Once upon a time, there were two sisters who liked to dream. One day, when they were quite grown-up, one of them said, “Let’s go to Newfoundland.”
Her sister said, “Let’s do it.”
And then they laughed.
That was normal. That was how they always shared their dreams with each other.
Visiting the only province still left on their travel list was a crazy dream. First of all, who ever goes to Newfoundland? Second, who would dump their piggy banks and shake out every penny just to do something like that? And thirdly, how would they even survive there?
Then one day one of them said, “I’m getting married.”
And the other said, “Then we’re going to Newfoundland.”
Well, wonder of wonders, they did. And not only that, but they also added an entire road trip, two more countries, and another province to their original idea. And that all added up to ONE GRAND TRIP. The trip of June 2025.
To keep this story short-ish, we must skim over the road trip part. The travel companions were awesome, the writers’ conference in VA inspiring, the cousin’s wedding in PA fabulous, and the experience altogether very memorable. Then, the two sisters hopped on a plane. Business done. The crazy dream would no longer be just a dream. It would become crazy reality.
The two sisters strained to see out the windows. Finally, they caught the first glimpse of a foreign land, right in their home country. Newfoundland. They, too, had found it.
As soon as they escaped the airport, the sisters claimed a rental car. They sat inside it and gaped at each other.
“We’re here.”
“We’re in St. John’s.”
“Let’s find the ocean.”
“Yes, let’s.”
And they looked at each other again and laughed.
They followed the first road that led them to water. Then they stepped out and deeply inhaled the invigorating evening air.
“Let’s find a trail.”
“Yes, let’s.”
So they did. The sisters hiked up a winding narrow footpath over rocks and amongst scrubby bushes. It was almost like they had imagined the Arctic Tundra. They kept a sharp watch for bears. After all, the sign had said to use the trail at their own risk. Did bears live in Newfoundland?
Then they reached the top of the cliff.
Wind tore at their skirts and hair. Sea birds swooped and called. Little sparrows hopped in the bushes far below.
The sisters gazed over the wide, wide ocean lit by a golden setting sun. Was this crazy? No. It was absolutely thrilling. Stunning. Wild.
The next day, they hopped in their rental car without cruise control and hummed away over the rocks and hills, through the rugged wilderness of little lakes, big rocks, and swirling fog. Twisting roads took them four hours down south to a little town of Fortune.
Here, the two grown-up sisters marched into a nondescript office and purchased ferry tickets. If they could get to Newfoundland, they could surely get to France.
And so they did.
They rocked on the sea, away from Canada, headed for an island no one else seemed to know about, an island they had discovered on a map. It was named St. Pierre, after the renowned fisherman, Peter, from the Bible.
With their eyes glued on the ever approaching city, the two sisters huddled in the chilly wind. What were they doing anyway? Nobody they knew had ever stepped foot on this island. They would be delving into a foreign land, culture, and language, all so close to their home country.
They looked at each other.
“I’m cold.”
“Let’s go back inside, so we can get off without waiting too long.”
“Yes, let’s.”
But they were already too late. They ended up at the back of the line of travelers that inched like a lazy caterpillar across the open dock. Finally, they stepped onto French land.
“We made it.”
“Where is our hotel? Nothing here looks like one.”
“What will we do here?”
“I am so cold.”
“Me too.”
After receiving stamps in their passports, the two sisters tramped across town, dragging suitcases and looking just like disoriented, inexperienced tourists. But after they found their hotel, their confidence grew.
St. Pierre was a comfortable little town, a bit dilapidated, but accomodating. A distinctly European fishing village, huddled at the side of a massive rock cliff, right at the edge of the great Atlantic.
“I want to find a crab.”
“I want to talk to a real French person.”
“And I will make myself eat snails.”
“Snails? Of course!”
So they did.
They sloshed through puddles all day long, until their shoes oozed with water. They strolled through dripping ankle-deep grass in the tiny park to watch fog settle over the sea. They wandered to the lighthouse, clambered over slimy rocks, collected bits of dead crabs, and stumbled into a back alley where local fishermen mended nets.
The sisters indulged in creme de glace in a cafe, dared to order crepes on the street, munched escargots and pasta, and raided the bakeries for quiche, croissants, and all sorts of French pastries. They browsed a tiny grocery store that reminded them of home, explored a really cool museum, and hunted down some postcards and stamps to send home.
As they wandered the streets, they puzzled over the architecture, the unkempt backyards, and sagging doors. But to this city’s residents, it was home. These rugged fishermen and their families had weathered a rough environment for generations. Their culture and community spirit still thrived.
On their last morning, the two sisters combed the tide pools for crabs one more time, yet to no avail. The mist lay low over the city and their shoes had never yet dried. But the two sisters looked at each other and shook their heads.
“That was worth it.”
“I’m still pinching myself to be sure it’s not a dream.”
“I’m hopelessly intrigued.”
“We did it.”
They laughed. Then they picked up their suitcases, dodged the vehicles on the left side of the road, and tramped back to the ferry, clutching some precious treats from the boulangerie.
Sailing back to Fortune alongside the whales, they arrived in Canada with the gulls, and hopped into their little car again. Back through the stunning wilderness they drove, where lupines lined the roadways.
They also paused at random villages to see the fishing world away from other tourists. With binoculars, they watched and waved as fishermen hauled crates of lobsters out of the ocean.
When they got back to St. John’s, they visited another cool museum, where they found a giant squid and huge lobster claws. The history and art gallery fascinated them too.
They drove down the famous Jellybean Row and discovered that not everything is as pretty as it seems on pictures. They got stuck in traffic on a Friday evening, with rollicking parties happening in outdoor dining patios all around them.
The sisters took their little car way out to Cape Spear, the easternmost point of North America. Here, they climbed the hill and explored lighthouses. Standing high on the cliffs, they scanned the deep blue waters for whale spouts. Wind threatened to knock them over, but they stood their ground.
They gasped and pointed and spread their arms wide, soaking in every bit of ocean grandeur possible. For it was almost time to head on.
“Now let’s find puffins.”
“Yes, let’s.”
“That’s why we came in the first place, isn’t it?”
So they did. They took a boat into Witless Bay where the rolling waves tossed them up and down like an amusement ride. They clutched to their skirts, the railing, and their binoculars as they watched thousands of murres and puffins on the islands. Saltwater sprayed over them and the sun baked their faces.
“We found them.”
“They’re adorable.”
“They’re tiny.”
“My face hurts.”
“Mine too.”
They packed their new puffins stuffies into their bags and headed to the airport.
“Let’s go home.”
“No, let’s not.”
“Right. We’re going to Nova Scotia.”
And that’s just what the two crazy sisters did. Here the fiance of one of the sisters came to surprise her. While there, they visited relatives, picked strawberries, ate lobster, took birding walks, ran across spectacular beaches, watched sunsets, and finally caught the live crab they had been looking for all along.
Finally the fiance said, “Let’s go home and plan our wedding.”
They all laughed.
“Yes, let’s.”
And so the two crazy sisters, the fiance, and the two puffin stuffies did just that.
The Sea and Me
I didn’t know I liked the sea,
It lurked mysterious, rough, and wild;
But as I felt its surge and spray,
And found this playful sea liked me.
Photo Credits:
Crystal Penner and Eric Wall
Inspired to Inspire 