say. But she insisted she was warm enough. As we headed down the slope of Prescott, I peered into rowhouse windows. Living rooms glowing with television and tealights. People closing chapters on another day. Without warning, Ayla looped her arm through mine. I flinched, icy panic flooding my chest. Tried to take subtle deep breaths. She glanced over, asking, Is it okay if I hold onto you? I’m a bit afraid of the frost. I forced a smile, replied, Of course it’s okay. Acted like I’m the type of person who can respond to unexpected touch with carefree pleasure.  As we reached Duckworth, I guided us east past the Peaceful Loft, Ayla leaning slightly into my shoulder. 

It turned out the city hadn’t illuminated the lights quite yet, so we traipsed through the darkness instead.

*

In Back Harbour, the water is steel. More specifically, it is the grey of a humpback that has rocketed to the surface after its deepest dive, insistent on being seen, on being noticed despite its extended absence. Out of respect for the whales, I have trained my eyes to linger at the place where air meets sea, searching for stirrings. The habit has become second nature. I find myself staring with laser focus at pond water, lakes, even large puddles until my eyes sting, strained with effort and optimism. It is March in Newfoundland, and as such, there are no whales, but I keep watch, nonetheless. A resolute sentinel. A hopeful romantic. 

I feel something cold and small digging into my palm and realize that I am still clutching the sea glass. Ayla, on her knees, has paused to record a voice note for a friend. The melody of Spanish echoes off the pebbles. She glances up. Sorry, that was for Lucas. He’s one of the first Spanish friends I made, during my high school exchange. 

I nod. I can tell she wants to say more. 

He saw me thriving last year in Barcelona, walking around with my bleached blonde hair. Not a care in the world. 

I arrange my face into a smile. You really loved it there, hey? 

She doesn’t hesitate. I really did. I feel as though Spain is where I grew up, more so than here. It’s where I learned to take control of my life.

Golden hour in Twillingate hangs heavy while I listen. She speaks about life abroad as though it were her only meaningful experience. I know rationally that she is allowed to prefer sand over pebbles, cities over bays, soul-warming sunshine over turbulent gales. So why do I feel like I have something to prove? Maybe part of me believes that she could learn to feel at home here if only she could see it through my eyes. As I speak about places that I cherish on this island, her eyes glaze over, her focus drifts. So I strain my voice with animation, attempting by osmosis to share my excitement. It’s so nice that you have a fondness for this province, she says.

*

On our last evening we have dinner at R&J. We walk in and smell the rustic wooden floors and booths, see the tall windows lining the back walls. We set up in the corner, with a view of the docks and a slice of Main Street in the distance. Meanwhile, locals pile in for the evening rush, the tradition of Saturday night fish and chips long reigning in these parts.

While we wait for the food, Ayla starts to talk about her mother. The topic has come up sparingly, fraught with tension each time. Did I tell you that my mom would call me a whore for wearing revealing clothes as a teenager? The word rings out, then hangs in the air long after it’s spoken. I glance around, but the locals pay us no mind. Ayla says her mother’s explosive temper led her to grow up feeling a constant sense of danger, to the point where she did not learn to identify true threats in the outside world. Because she was simply always afraid. I listen and nod at the right moments, grateful that she isn’t looking for advice. Relieved to be in a bustling restaurant. The waitress hands me a veggie pizza with a microsecond of eye contact as Ayla continues. I think if I have kids, I am going to hide away in a distant place and just never tell my mom about them. They will be safer that way.

I am touched, mostly, that she feels safe enough to let me share a small part of this burden. I think of the fixation with Spain, the endless travel anecdotes, the salsa on replay. Then I consider the indifference toward Newfoundland, and Ayla comes into clearer view. She was not raised by people who took her beach combing. The only memories here are painful ones. Being away was what gave her life. It defined her being. It set her free.

She is just starting in on her mother’s childhood assault when the waitress pops over. Would you like dessert, dears? 

*

I wake early the next day and tiptoe out onto the deck. Prisms of morning dew on the glass door. I fold myself into a wooden chair twice my size. The bay is cloudless and shimmering today. Gannets plunge with arrow-straight precision while gulls shriek their morning song. I can smell the fish nets, pungent and sea-soaked, even from here. 

I think of the moment that a baby bird learns to fly. How fledglings tumble from the nest, hopping and gliding over branches, testing out their tentative new wings. Coaxed by parents and bribed with food. Then, one day, they trust fall into oblivion. 

The courage it must take to let go of control. To be carried by the wind, the current, the unknown. The inevitable.

I have been holding on far too tightly. My knuckles are white, my muscles aching. Ayla is not a project. She does not need fixing. Her eyes don’t see what mine do, but that is more than okay. If we are the sum total of our experiences, then she is made from events that I cannot begin to fathom. Perhaps there is no changing her perspective. Perhaps that is for good reason. 

On the trip home, I breathe easily. Sunrays slant across the dashboard as we drive down Route 340, Twillingate falling out of sight. She lowers her window and dangles an arm out, fingers wide. The wind flicks strands of her caramel hair. There’s an understanding between us, but we don’t say it out loud. Instead, we enjoy the drive. I hum along to music in the car. She doesn’t mention Spain. 

Born and raised in Newfoundland and Labrador, Shruti Raheja calls upon the landscapes of her home province as she wrestles with questions of belonging and rootedness. She began writing creative non-fiction during her M.A. in English at Memorial University and uses this practice to make sense of her experiences and interactions.