I close my eyes and can still see the scene so clearly, as if I was there only yesterday instead of the dozen or so years it really has been. It has become a part of the fabric that makes up my being. I can hear the raucous cries of the seagulls as they drift across the sky, wings spread and bandied about by the wind that whips up the waves and carries the myriad of birds with their gray and white bodies lazily where it will. Or I can hear their harsh guttural cries as they land and do battle with each other for the morsels of food thrown their way. The waves that crash across the rocks create music of their own. The faint sound of traffic overhead as cars travel from one country to the next over the majestic bridge is a background accompaniment to the music of life. The occasional blast of a horn from a ship that is heralding its passing echoes deep inside me with its resonating tone. I hear the laughter of children as they race up and down the green space of grass between the road and the rocks that line the shore, their joy expressed for all to listen to fondly with the nostalgia of age. Added to the orchestra of sound is the hum of the jet skis as they race across the river, swelling and then disappearing into the tunnels of the swift flowing river current.
I look out as the waves, angry and boiling, their varied shades of winter grey, with their whitecaps rising and cresting hypnotizes me. I glance up at the magnificent structure rising above me, marveling at the work that must have taken years to complete, its two cement bases, with the plaques commemorating its completion, the steel girders, and the expanse of the bridge reaching across and joining the two countries. My gaze then turns to the right and I see the vastness of
Lake Huronopening up, the colours different now, calmer and with softer shades of sapphire and azure blues and grays, sailboats bobbing up and down in the distance, like toys that young boys love to play with. The lighthouse stands alone; a beacon warning the ships that approach of the danger of rocks that awaits them if they travel too close. And even further away I observe two freighter ships slowly making their way to the entrance to the St. Clair River, just a brief run-by on their journey across the Great Lakes.
As I close my eyes, I feel the breeze on my face, mixed with the hot sun of another beautiful sun-drenched summer day. The moisture that ascends from the river helps cool what the sun has heated its rainbow of moisture another testament to the beauty of nature.
The smells, ah the smells have never been forgotten. The air is thick with the aroma of a mixture of grease and vinegar from the chip wagon that has been a staple on the landscape for close to 50 years. The smell of the lake seaweed and decaying fish adds it own pungent tang.
This is a place I will carry always in my heart, a place of fun, of memories never forgotten, a place of reminiscence that still to this day has the power to make me weep.
And this is it in case anyone is wondering
The Bluewater Bridge in Sarnia, On.