I indicated Bruce was "un pescatore," and one of the men mimed using a fly fishing rod. "No," I said, but then I was at a loss. Saying "lobster" and opening and closing my hands like claws definitely did not translate!
On one night in February, low tide and an overabundance of ice chunks at Islesford prevented the commuter boat from being able to land. I never realized how much I count on my freedom to come and go as a coping mechanism for an island winter. Whenever the weather caused a boat cancelation I was peeved, even if I wasn't planning to go off the island that day! I was exasperated that the weather had once again taken away my choice.