At 0630 I sailed from the anchorage behind Glasgow Point.  Entering Lennox Passage the breeze faded, so I rowed along the tree-covered shore.  Even though it was only a half an hour before slack water, I approached the Lennox Passage Bridge with apprehension.  Nearing the bridge, I saw fishermen catching mackerel from rowboats by the bridge abutments. There wouldn't be much current flow for small boats to be that close to the bridge.  Although the bridge has a section that lifts at a steep angle so sailboats can pass through,  I lowered the mast and glided below the bridge deck. 
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I figured she must have tangled her mast or shrouds in the overhanging birch trees.  When I looked up, I was dismayed to see the mast hard against a power line that was holding her firm. Quickly I backed off.  I sat there pondering why I'd missed seeing the line and poles which were obvious and why sometimes you get electrocuted doing this stunt and sometimes you don't.  Picking a site closer to the lighthouse, I brought Naomi ashore. 

Just before sailing, the wind disappeared, so I rowed across Lennox Passage and entered Tickle Passage.  The tide was ebbing down the passage and I felt as if I was rowing through molasses against it. I became soaked with sweat in the stifling and humid atmosphere. The ebbing tide was exposing a foreshore of marsh grass and mud flats. Where Naomi lay the mud bottom was firm.  I tied a mooring line from the bow to shore and tried to walk an anchor a distance astern.   As I walked the anchor out, the mud and grass bottom became soft.  A lively conflict ensued with the sticky mud over who owned my boots.  I chucked the anchor from where I floundered, left some slack line, and retreated to shore.  Hiding my muddy boots in the woods, I put on my shoes and headed for town.

The Barachois Tavern was a raunchy place with deer and moose heads staring blindly from the walls.  Prominently posted was a long list of  the names of  men not allowed back in.  Although it wasn't even 17:30, there was a sizable group of men sitting around.  The men were laughing, talking and stomping their feet to the music on the stereo player.  Cape Breton music blared from the speakers located close to the phone. 

Sitting in the tavern, savouring a few cold beer, I was working up my nerve to call home.  Was Gail becoming skeptical of my dinghy cruising?  With a serious tone I tried to ignore the background noise and called Gail to let her know I was surviving my coastal sailing trip and was in Louisdale.  No, I didn't sail into Louisdale, I came by car, and I agreed the background racket made it seem just as though I was calling from a pub. 

Beginning to walk back to the cove, I hesitated for a minute at the intersection in Louisdale to get my bearings.  A family of four stopped their car and offered assistance.  Although pointing out the correct road to take would have been enough, they insisted on giving me a lift right back down the dirt paths to near the cove.  When the tide was high enough, I shoved Naomi off and anchored her in deeper water.  During the warm and sticky evening, I listlessly swatted mosquitoes and watched jellyfish sweep by, dangling long trains of red tentacles below themselves. Later the stars put on a brilliant display until obscured by haze.  Then I sat on Naomi's side deck using the boat hook like a magic wand, tracing patterns in the phosphorescent sea.

I awoke to an overcast and dreary morning.  My clothes and sleeping bag were clammy and mosquitoes swarmed around.   I eagerly rowed away from this uncomfortable anchorage.  At Cascarette Island, I stopped to cook breakfast ashore.  The languid morning was interrupted by several shrill terns which hovered and then dove for fish in the shallows.  Then  I rowed the short distance to Quetique Island which is treeless unlike most islands in Lennox Passage.  The island once had a manned lighthouse, but this was replaced with a light tower.